The Jimmy

Illeism is when someone refers to themself in the third person instead of the more appropriate first person.

In literature, writers may refer to themselves in the third person to convey objectivity about their subject, even if they were a participant in the story.

In psychology, referring to oneself in the third person demonstrates disconnection between the person’s body and mind. It may be the result of trauma or an attempt to dissociate from something one has done that is difficult for the psyche to reconcile against self-image.

Technology—both in truth and science fiction—often represents “itself” in the third person to avoid blaming the user, e.g. “The System has experienced an interruption in connectivity.”

Does illeism suggest a lack of self-awareness or a true separation of consciousness from physical form? “Confucius say…”

Illeism is also used to illustrate immaturity and/or ignorance: “Elmo loves you!” Elmo’s linguistic skills are indicative of those in children. Speaking of oneself in the third person is also a practice of people that haven’t mastered a language: “Miyagi hate fighting.” “ET phone home.”

Those are all examples of illeism outside of ego. Somewhere closer to the inside is “The Jimmy.”

Prime time TV viewers met The Jimmy on Seinfeld in 1995, and hysteria ensued. People all over either knew “That Guy” or hoped never to meet him. A year later, Bob Dole channeled The Jimmy and elicited a mass of sneers when, during the U.S. presidential election, he aggrandized himself with the statement “You can trust Bob Dole.” Decades earlier in 1958, Mike Wallace had a surreal moment with The Jimmy in the form of artist Salvador Dalí. Dalí took illeism to the beyond in his 60 Minutes interview as he affirmed, "Dalí is immortal and will not die."

I met The Jimmy for one long, unforgettably odd date with Syd.

Pasta, Prima Donna?

So my date with The Jimmy (a.k.a.”The Illeist”—I may have invented a word) began with an Italian dinner.

Out of the gate, I recognized this was going to be a strange evening. Before the waitress even came to our table, Syd began his long and winding monologue, and at least half of his sentences were in the third person.

“Syd got in a workout today! I ran 5 miles by the lake. Syd takes care of himself. It gets harder to keep things up at our age. If we don’t watch it, we can really pile on the pounds. Isn’t it frustrating? You have one pizza, and it’s all over. It’s a good thing Syd runs! Do you run? It’s a fantastic activity! I belong to a running group. I also weightlift. Do you go to the gym? I think you said you went to a gym. I work out nearly every day…”

Ok, Syd is from the U.K., so I rather enjoyed the way he said “frustrating” with the accent on the “a,” “frustr-A-ting.” Syd's family actually came from some little area in India to the U.K., and Syd moved to the U.S. in college.

As Syd talked on and on, I was able to eat my pasta without interruption. At first this seemed great, but soon I realized I had to eat more slowly. Let’s be clear: I am already a slow eater. I am always the last one still working on my food. Tonight was a unique challenge for me: Do I try and eat one noodle or two at a time? Push things around for a bit? I can’t exactly talk to fill up time. I turned my fork on the spoon to twist up the pasta so slowly, I felt like I was watching a clip from an odd independent film, camera zoomed in on a spoonful of pasta.

Syd had barely made any dent in his salad what with the incessant babbling. I wondered if he realized he was never going to finish his salad. I’m eating insufferably slowly, and Syd’s barely moved his fork—with the exception of punctuating an exclamatory statement every other minute. Eating with utensils should be like hockey: High-sticking results in a penalty! Keep it DOWN.

Syd doesn’t eat pasta. Syd was clear about this. Initially, I felt like a pig ordering pasta, but I dismissed this because hey, I’m NOT dieting, we ARE at an Italian restaurant, and how freakin’ cliché is it for a woman to order a salad on a date?

It was remarkable to hear a person string together so many disparate thoughts. I’ve never heard anything like it in my life. I became curious. Without being able to participate in the conversation—which technically wasn’t a conversation because there was no actual dialogue—how did he think this date was going?

Dirty Vegas

Syd: “Have you ever been to Vegas?”

Me: Oh, my God, I get to speak. “Yes…”

Remember, Syd is English, so infer your best British accent as you read. The capitalization illustrates where he emphasized his words. He was a very animated talker, so he emphasized a lot of words.

Syd: “I love Vegas! Next time you go to Vegas, Syd can hook you UP! Syd can get you a $2,000 VIP table at PURE. Have you BEEN to PURE? Oh, you MUST! So MUCH fun! I’m not really into strip clubs or anything, please know that about me…”

Me (to myself): This place is a strip club? I thought it was a bar? No, I didn’t actually get to ask this question.

