The System

I do not consider myself organized in any conventional definition of the term. That shortcoming was thrown into a very sharp relief this week when against all good judgment I attempted to organize a group outing to the windy city to catch a live stage act of a pair of actors made famous for their voice work on Adult Swim cartoons. The relatively easy task of asking whom would want to go followed by the action of purchasing the appropriate amount of tickets was entirely too complicated a processes for complete in a timely fashion. When I finally logged on to the Lake Shore Theater website and found the ten thirty show sold out I; 1.) Freaked the hell out. 2.) Cried a little. 3.) Spent the rest of the day pouting like a cheerleader that got stood up on prom night. I then had to make the agonizing phone call/text messages to the people that I was to accompany and let them know that I am indeed sloth incarnate and as a result we will be spending this Saturday night doing the usual verse-chorus-verse.

The lessoned to be learned here is that organizing something like this is just not in my repertoire of tradable skills. I should have remembered the harsh lessons learned from my adolescence when I would mangle plans for bonfires, barn parties, or hardcore/ska shows, and leave the planning to more interested and capable parties. Thinking in a group sense just isn’t my particular bag. Which I believe is proof positive that I am chronically single, I am just too damn good at being by myself. Over the course of a few years my single-hood has reprioritized the inanities of my life and developed a series of systems to meet these challenges. Some of my friends don’t understand it, and when I try to explain it they immediately distance themselves as though I was inviting them to crawl into a funhouse of madness.

Take laundry for example. To most people, clothes are either clean or dirty, but not to me. I don’t subscribe to the belief in those sorts of absolutes. I prefer to think more in terms of “too dirty for…” or “clean enough for…” For instance, if I had a sweater that smelled like downy fabric softener then I would say that it is date-clean because it carries with it the irresistible smell of domestication that drive women wild. That sweater would be considered “Clean enough for…wearing when entertaining female company.” Now afterwards would I set that sweater to be washed? Unless I spilled something stinky on it the answer would be no. That sweater would simply bump down to “clean enough for…grocery shopping” On the other end of the spectrum, if I could locate my jeans via smell then those pants are “too dirty for…any occasion.” Once an appropriate pile of clothing reaches this level then I spend the night before gathering it up into appropriate bags, pack a brown bag meal and get an early nights rest. Then the next morning I will gut a hare and read its entrails, if the gods favor my endeavor I will go to the Laundromat/spray tan emporium burdened with my loads of jeans, shirts, and unmentionables to spend my entire morning and at least thirty bucks to clean the bastiches. Later at home I will go home queue up the Godfather trilogy and iron and fold and stuff and hang all my clothes until I am restocked with vestiges that are “clean enough for…six weeks.”

Most people don’t understand my DVD organization either. Like a hipster with vinyl records or a survivalist with submachine guns, maintain a large and growing collection of movies and shows that I will either watch or simply put on while I do something else, like lay in a reclined position. But to most people they only see a jumble of four hundred or so flicks and boxes set in no discernable order. But if you where Russell Crowe from A Beautiful Mind (also in the collection) and you stared at my shelves a pattern would emerge, and then you would explain to your imaginary friends that I have organized my movies by alphabetized genre and ranked in ascending order of kickass. That’s why I have Kung Fu Hustle to the right of Vera Drake, because I feel that they are both non-U.S. made art house comedies, the dry British humor gets eked out by the other movies regular and gratuitous face kicking.

Another example of how I try to streamline my life is with my dishes. If you where to look into my cupboard you would find out two things about me; one, I don’t own any dishes or glass with print or graphics on them. And two, I only own two dinner plates. What you would find is a full assortment of restaurant quality Rocks tumblers, shot glasses, pub pints, pilsners, wide bowled stemware, Collins highballs, and Martini glasses. This works out because most of the people that come to my place aren’t there to eat but rather to wet the appetite for more serious alcoholism later. I don’t really need all the accruements of a normal kitchen because one can simply eat take out Chinese food with the supplied silverware. The only downside to this is that I have actually been caught by the neighbors drinking milk out of a brandy snifter.

While my organizational talents don’t lend themselves well when it comes to evening planning I do feel I have a solid skill set that serves the bachelor well. A few more years of study and I will be able to write the definitive treatise on the subject. I will call it The World As Explained By Ebner: A Survival Guide for the Single Guy. Other books may try to give advice on seducing women, mine will focus on how to best redirect a bachelors remaining four percent of brain capacity to optimize their living conditions.

Now if only I could only organize my thoughts.