Credits

Here's this. Because I'm not a goddam phony, I give credit where credit is due.

Red Hunting Cap

http://cadet.deviantart.com/art/Red-Hunting-Hat-2-12955779

Boarding School

http://tigerhawk.blogspot.com/2008_12_01_archive.html

Hotel

http://wirednewyork.com/forum/showthread.php?p=173697#post173697

Obama

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Barack_Obama_Hope_poster.svg

Grand Central Station

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Grand_Central_test.jpg

Gladstone Bag

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Gladstone_Bag.jpg

American Museum of Natural History

http://www.amnh.org/visitors/

Seton Hotel

http://www.setonhotelny.com/location.php

Frozen lagoon in Central Park

http://theboweryboys.blogspot.com/2010/01/jd-salinger-and-frozen-ducks-of-central.html

Casualties from Iraq, Dover Air Force Base

http://www.honorthefallen.com/gallery/

3 E. 71st St. NY, NY

http://www.cityrealty.com/nyc/manhattan/3-east-71st-street/4671

West Side Tennis Club

http://www.foresthillstennis.com/

Sutton Place Apartment

http://realestate.nytimes.com/sales/detail/80-1071519/15-Sutton-Place-New-York-NY-10022

Hospital

http://www.lasencinashospital.com/

End

This is, I guess, the final post of my blog. My psychoanalyst guy says I shouldn't post on blogs anymore, that I should have real human contact. I completely disagree, but whatever, I guess.

You see, I got sick. So now I'm here.

See how absolutely horrible living here is? It's not like I'm going on some rehab show with Dr. Drew and all. I just hate it. I really do. But don't tell anybody I goddam said that.

I really hope Phoebe isn't too upset with me. Basically my last day outside of living here was spent with her. It was actually pretty good, too. I watched her spin round and round on the carousel and all.

Well, at least people can read this blog and get some idea what my life was like, no matter how insignificant it was. I guess someone somewhere can somehow learn from it all. At least I hope so. I really do.

Flitty Antolini

So I just saw my teacher Mr. Antolini and I never thought that he'd be this perverted. Wow. So first he gave me this stupid advice and then he decides to goddam rub my head while I'm asleep. As if he thinks I wouldn't notice that and wake up and be goddam angry! I mean, he's really a strange guy... and he was calling me strange?! I really never thought this would happen–I hope he doesn't think I want to be in the news for fooling around with my goddam teacher, because I don't. It seems like every time I open a newspaper or go online all I see are these kinds of stories. What's wrong with these students, and the goddam teachers?

His apartment is rather swanky, and his wife seemed sort of nice and all. She was about two hundred years older than he is, though.

Anyway, maybe he wasn't trying to be all flitty. Maybe he was just rubbing my head. But why he would do that, I don't know.

We used to hang out all the time at the West Side Tennis Club, and I never thought I'd end up disliking him so goddam strongly.

Back to Phoebe

Well, I just went to talk to Phoebe, and she basically berated me about my goddam life.

If you're wondering how I was able to get into my house—I know that I would—here's the rundown: my parents were gone out late that night. Luckily, our maid is half-deaf, so I was able to sneak in and out of the house easily, even though I only knew that my parents were gone after I already snuck in; Phoebe told me.

The is my parents' apartment on 71st. I was able to trick the elevator guy. I'm pretty goddam clever, or he was just an idiot. Probably a bit of both.

So anyway, my kid sister Phoebe realized that I was kicked out of yet another school and she acted like it was the end of the world. She asked me what I was going to do with my life and I said that I wanted to be the catcher in the rye and all, saving kids from falling off this horrific cliff; then she told me that I misheard a poem by some dead guy and it was actually "If a body meet a body" not "If a body catch a body". Oh well.

Phoebe acted like my life was going to end or something. I mean, maybe it is, metaphorically at least, but I can always run away and all. At least I'm not one of those soldiers who are barely older than me and fighting for our country and dying in goddam Iraq or Afghanistan. Obama promised to stop the war—isn't that one of the reasons he got voted in? Goddam politicians.

See? That's not goddam me. People make things into bigger things than they should be. God.

