My mother believes in God on a part-time basis, but her real religion is watching the news. It’s the morning and People magazine announces John Krasinski as the world’s sexiest man. My mother declares John Krasinski is no George Clooney — his nose is too big.
My mother’s aesthetic judgments are casually cruel, dispensed with the frequency of oxygen. I am not in the habit of discussing male pulchritude with the woman I came out of, so I’m mildly surprised when my mother solicits my opinion.
“Do you think he’s sexy?” she demands of me.
“He’s a person,” I say, “not a piece of garbage.”
The truth is, I don’t care about Krasinski’s feelings. I’m the kind of person who likes to leverage moral superiority, especially with my mother. Krasinski will always be Jim Halpert, but these days, he’s ubiquitous in a Rogers commercial, dancing to a Taylor Swift song.
Against expectation, my mother actually thinks what I’ve said is funny. As a parasite with two art degrees, moving back home, for all its upsides, comes with certain caveats that a friend of mine calls ‘emotional rent.’ There is familiarity in being observed, judged and chastised. Every day, I fear regressing into my teenage self.
I like my parents best when they’re asleep. My mother is a light sleeper, my father a heavy snorer. When they’re asleep, their opinions are kept to themselves. When they’re awake, their mortality is undeniable. My mother forgets Obama’s name. My father uses a foot massager. If my parents were unceremoniously beheaded trees, they might show more rings than you’d imagine.
Once it’s past midnight, I’m either writing or feeling guilty about not writing, feeling guilty about not being conspicuously successful — it goes on and on.
There are many nights I capitulate to rewatching Veronica Mars, which I initially began watching because I am madly in love with Kyle Gallner. My mother, I’m sure, would say he’s no Clooney.
Visually, Kyle Gallner embodies a hot dairy farmer. Kyle is married and has two sons. His wife is gorgeous — I am not and that is okay. I’m not ready for romance in real life, not without endangering amounts of tequila, which I’ve sworn off anyway. Sometimes you just want to suck on a lime, but you need a reason.
Kyle makes an appearance in Veronica Mars during episode 22 of the first season. He plays Cassidy Casablancas, who bears the unfortunate nickname of Beaver, a cherubic and clean-shaven, socially awkward math whiz. Everything about Beaver says, “I needed a hug yesterday.” Kyle has a knack for emotionally complex roles that make it easy for me to imagine I have dated several men, all with the same face and invariably with terrible childhoods.
I’m convinced Kyle would help a stranger in need, rather than succumb to the bystander effect. I’m certain he puts grocery carts back where they belong. He asks questions and cares about the answers. He would tell me I’m pretty when I haven’t showered in two days and mean it. I would tell him he should be a Carhartt model and he would blush. Together, we’d watch factory farming documentaries and become vegan, only to regretfully relapse over a grass-fed bison burger. None of this takes much imagination; it happens without me trying.
When it comes to my actual love life, my only certainty is that it should remain nonexistent. It’s safer to imagine being the beloved side piece of a married, Pennsylvania-born actor boyfriend, who once played an anguished boy named Beaver on Veronica Mars. There is safety in fiction. I care a great deal for safety, so fiction it is.
As my youth steadily declines, I’ve still never seen the entire filmography of any actor, which seems like a major shortcoming. Now it’s my life’s work to watch everything Kyle’s ever been in. Being a completionist takes time and I am easily distracted. But now, I am thoroughly committed.
I create a Substack blog documenting my progress on watching Kyle’s filmography. With amusement and pity, two friends subscribe. It’s relieving to have a project that feels both urgent and inessential at the same time. I painstakingly take screenshots. I write amusing captions. Then I get subscribers with suspicious Yahoo email addresses that have no fewer than eight numbers (spam sexbots, probably). I put the newsletter on a moratorium.
I had imagined someday nonchalantly showing Kyle my blog, as if to say, “Observe my totally healthy stanning and please understand I am extremely open to being your memoir ghostwriter, dog walker or you know, whatever you want.” My fandom shows no sign of being taken down a notch.
I consider whether my admiration for Kyle merits psychological intervention, glance at my chequing account and decide it does not. Maybe a therapist would commend me for finding such frugal ways to momentarily escape reality.
My stomach growls. Dinner was so long ago. I don’t even want to know what time it is — it’s either ridiculously late or ungodly early. I pause the episode of Veronica Mars.
At this rate, I have no idea how many I’ve watched. Too many and not enough. There is a future and its name is monosodium glutamate in a pack of instant noodles that are beef-flavoured but, upon inspection of the ingredients, surprisingly vegan. I watch the water boil with impatience. If instant noodles asked me to sign a prenup, I would.
The noodles are ready. I dig in. “Just one more episode” — a lie I tell myself. The noodles are glorious, like if heaven were a dive bar. MSG, how I love thee.
I pretend I am the only person awake in the world, or at least the only one rewatching Veronica Mars for Kyle Gallner. My dog, who deserves all the haiku in the world, is dreaming. I hear her make little yelps that sound like she’s chasing a ball. Sometimes I think what I really want is for Kyle to meet my dog.
When I can barely keep my eyes open, when I have saved several watermarked pictures of Kyle from Getty Images, when I have flossed and brushed my teeth, when I have replayed a sufficient number of unpleasant moments from high school, I finally go to bed. My mind is a patchwork quilt, partly sewn by actors that my mother would not find sexy, who will never know my name.
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