What’s a narcissist? What’s a sociopath?
I hear these words tossed around. I’m guilty of tossing these words around. But I’ve lost my sense of what they are, of what they mean.
Jay-Z is about to release his new album, “Magna Carta Holy Grail.” Is there a bigger narcissist? In fact, the narcissism of the man is only eclipsed by the narcissism of the title of the man’s album.
I like Jay-Z. I’m a fan.
“The Blueprint” is a masterpiece. “Empire State Of Mind” is an anthem. Beyonce is his wife. I’m envious. There’s no question I’m envious. How do I know?
I have a tendency to punish myself with my dreams.
Last night, I dreamt Jay-Z invited me to join him for a drink at The Coffee Shop, a trendy bar from my youth, in New York City, at Union Square West.
On my arrival, he snapped at the bartender for taking too long with his Mimosa and ordered me a shot of Patron, calling me “Patron,” which is the Spanish Word for “Boss.”
As we walked out of the bar, and turned a sudden corner onto the Brooklyn Bridge, we were passed from behind by a group of excited kids who’d been quarterbacking our arrival. They smiled at Jay-Z. Then one turned to me, his smile fading into dead-seriousness, pulling a wire out from a spool, which he intended to wrap around my neck.
I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t young. Most certainly, I wasn’t “Patron.”
At best, I’m an amateur narcissist.
Some dreams aren’t dreams. Some dreams are real. Some characters aren’t characters. Some characters are real. Vladimir Putin’s unrelinquishing grip on power, on Russia, on the consciousness of fear, is a dream made manifest in reality.
Vladimir Putin is a sociopath, a shirtless, horseback-riding sociopath who enjoys horseback riding shirtless while being photographed shirtless on Giddy Up Girl, his horsey.
Apparently, sociopaths get-off on showing the world their nipples.
What can we do about Vladimir Putin? Nothing. What can we do about all the attention being showered on Vladimir Putin? Nothing.
What can we do about world peace, the end of tyranny and jumping into the fray?
Vinny Vegas called yesterday. We hadn’t talked in a while. Summer arrived, and time bent to accommodate Summer Priorities, like traveling to Magic Happy Land, where Vinny Vegas personally delivered his oldest daughter to Summer Camp.
In the course of our conversation, I asked Vinny Vegas, “What’s a narcissist? What’s a sociopath?”
“A sociopath,” he continued, “will do you unconscionable harm on Monday Night and wake-up on Tuesday Morning pondering, with soul-crushing seriousness, whether he should or should not add cilantro to his world-famous recipe for Saucy Wings.”
“You don’t want to underestimate the importance of Saucy Wings,” I agreed.
“Listen, you’re not a grill master until you’ve mastered Saucy Wings.”
Then time bent to accommodate the space where the friendship of former college roommates can slip effortlessly between goofiness and thoughtful nagging.
“Funny you should say,” I said. “Caught an interview with George Clooney. He was asked why he never ran for office, given his clear passion for jumping into the fray.”
“I had too much fun,” Clooney said. “I fucked too many chicks. If I ran for office, this would have to be my tagline: I drank the bong water.”
Vinny Vegas laughed, a deep laugh, the kind of laugh where time warps, bends, stops and resets.
We’re at the moment.
We’re at the time.
Everything is where everything needs to be.
The past is exposed for everyone to see.
We’ve been spied on, spit on and forced to look at the sagging nipples of narcissistic sociopaths. But it’s over. Yes, it’s still happening. But it’s over. Can you feel it? It’s definitely over.
Hey Clooney, Pass Me The Bong Water.