Syd continues (actually, Syd never broke): “I realize a LOT (like ‘lote’) of men LIKE strip clubs. Strippers always seem to gravitate TO-wards me! I don’t underSTAND it! I’m always saying ‘No! No! No!’ but my friends absolutely LOVE to buy me lap dances. My friend (we’ll say ‘Bob’) dropped so much MONEY the LAST time we were in VEGAS—just at the STRIP clubs! He didn’t even bat an eye. They say was happens in Vegas STAYS in Vegas—Bob’s money SURE did STAY in VEGAS! Bob walked INTO the BAR and said, ‘Syd needs a lap dance!’ and I was so uncomfortable! I’m sitting there, and there’s a woman’s bum in my FACE! This bum just bounced on by, came back around, bounced on by. It was riDICulous! Don’t get me wrong: She was beautiful—a BEAUtiful woman, yes! She must do very well for herself because she’s so lovely. Strippers really make a LOT (again, like ‘LOTE’) of money! Do you know how much they can make in an EVening? It’s inSANE! Anyway, when I go to PURE, they’re like ‘Syd! Syd’s here! You need a table, Syd? Come on over here, Syd!’”

Syd’s energy level was off the charts. Did he drink an espresso before our date? Breathe, man, breathe!

Again, I cannot possibly tell you everything he said. I wish I’d recorded it with my phone or something. He talked ON and ON about strip clubs, strippers, some stripper’s butt in his face, how big her breasts were, how much his friend spent buying him lap dances, how much strippers LOVE him.

Throughout dinner, I learned an extensive amount of Syd info: Syd is in sales (shocking). Syd does really well for Sydself. Syd loves to travel. Syd put himself through college as a pool shark. Syd loves his watch. Syd only wears fine clothing. I’m unclear what this means specifically, but Lord knows I didn’t have an opportunity to ask.

Stagefright

Syd loves improv. He actually was taking improv classes at this very location. I readied myself for an actual “SYD! SYD’S HERE?” moment.

I know this sounds terribly surprising, but Syd talked through the whole show! At one point I was concerned the improv troupe would hear him, and I’d be suddenly thrust into my own personal nightmare: a cameo. I really hate those moments when I find myself to be the center of attention. Being dragged up onto a stage to participate in an improvisation would either make me throw up or black out.

I’m sitting at this table trying to hear the performance and simultaneously listen to Syd’s play-by-play. Apparently there are different types of improv acting, and Syd knew them all: “This is GREAT! We did this! This is ‘suggestion.’ The improvisers have to play on what the audience says.” Then another type—a longform type—is called “Harold.” I know, right?

Despite Syd’s constant (and not hushed) interjections, we avoid the spotlight. Syd’s next item on the agenda is to subject me to Gameworks.

Game Playing

I’m sure this place is stellar to teenage boys and people in their 20s—even the standard-issue, intoxicated 30-something—but I am none of these things. If you’ve never heard of the place, it’s essentially a two-story warehouse of arcade games. Games from floor to ceiling. Gun games. Joystick games. Driving games. Games against Man. Games against Beast. Games that look like they belong in a casino (again, Vegas!). Oh, and a bar with many TVs.

Syd demonstrates his skills firing a plastic gun. He forces me to try, so I play a good sport, and I take up a plastic gun. I aim for the big screen.

I suck. I don’t understand how I’m supposed to be aiming at the little animated, angry people on the game screen. I die time and again.

Syd is disappointed. Syd tells me to try this and do that. I still suck. “How have you ever fired a gun?”

Me: “This isn’t a REAL gun! I’m FINE with a REAL gun! And I don’t shoot PEOPLE!”

Syd grabs my hand and practically drags me to some game where I’m supposed to be a firefighter.

Dear God. I stand there in my dress and heels on floor-pad things (I have no idea what that’s about) and attempt to put fires out on the screen with this ginormous fake hose. I think of my friend Mike, an actual firefighter, and I can imagine him laughing.

I actually didn’t suck at this game, but let’s face it: Accuracy is loose with a fire hose. I think I did hose down one of my comrades, but I did save the girl. Why is it always some screaming woman that needs to be saved? Oh, wait…why is there no hero firefighter saving me from the date I’m drowning in?

I’ve redeemed myself with my fake firefighter abilities, so we move on to a game where I’m expected to drive a Humvee on a racecourse. Seriously? The race of DEATH!

We get into this huge mock Humvee, and we have to buckle our seatbelts.

I’m concerned.

