die Lebenskünstler

I purchased a new computer late last year and spent a considerable amount of time migrating files from one place to another, weeding out the things I could put into deep storage in an attempt to make room for things that will probably wind up there next year. One of the things I found is a video of my friend J.

The video is from several years ago when a friend asked me to help him put together an entry for a contest being held by ESPN. I'll call my friend J for reasons that will shortly become clear.

As I remember, the prize was a one-year contract as an on-screen commentator. I borrowed time in a studio with a green screen and a teleprompter and recorded J covering a made-up story about a woman's attempt to climb Mt. Everest. The story went on and on about how the woman got frostbite and lost some toes, about how the climb held special significance because she was there to recover the body of her husband, who had died attempting to summit a few years prior. The story was compelling, and the enthusiasm with which he told it was contagious. I honestly don't remember if J ever sent in the entry, but either way, he never wound up on ESPN. Too bad for them.

J has had a few sports-related jobs over the years. He worked as a sports writer for a suburban newspaper. He sent me a story once about a high school football game that I was surprised to find interesting. Not because it came from J -- quite the contrary -- but because I'm not a sports fan, and I never read the sports pages. I suppose there is a history of literary sports writing, but I doubt high school football gets that kind of treatment very often. I don't remember the details of J leaving that job, except that he shaved his head the day he quit (or was he fired?), and everyone in the office thought for sure that J wasn't the only one for whom it would be the last day.

I remember him telling me about going on an interview for a Wall Street job with a resume that was less a traditional CV and more an essay on his life's accomplishments. "Although I didn't graduate from college, I have seen every college football team in each of their respective stadiums…" and so on.

The guy doing the hiring told J in all earnestness, "This is the best fucking resume I have ever seen. I wish I could hire you. But…"

I don't hear from J more than once every six months or so. Sometimes longer. Whenever we touch base, however, he always has a crazy story. "What have you been up to?" is never answered with, "Oh, you know, the same old same old."

I used to transcribe these stories into blog posts quite a bit. Once, after writing a particularly graphic story involving J shitting his pants on the way to a sex club while traveling to his father's funeral. I got quite a bit of pushback. It was a little too much for the refined tastes of my loyal readership. (The post is still in the archives, if you have the stomach for it.)

*Update: No, it isn't.

After writing that post, a friend of mine said, "As I was reading the story, I kept waiting for the funny part, but it never came." She suggested that writing about these things might not be healthy and that I might be enabling J in some way. She wasn't exactly clear with the psychology of it, but I understood her point. Maybe she was right. But we all have our compulsions, J has his, and writing about J's is mine.

A few weeks ago, I sent J an email just to check in and see what he was up to. Our mutual friend, Brian, another bon vivant, was living in upstate New York and suggested the three of us organize a camping trip. Brian is a free spirit who lives his life as simply as possible these days, which means he's always asking me for people's contact info. "Do you have a number for J or an email address?"

I gave Brian J's info for the umpteenth time, and in the meantime, emailed J myself.

I didn't hear back right away, which is nothing unusual. When he finally replied, he simply said:

"Hi Jamie. Great to hear from you. I'm fine. I've been smoking crack for the past 14 months, but it's just a phase. Otherwise, all is well."

I thought it was pretty funny until we spoke on the phone and I found out he wasn't kidding.

We traded a few more emails and a phone call or two.

Brian, in the meantime, took off for his third trip to a Buddhist monastery in Myanmar for three months of silence.

Where am I going with all of this? Hell if I know. All I know is there sure are a lot of ways to live a life.