Ducks and Death

So I went by the lake to see where the hell the ducks go when it's all cold and icy. Well, it was so goddam cold I thought I was going to die and get pneumonia. Another bad thing that happened was I dropped a record I had bought for Phoebe earlier and the goddam thing just broke to pieces. I should have just given her an iTunes gift card or something. But the thing is, a record is something you can hold in your hand. It's not like an iPod that's full of every song in the world.

Well, it was really cold and I was going to die and all, and then I started to think about Allie. You know who Allie is, he's my brother, or really he was my brother before he died of leukemia and all. I was so angry after that, that I started to punch the garage windows, and I goddam missed his funeral because I was in the hospital for doing that. Why do people even have gravestones anyway? If I died now, I would want my body to just be thrown in the river or some goddam place. Who wants to put flowers on some dead person's stomach? I mean really, when someone is dead, they're gone. Well, yeah, I know they go to Heaven and all that crap, but really, he's gone for now at least. I mean really, he had a 50/50 chance of surviving with science today. With all the money my parents have, and all of the celebrities doing fundraisers, and all the people doing walkathons, you'd think they'd have the goddam thing cured by now. Why couldn't he at least have been less sick? Then he would have had an even higher goddam chance.

Carl Luce

I just met up with old Carl Luce, and we had an interesting conversation, to say the least. We met up at the Wicker Bar in this swanky Seton Hotel.

Well, first off, he wasn't that interested in having an intellectual discussion, or even talking about goddam sex, for that matter. He talked about how he has a new Chinese girlfriend and how Eastern philosophy regards sex as both a physical and spiritual experience, and I sort of agree. I mean, I really have to care about the person to actually... you know.

We then talked about how his dad's a psychoanalyst and I asked him some questions about what psychoanalysis is like. Probably nothing like those goddam personality tests you see online. I mean, really, if people really want any insight into what they're like, shouldn't they take the time to talk to someone who's trained in that stuff? The next step after that is self-medicating yourself with drugs. At least see a doctor so you can be healthy and stuff! But the thing is, I don't really mind drinking or smoking once in a while. I mean, it is good stress relief, and I'm not gonna goddam die or anything. I'm not one of those people who's constantly drunk or high or whatever. I'm not like that at all. Really, I'm not.

Girls: Then vs. Now

You know, maybe I would have been better off living back in the old days... like, the really old days, where girls had to be nice to find a husband. Maybe things would be better that way.

One problem that I have with today's girls is that they always are too nice to the goddam phony guys who only care about cars and sports and crap. They always think that the conceited bastards have a goddam inferiority complex. Well I don't think that gives them any excuse to be mean or rude or phony. The thing with girls is, no matter how nice a guy is, if the girls don't like him, they'll say he's conceited. And if the girls like the guy, he has an inferiority complex.

Anyway, girls nowadays are just weird like that. I mean, back when the man ruled the house and stuff, and women didn't have to work, it seems like the girls were usually nicer to guys back then because they needed to get a husband to support them. I'm not saying I don't think women should work—it's not that at all. And I'm not being sexist, either. I'm just saying that if girls were nicer to boys—and if boys were nicer to girls, for that matter—it would make a lot of things easier.

Solitude

You know, I really would like to just run away into a cabin in the forest and just live out my life without having to talk to these goddam phonies who only care about their favorite actors. I really would.

I just went on a date with this girl named Sally Hayes, and it was hell, I tell you. She went on and on about these Lunts, who were a family of actors that're supposedly the greatest things to ever walk the earth. I thought that they were okay, but they were so good that they knew they were good, and the fact that they knew they were good made them bad.

And so afterwards I was explaining to Sally this sort of fantasy that I have of running away and getting some cabin in the forest before I have to become a phony and carry a briefcase and answer phone calls and have my fingers on a BlackBerry and walk around with a goddam Bluetooth stuck in my ear all my life. She kept on thinking that I was yelling, but I wasn't. I really wasn't. She even seemed sort of scared. I don't really know why.

Well, I remember hearing in the news lately that this guy named J.D. Salinger basically did what I've always wished I could do; he wrote some book and then to get away from the goddam fame he moved into a cabin to write on his own peacefully. That actually sounds like it isn't that bad of an idea, you know? He died, though, but he was real old. So I think that, if I had any time to, I'd be able to do what he did. I really think it'd be great (or, as goddam Sally would say, grand). I mean, I don't think I'd get that lonely. People sort of bug me.

