Really you?

[muckefuck]

People just want to be remembered. Of course, if you asked us what we wanted, I'm sure we'd all say "love" and "respect". But we recognise that those are in short supply sometimes--particularly when you're looking for them. So when it comes to what we're willing to settle for, it can be as simple as just someone knowing your name.

This was the theme of my weekend. My cocktails were an unexpected success. I beat a couple bushes, but mostly people came to me. One of these was Martian Boy, who's moved back home to Indiana after the better part of a decade on the East Coast. Diego, his ex, was also expected at the gathering. I didn't think there'd be a problem there, and I was right. They've both recently come out of LTRs. I don't think that mattered much for Diego, who's always been able to maintain good relations with exes, but it may have helped MB's perspective that his dream husband turned out to be a complete dickhead.

This all came out in, of all places, the back bar at Touché's when I ran into a long-lost coworker who I first met through Diego. (I asked for his phone number, and when I supplied his surname without prompting his response was, "I can't believe you remember that!") He'd been singing his praises for a few minutes before I pointed out, "By the way, this is his ex." When the man himself finally arrived, the mutual friend was like, "We've been saying such nice things about you I feel like we should be tearing you down now."

Earlier, in the kitchen, I told the stories of my first meeting with each of them. Diego lived across the hall from monshu, but we didn't actually speak until I ran into him at a restaurant dining with a mutual acquaintance (who neither of us keeps up any longer). Some time later, I knocked on his door to find him for some reason and Martian Boy answered it wearing nothing but longjohn bottoms. (I remember a brief moment of mutually checking-out; he professes not to.)

I probably couldn't tell you ten things about MB despite nominally knowing him for years. But recalling that incident was enough for him to praise my memory effusively at the bar later. The trigger was running into another old acquaintance, this one a rare visitor to Touché. In fact, he claimed that the last time he'd been there was the last time he'd seen me, and that was roughly a year ago. We'd hung out in the hallway chatting for a while. He'd told me all about his amazing scrotum, which could be wound around several times.

So naturally the first thing I said when I saw him was, "HELICOPTER BALLS!" He feigned embarrassment, but under it he was gratified. Then I told MB the story about how I'd first met him: in the same bar, wearing a "FREE HUGS" t-shirt. I'd taken him up on his offer, then experienced a moment of awkwardness as it became clear that I wasn't quite his target audience. As he left, he said, "See you again a year from now." Before he went, I asked him for his given name and I'm determined to remember it for the next time.

All of these little occurrences returned to my mind on Sunday evening as I watched Ayoade's adaptation of The Double with Jesse Eisenberg. Eisenberg's character is too meek to claim the love and respect he deeply craves. All he really wants is recognition on the most basic level: for someone to know his name and his face and recall them spontaneously. And when even that is denied him, he has a complete breakdown.

I worry about some of these men, that they're never far from that themselves. Whenever I haven't seen one of them for a while, dark thoughts cross my mind. But Saturday wasn't like that. The bar was filled with familiar faces; we went over en masse and held together surprisingly well over the course of the evening. It was a little victory against the forces of entropy and forgetfulness.