What exactly is this game going to do? Is there a CHANCE I’m going to get tossed out of it? I tell Syd that on a moon launch motion ride at Disneyland, I had to put my head between my knees lest I vomit all over my father-in-law. It was horrible. I was sweating. I was dizzy. I realized it was good I didn’t pursue aeronautics. I cried.

When it was my turn to drive, I didn’t do too badly until I jumped some hill and hit a wall, upon which I removed my hands from the wheel to cover my eyes. Syd yelled that I shouldn’t take my hands off the wheel. I realize that, but again, I just went into a wall with a Humvee. Apparently this doesn’t end one’s life in a game: I was still in the race.

Next, Syd LOVES this game where you have to guess how much money is left in suitcases. He explains that this is a real TV game show. He wants to bet and bet. Again, Vegas!?

I am not a gambler: I like to keep my money or put it towards something I want to own. I don’t want to purchase “chance.”

I’m no fun.

Syd plays several rounds of this game and finally insists I help guess which suitcases have the big bucks in them. Just to be done with it, I throw out whatever number I see first on the screen each time. I ask if I can phone a friend. Syd tells me “that” is not THIS game, that’s another game. (This is only funny to me.) The goal is to accumulate tickets to exchange for items you’d essentially find in a Cracker Jack box. Excellent!

Syd begins namedropping, my favorite. Poor Syd: I smile politely and nod my head, but I fail to swoon.

Syd pulls out the big guns: “Do you remember ‘Robocop?’” Oy, I remember the movie, yes. Well, according to Syd, he walked into a bar somewhere awesome, and the actor who played Robocop shouted “SYD! SYD’S HERE!”

He continued, “Pete (Peter Weller) put his arm around me, and I hung out with him and his entourage for the evening. Pete’s AWEsome! Blah, blah, blah…”

As if. That makes no sense. Syd is a pharmaceutical rep. Insert suspicion here.

Syd finally amassed a handful of tickets, so he exclaimed “Come on, Kate! Syd’s gonna get you something nice from the shop! Whatever you want!”

I still want to phone a friend.

So the “shop” is pretty much what you’d expect. I feel more pressure than I should to find something—anything—I want in exchange for the tickets. I decide I want Pop Rocks. You know, how fun is that? I haven’t seen Pop Rocks in over 20 years!

Well, Syd already appropriated most of the tickets to pool ball key chains. I get it: He plays pool well. I didn’t much contribute to the ticket stash either.

Syd seemed to have scored the biggest win with a handful of these little pool ball key chains. He couldn’t get a complete collection unless he committed to more games, so I wondered how he decided which ones he had to have. By the time he was done picking his balls (yes, I’m being snotty), I was resorted to a candy necklace. It was actually far too small to be a necklace but too large to be a bracelet. (I later decided it was a candy garter of which Syd was never going to see.)

And so ended my date with Syd, Sydself, and whatever…I’m tired.

Syd declared how wonderful it was talking “to” me.

Exactly.

As I drove away, I phoned a friend and considered the odds I would have a date with The Jimmy from India with a U.K. accent and a motormouth.

Better than craps.

Man Eat Dog

When a woman is interested in a man and he asks for her number, it’s an exciting moment and both people are filled with anticipation.

The man generally waits a few days before he calls her—desperation and over eagerness are only appropriate when watching football. When he finally calls, if she knows his number, she will answer the call with a questioning “Hello” as if it could be any number of people calling her, and he will play it cool.

The first call generally covers a wide range of topics as a means to establish commonalities, unveil discrete differences, and determine if going on a date is of mutual interest. Once in a while, if you’re really lucky, an initial phone call becomes a great blog story.

* * *

When “John” called me, I didn’t realize I should have taken a Xanax and seen my therapist first. John was a regular business man—not into mergers and acquisitions, not a lawyer or claims adjuster, wasn’t a detective or the host of Jeopardy—just a simple manager of something somewhere that clearly didn’t involve interpersonal skills.

John’s way of determining if I was a prospective date or not was as subtle as waterboarding. He began with innocuous questions about where I went to college, where my family is from, and what exactly I did for a living. To my every answer, he’d reply “uh huh, and uh…” and then he’d swiftly launch into the next question.

After fessing up to the foods I like versus the foods I don’t like (and why), animals I have as pets, and where I went on my last vacation, he sideswiped me with a “So, you’re divorced? What happened? Tell me about that.”

Like a snowball, his line of questioning grew into things like why didn’t I have children, why did my last relationship end before reaching an engagement (ouch), and how many men I’ve been intimate with. As if!

That was it for me. I felt like a stranger was snooping through my apartment, and I let the damned person in! So I stepped up and asked him if he was reading off a list or something.

He confessed that he was!

