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