Museum of Natural History

I just went to the Museum of Natural History.

I really like that place. I really do. It's really fun to look at the stuff. Just walking to it made me remember all of this stuff inside of it. All of the animals and people, like the Indians and the birds. And the best thing was, nothing ever changed inside the museum. Everything inside those glass cases was always the same.

But the thing is, I didn't really feel like going inside the museum. I just didn't want to. If I'd been there with Phoebe, I would have, but she wasn't, so I didn't. I guess that PETA or whatever would be proud—I mean, they wouldn't like that goddam taxidermy stuff. I don't really care, though, I mean, those PETA folks are all phony crazies—I mean, they'd save a goddam chicken over a human's life. The mounted animals look cool. That's all that matters to me.

Grand Central Station, Bags, and Nuns

I was just at Grand Central Station to eat breakfast. The first thing I did was I checked my bags, then got some eggs to eat. These two nuns sat down next to me and they were very nice and all. They had these really run down suitcases, I guess because they were nuns and all, so I was sort of glad I'd already checked my bags.

I mean, my bags are sort of fancy.

Anyway, I was at Grand Central Station, and I sort of struck up a conversation with these two nuns. They seemed pretty nice and all. We talked about Romeo and Juliet and then about my schooling. They had told me that they were teachers and were going to teach at a new school, which made me somewhat sad. I mean, I really hoped that their old school wasn't shut down or anything. Because of those priests and the little boys and the lawsuits and all. Because I don't think that some goddam messed up priest should be messed up enough to force everyone's lives around him to change. I don't think that God will love them very much anymore, you know? I really hate that stuff. I really hate it.

Anyway, I'm in Grand Central now.

That's Grand Central Station. God, it's big. And filled with phonies. Except for those nuns, though. They were all right.

Obama

This Obama seems like a pretty cool guy—I mean, maybe he's more honest than most politicians and all—but who knows, he might just be another phony. He did go to goddam schools like Pencey and stuff.

Goddam Health

You know, after getting hit and all, and goddam passing out, I really felt like jumping out the goddam window. But the thing is, I didn't want everyone to see my goddam gory body all bloody and stuff. That sort of stuff shouldn't have to be seen.

I really should go to the hospital—I mean, I've just gotten beaten up twice in the past few nights. I mean, I'd be able to pay for it and all, and I have goddam insurance through my parents. Which reminds me of all this goddam Health Care Reform business.

I mean, I really think it's great that Obama will make sure that all people will get to, you know, have medical care and not goddam die. It's really sad that when somebody doesn't have insurance they can't pay for their hospital bills and stuff. I mean, what if that goddam Sunny got AIDS? I don't think that bastard pimp has a health insurance plan! But what about people who work hard for their money? Why should they have to pay for the goddam slackers who choose not to work? I mean, working in a phony job is phony, but not working in any job just makes you seem all selfish. I really think that that's worse. But where does that Obama guy think that we'll get all of this money? How the hell are we gonna pay for it? But I do think it's a good thing that people can at least live and be healthy. I don't really know—well, it's more that I don't really care.

Sunny

I just got hit by a goddam pimp. I can't even go to the police. They probably wouldn't goddam care anyway.

So there was this elevator guy and I was really goddam crazy or something and I said that it'd be fine if he'd send down a girl for me. And the problem is, when she arrived, I couldn't stand it. She was about my age—my real age—and she had on this green dress. Her name was Sunny. Nobody would even recognize that she's a prostitute when she wore that dress. It was really pitiful, really.

I mean, don't people care about these people? Why do they let girls sell their goddam bodies like this?! It isn't sexy, it's just sad. How do the police, and even the hotel manager, not know about this that's happening right under their noses? What, does the manager get paid for hiring pimps to operate his elevators? These sort of people goddam infuriate me. They really do.

Of Fakes and Phonies

I'm really getting tired of all of these phony people.

