08 July 2012

hypothetical reader.

I used to be a gambling addict.1 But not the way you think.2 Not that I pretend to know what you think. You are (and always will be) an enigma to me. When I picture someone reading this, for instance—if I happen to picture someone reading this at all—that person is a reedy man in a tailored velvet jacket, navy blue most likely3, whose favorite novel is Joyce's Finnegans Wake. He probably speaks Latin (for kicks, not for its etymological utility) and owns a vintage cravat collection4. He hasn't owned a television set since he accidentally stumbled onto an episode of Small Wonder in the '80s while he was looking for MacNeil/Lehrer and nibbling on dates and store-bought olives in a Canadian bed-and-breakfast. This triggered a (minor) fugue state—in effect, the product of collision between his Old World aesthetics and the spinning, smoke-emitting head of a robot-girl in a frilly red-and-white dress.

This is the man. This is the man who is reading my blog—but only hypothetically, you understand—only as an ideation to be pleased (or not-pleased)5. It goes without saying (so why do I say it?) that he finds all these blog posts thus far extremely distasteful, puerile, imbecilic, and unpleasantly formatted. (He is especially incensed by the modernist lower-case font I use for blog headings. 'How about Blackmoor LET?' he sniffs, as his monocle falls to his chest.)

He won't like this post either. Not least of which because I accuse him of eating store-bought olives. (It's interesting—to me, anyway—that I still manage to flatter myself in my own self-deprecating fantasies. This Hypothetical Reader6 wouldn't tear himself away from his weathered Poirot videotapes [yes—videotapes] long enough to read this shit. Only deranged shut-ins would even bother. So if you're [1] a deranged shut-in7 and [2] reading this, leave a comment down below... just so that I know what I am dealing with, okay? I get it. You haven't left the house in three-and-a-half weeks or changed your clothes. Your underwear's like lemon-yellow papier-mâché. You don't even really read this. You just let the words hit you in the face, like a john's penis. I get it. I desperately need to recalibrate the ideation of my Hypothetical Reader.) What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Gambling. I used to be a gambling addict. But more on that later. (That's a Season 1 cliffhanger, so now's the time to go upstairs and check your mother's feeding tube.)

1 This device—this revelation, as it were—is used to generate interest. You, the Hypothetical Reader, are easing into another post, presumably about something idiotic, and there it is—suddenly—an earnest, or seeming-earnest, revelation. A baring of the soul. You were expecting more masturbation jokes, and here I am: giving a little piece of myself to you.
2 And then I undercut it. You were busy adjusting your expectations for a life-affirming story, and then I go and clothesline you. I don't actually mean gambling-gambling. There will be no traditional rock-bottom, where I'm, like, making snow-angels in a pool of my own vomit on the floor of one of the seedy downtown Las Vegas casinos.
3 Navy blue is the color of cultural conservatism. Now understand that when I say 'cultural conservatism' I mean this as distinct from (American) political conservatism, although the former may or may not be a subset of the latter. I also want to add that being the color of cultural conservatism is NOT navy blue's fault. It had no choice in the matter and is a pleasing color otherwise.
4 I'm beginning to realize that the adjective 'vintage' was probably unnecessary here, but I am going to retain it as an act of rebellion. I won't be oppressed by necessity.
5 When you write—if you write—do you have an image of someone very particular you are trying to please—or are you more of a radio transmission, being broadcast to god-knows-whom (maybe nobody at all)? The radio broadcast scenario is too depressing and demoralizing, I find. I need to see the face of my audience, even if it ends up being Captain Peacock's from Are You Being Served?
6 In the future—that is to say, in subsequent blog entries—I intend to use the phrase 'Hypothetical Reader' again. I will trust that you will commit my sense of the phrase to memory so that you know what the fuck I'm talking about.
7 I mean absolutely no offense to deranged shut-ins. Who would be posting all those racist comments on youtube videos, if not for you? Everyone serves a purpose in this world. Even if your purpose is a completely shitty one, who am I to judge? (I want to discuss this phrase ['Who am I to judge?'] in the future. Please remind me.)


  1. Do women not read your blog?

  2. I hope women do. But I try to imagine the worst possible reader--who is inevitably a man.

  3. i would never eat an olive of any kind.

  4. Wise woman. I too hate olives. There's something too eyeball-like about them.

  5. I bet there are bullshit, brand-NEW cravats out there.

  6. There are. I'm wearing one right now.

    Damn. That olive just missed my mouth.

  7. I wear spats. And nothing else.

    I don't want dirty ankles.

  8. I let the penises of johns hit me in the face like words.