I was discussing the whole omnicient POV with my stepdad tonight, how it rings so freaking wimp ass FAKE if at first you choose the first person and then you switch to the third....because you suddenly lose your gumption, chutzpah or, let's be honest BALLS, to say it (whatever it is) that thing you intended to tell in the FIRST PERSON. If you suddenly reach down and find your pants empty of courage, sorry but you can't just, like, you know...switch. Because when you're the one inside looking out, so intimately, so closely knowing so much as you do in the FIRST PERSON and then suddenly you make yourself the puppeteer, commandeering the entire world, well, we, the viewer, your audience...we can FEEL it. It's just not that easy to back out of the close up and deep down.

So please don't be a wimp and switch. Stick to your perspective and have the courage to live it out that way. The way you saw it initially. (He's writing a play, a musical theater play - is that what you even call it? - a 'musical theater play' - it's a Broadway-y thing). Mom and I say he's the one with the gay gene because even my gay brother doesn't like 'Smash' nearly as much as he does. (I like 'Smash' don't you? It's good.)

I tried this recently. I wrote a shocking, E-Hollywood story type deal about my own life. It felt great. Cathartic. Beautiful. Kind of, well, I hate to admit, but damn well written and like nothing else I've read. Except maybe The Glass Castle. Is my head puffed up with vanity? I assure you it's not. It's just that not a lot of people can tell their tale and not hide their tail between their legs for the rest of their lives. And not that I'm comparing because I'm not. (F you, man, I never said I could sing. Never. But I always said I could write). So yeah, this whole raw confessional was, in the end...just...too...much. I sat there and read it, quietly, serenely, wishing for just one moment that I could be like Augusten Burroughs, that I could dare to be that daring. But I knew if I published it, or wrote the whole story, that no one would ever hire me again. I'd have to be rich before I could tell the tale. Fearlessness and foolishness are, perhaps, one and the same. I want to be fearless but I can't give up my anonymity and the love of my family for a story. Not even a gloriously crazy true one.

So that brings me to this: SAY SOMETHING. As much as you can. Say SOMETHING. Or just shut the f**k up. Nobody cares. Because you're boring. Vapid. Uninteresting. Why don't you stretch your soul as far as you can, Gumby doll. Stretch. Yearn. Be uncomfortable oh thee, yogi guru chaturanga dandasana, whale-donkey pose inventing (striking largesse combined with pure idiocy and innocent confession (this pose hasn't been invented yet because no one has been that brave in their soul openness as of this writing)...

Gumby, where are you? Faking poses? Soliciting the girls? I can't blame you. Why would you want to stretch that far? What's the point? You stretch too far one way, you're a Kardashian. You stretch the other way, you're a mythical artist of profound inspiration. But how do you know which way to bend?

What a world we live in.

In the interim, I'll be living in the first person as often as I dare. It's much tastier here. More flexible. Sweatier. And infinitely more spontaneous. As covered up and bullshi**ty as it is.

Love. And love you more. You're the best one. The bestest one. The beautifulest one.

What do you need to hear?

Chronicles of The Fur: The Ryan Years

PART ONE

The Beginning

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The ad read:

Share spacious penthouse in ideal Soho location with screenwriter. Great sunset views of lower Manhattan off expansive patio. FEMALE ONLY. Serious inquiries only. Contact Ryan at 212-000-0000.

Translation:

Spacious penthouse = decent sized top floor

Soho = the pimple on the buttcheek of Chinatown

Screenwriter = unemployed artist (parents pay rent)

Expansive patio = your standard no-frills roofdeck

Female only = sheer genius

Sheer genius? Yepper. That's a fact.

My brilliant, devious, strategic-minded, and incessantly girl crazy friend Ryan placed this ad in the Village Voice not because he was actually looking for a roommate. Not even close. He placed this ad for one reason and one reason only: to meet girls.

And this is how Ryan and I met. I was one of the many girls who fell prey to his tantalizing ad. After a great conversation with Ryan on the phone, I felt comfortable enough to go see the place. I brought a friend with me just in case he was a serial killer, of course.

After passing the flies, feral street cats and pungent fish stench that signifies the back end of Chinatown, the cab pulls up at this sparse institutional building on Grand Avenue. There's not much else around. I look at my friend and she shrugs back but I somehow still have hope.

The apartment itself is actually pretty cool. And Ryan is pretty cool. He offers me a drink. I take some coffee, ask to see the room. Somehow he evades this question for a bit. We end up laughing. For several hours - and for so long that my friend has to leave. And I feel strangely comfortable enough to let her go on her way. This Ryan character is funny as hell. He's trying out this Judy of Time Life fame headset he just bought off an infomercial so he can make calls hands-free. And he's talking like Judy now in a plasticky high-pitched voice, gesturing effeminately, the whole nine. Keep in mind, this is 1994 and we don't have cell phones. Or caller ID. Or any of that other stuff. We have answering machines. We have basic cable. Robin Byrd on Channel 35 is our late night free porn. And Time Life infomercial items are vastly entertaining.

We make small talk and then we make some big talk. About our career aspirations. He's a writer. I want to be an actress. Or something like that. But I'm a writer, too. I mean, that's what I went to school for – but who knows, I'm young, I have time to figure it all out.

So in the fairly large living room that does, in fact, have a pretty stunning view of the Statue of Liberty, Ryan has created a 'room' for the supposed roommate. It's your basic Crate and Barrel screen adorned with a Moroccan looking shawl and with a single bed tucked behind it. Is this a joke? I say as much. That's when he looks earnest, serious, and somewhat offended and says, "This is New York, Jessica. That's a decent space for someone."

There's a moment of silence while I stare at the makeshift room. We both stare. Then, like the punchline of a joke, I look at him with a face that says: "I call bullshit." This is a look that makes him laugh. And then really laugh. Clearly, at this point, we've bonded.

He suggests we grab drinks in the East Village. We hop a cab. The cabbie is Indian. Ryan whispers just loud enough for me to hear him mocking the poor guy in some crazy fake Indian accent, mumbling something about 'veddy much curry." I shush him but the laughter continues.

That night he teaches me the lure of dirty martinis and PEI mussels served in fancy copper pots by beautiful NYU students. He tells me about the woman he's seeing who's, sadly, in the middle of a divorce. Her name is Devora. He's in love. I ask him why she's getting a divorce. He just points at himself. I shake my head, "Homewrecker." And he says, "I'm doing her a favor."

From that day on, Ryan and I are inseparable. And my life will never be the same.