So I just got back from this goddam jazz piano club, Ernie's. This guy, appropriately named Ernie, just played the piano like the biggest goddam phony that I've ever seen in my life. He kills me. Literally. All he plays for is the applause.

Oh, and that reminds me. Earlier tonight I went to a bar in my hotel called The Lavender Room. I was sitting next to these relatively good-looking girls (or at least the blonde one was), and I sort of gave them the eye. Eventually I got up and struck up a conversation with them, and even asked them to dance a while. But the thing is, when I'd try to talk to them, they would only look away from me, as if they were searching around for someone. I'm pretty sure—no, I'm entirely sure—that all they wanted was to catch a glance of some famous guy. Which really gets on my goddam nerves.

I mean really, people are only famous because they've been on a goddam screen once in a while, and maybe they're slightly more good-looking than others, but all they want is fame. That kills me. I mean, if people are willing to let goddam naked pictures of themselves out just so people will see them and Perez Hilton and TMZ will talk about them, that's pretty horrible, don't you think?

Edmont Hotel is Too Crappy and Perverted

Oh my God. Really. I'm staying in the worst hotel in the world. It's really a piece of crap. It's called the Edmont, and it's filled with perverts and morons.

There was this one guy who had grey hair and he was so strange. What he did was, he took out his suitcase and it was filled with women's clothing. Real women's clothing. Then he did this sort of runway-walk-like thing, smoking a cigarette like a woman would and looking at himself in the mirror. Now, I know that some folks can stomach this—what with RuPaul's Drag Race being on TV and all—but I certainly can't take that sort of thing in real life. Simply amazing and disgusting.

If you're wondering how I can see this sort of thing, I'm definitely not looking in people's windows for it. Just look at this picture.

See how the windows all face each other and all? People should at least have the goddam brains to close their shades before dressing up in women's clothing! What the hell?!

The Train Ride

I just got off at Penn Station and boy do I have a story to tell. On my ride I happened to bump into the mother of this bastard, Ernest Morrow, who went to Pencey. I shot the crap with her a bit and wow, did she take it right in! Basically I just told her about what a great person her son is, how modest he is and how he wouldn't let us nominate him for president and all. He's really a total jerk, but I just thought it might be fun to tell her otherwise.

Maybe, though, maybe my crap-shooting didn't have all that bad intentions. She was a very nice person, Mrs. Morrow. You can't really tell with mothers if they know the truth about their children, especially if they send their kids to boarding school and all. The thing is, she really seemed okay. Really okay. She looked sophisticated when she smoked, not like a lot of women her age. She didn't just wolf the smoke down, Mrs. Morrow. She was all right.

Crappy Pictures

This is Pencey, the last boarding school I was expelled from, in Agerstown, Pennsylvania. God am I glad I got the hell out of there. It was the worst school in the world. Filled with phonies... am I ever gonna get away from those people? I doubt it. I really do.

Here's a picture of me that my ex-roomate, Ackley kid, drew. Wow was that guy a sonuvabitch. But I have to say that I don't dislike the way he emphasized my red hunting hat. I mean, it's really my favorite article of clothing, and I wear it every goddam day. But the problem is, I actually wear that hat with the bill in the back. Ackley kid wanted me to put it on "right" so I don't look like a "God damn idiot". I say to hell with it.

Why did I make this?

I'm starting to ask myself that question. I mean I really am. I don't really think people will actually want to read my blog—well actually I'm pretty sure they won't. Nobody really reads anything that anyone writes anyhow. All that those phony intellectuals do is analyze. They know that someone wrote something, but they all have to ask each other why. What it means. That stuff kills me. It really does.

I guess one of the reasons that I'm writing this is that I don't really have anyone to talk to, after all. I mean, I just ran away from Pencey, for God's sake. I can't give my parents a buzz, I can't call my prostitute of a brother D.B., and I sure as hell can't ring up Jane.

And really, there isn't even a phone booth in this goddam place. Right now I'm in the station waiting for a train. I have my red hunting cap on and everything. I probably look pretty miserable, though. I really do. I mean, with my bloody nose and everything, people must be hoping they don't have to talk to me. I would want to talk with me, to tell you the truth, even with a bloody nose. I find people like me interesting. I really do. And I don't usually find people that interesting.