A night at the bar with Jon Foer....

So there I am sitting on the barstool of the "Society of Letters Bar and No-Grill." Hanging out, having a good time, listening to the banter back and forth between the other patrons (I swear if either Kristen or Josh mention "black @#$%^ bread" again I'll throw one of Tre's leftover wing bones at them) when I look over my shoulder and there's ol' Jon Foer sitting all alone nursing a black eye and a broken spirit. I excuse myself from the delightful Indian fella I've been talking with and walk over to the table in the dimly lit corner.


R: "Hey John. So, um, how's the eye?"

JSF: "Oh hi Rick, it's fine, no thanks to you. It was a little swolen at first but I've been keeping the it down with a handful of $100 bills from my last huge advance."

R: (uncomfortable laugh) "Yeah, you kinda took a beating earlier. About that, I wanted to help but, well you know, I was on the phone with my wife talking about cars and... I told you about my kitchen project, right?"

JSF: "Save it Rick, it doesn't help me now does it? You can't spare five minutes to run over with a barstool and club Franklin as he's kicking me on the ground? Josh and Dusty won't even acknowledge me but I thought you'd at least have my back. I tried damn it; I tried to fight off Bruce but he just kept laughing at me saying things like 'Hit me with your good arm, Foer!' I could be wrong, but I swear I heard him saying something about how if he'd made it as a professional wrestler his finishing move would have been called the 'final solution.' You've known me longer than any of these guys, you should have at least hit one of them."

R: "But, I do feel like I've known Jaqua my whole life. Between you and me I think he might be the reincarnation of the actual Sammy Davis Jr, he's just that likable. And to be fair, Curri had your back so you didn't need me."

JSF: "But he couldn't save me from Kristen's words - she said I was a no-talent, cliched, hubristic undergrad-English-major hack of an author!"

R: "Well she has a point, it does seem like you're trying a little hard at times."

JSF: "I studied literature, journalism, and creative writing, don't you think I'm aware of the various literary genres and styles? If it were all just a hodgepodge of unoriginal techniques and immature ambition wouldn't someone had called me out?

R: "Maybe you made it through because of some kind of Jewish control of the entertainment business conspiracy? Or maybe in lieu of your immaturity you wrote a really good story that on occasion suffers from the impulsiveness of youth."

JSF: "You're talking about the arm aren't you?"

R: "I'm talking about the arm. I can't stop talking about the arm! I was thinking if I'd only had a dead arm I would have been the coolest guy in my high school; the girls would have loved me. I was trying to think of some kind of profound meaning, but tell me the truth it doesn't have any meaning does it?"

JSF: "Nope, I was 22 when I wrote it and thought, let's give him a dead arm. Then I thought, wouldn't it be crazy if women craved the dead arm, wasn't too long until it was pleasuring all of Eastern Europe. I thought it was funny and random, like the guy on Kids in the Hall who had a cabbage for a head."

R: "Sure but what about that whole we experience illumination and a glow visible from space when we're, um, doin' it? That whole village-wide orgy thing. But later your grandfather gets more pleasure from destruction than sex, right?"

(Foer writes a bunch of stuff on a napkin and slides it across the table)

JSF: "Why don't you talk about this at your meeting, I don't have the time to talk about it here, I'm meeting Wes Anderson for dinner. It's a not-so-serious book about a very serious subject, with the juxtaposition of meaningless and meaningful experiences. I think that life, and love, is ultimately a frustrating experience that is part idea and part praxis and it's the conflict and powerlessness that occurs between the two that give us the pathos of life - well, at least for the characters, I've got so much paper I don't even know what pathos is anymore.

R: "But, as you point out, in lieu of all this frustration there are those special moments when you can look through a hole in the wall, fondle yourself, and make it all worth while, that's what I took from it."

JSF: "Yes, it took me 250 pages and a few other words, but that's pretty much it."

R: "Well, I think it's a good book and I'd hardly call you a hack. I think your second book makes you a hack. Hey, you'd better get out of here, you've been here a long time and this place can get pretty rough once Josh, Dusty, and Huskerson join in."

JSF: "Yeah, I'm going to go. Tell your Indian friend I said Hi and I hope he gets treated better in here than I did. Oh, and be sure to tell the janitor I'm sorry for the mess."

(Moments later an elderly gentleman with a mop, a bucket, and a goatee begins to clean the beer, peanuts, and bits of Jonathan Safran Foer off the floor.)

R: "Night Francis, see you next month."