I explained to him that most of these questions would be answered as people got to know each other, and that his zinger question about my sexuality—well, that was something very inappropriate and none of his business. He tried to pin me with a “so you’ve got something to hide,” and I laughed at him and told him that I definitely have not, but that any woman who gave him a number was lying anyway. This surprised him.

He tried to go down this new road of me explaining why a woman would lie when answering this question, but I was done humoring both his curiosity and his tactlessness. As he was taking a breath to, I assume, regroup and continue down his list, I dismissed his script and said something to the effect of:

“Look, you’ve asked me more questions than I’ve ever been asked during a job interview. I understand this may be your technique of choice, but it’s very off putting. You’re obviously an intelligent man who knows what he wants, but you risk turning off an intelligent woman that is sincere. I’ve politely answered your myriad of questions for two hours, which hasn’t been either pleasant or engaging for me. You can do whatever you want the next time you pursue your interest in a woman who’s put herself out there, but I truly hope you take this to heart and reexamine your approach. First phone calls should be fun, light, and interesting, not stressful and interrogative.”

After my monologue, I wished him the best and made it clear that even though he told me nothing about himself, I knew he wasn’t my type.

* * *

You have to expect a certain number of probing questions during an initial phone call, but there’s a point where I can’t even tell where a guy’s trying to go. Is he profiling me? Is he baiting me?

A few months ago, I had a First Phone Call experience with a financial analyst. Until then, I knew him as intelligent and personable. I was nearing the end of a very tedious night class, so giving anyone my precious, limited free time was a big deal. I took a break from homework to take his call.

It started out with banal questions like why I’m taking a class, where I went for my undergrad, and this and that. Then all of a sudden at 11 p.m. when my brain wasn’t at its peak performance, he asks me the weirdest question: “If you were on a desert island, would you eat your dog?”

Me: “Would I what?”

Him: “Would you eat your dog?”

Me: “Desert island or not, no, I would not eat my dog or anyone else’s dog.”

Him: “See, I don’t understand that. Why wouldn’t you eat a dog? You’re starving and you have no food. You need to eat something. Your dog would eat you.”

Me: “My dog wouldn’t eat me.”

Him: “Yes, it would.”

Me: “If I were dead, I wouldn’t care if my dog ate me. I’m dead.”

Him: “But you’re STARVING.”

Me: “I’d eat tree bark before I’d ever eat a dog. I don’t even eat beef.”

He was hell-bent on convincing me that I should eat my dog, and well, he obviously hadn’t met me.

I explained to him that human beings are more evolved than other animals, and that eating your one and only companion on an island would be psychologically detrimental. I also assured him that at no time in my future would I ever be faced with the dilemma of whether or not I should eat my dog while stranded on a desert island.

I think this exasperated him, but he gave up his relentless pursuit of my agreement, and he went on to his next question, “What do you think of adoption?”

Internal dialog: What ever happened to “What’s your sign?”

Me: “Uh, well, I’m adopted, so I’m in favor of it.”

Him: “Well, I don’t believe in it.”

Me: “It’s not like Santa Claus. ‘Disbelief’ isn’t an option.”

He wanted me to take a stance and debate this issue with him. At 11 at night. After hours of inorganic chemistry homework. On a first phone call. After trying to convince me I should eat a house pet.

I told him that I simply didn’t care to debate; it’s not something I do. He couldn’t understand how I don’t care what other people think. His process was to try and bring others around to his way of thinking. He thought it was shameful that I didn’t try and “enlighten” others. First, who am I to try and influence other people? I told him that everyone has their own path, and that it’s not up to me to try and enlighten them. Most people need to learn things on their own. As long as no one pees in my popcorn, it’s all good.

Suffice it to say he rambled around and around like a burglar casing a joint. He thought he was a brilliant philosopher, but he was simply a narrow-minded, linearly thinking, bigmouthed know-it-all.

The next day, he sent me a text saying how he loved talking to me (?), and he thought we had a lot in common, so he’d like to take me out.

I was curious what exactly he thought we had in common. I mean, he didn’t believe in me, and he is the kind of guy that would put Rover on a rotisserie. Obviously, I politely declined, but I’m still left wondering what the point was of his bizarre line of questioning? What does eating a dog mean to him?

I remember putting down my phone and looking at my cat sleeping in my backpack on the chair next to me. I cupped her puffy, tabby face in my hands, looked into her wide, loving eyes, and reassured her that not now, not ever would I eat her. I promised.

What’s more, I was ok with the fact that it was going to still be just her and me on this island for a while longer. I just wish I didn’t have to fight off so many monkeys.