Wednesday, Apr. 07, 2004 - 5:03 p.m.

2:10 p.m. As I inconspicuously maneuver my forearm so that I may steal a glimpse at my Cartier Tank watch I am filled with a mixture of elation and detachment. Seeing Cartier adorn my wrist always brings a smile to my face. Realizing that I�ve been listening to Duncan drone on and on about the downs and further downs of his life for one hour and forty minutes has lulled me in a hypnotic state of tedium.

2:21 p.m. Lunching with Duncan, I fear, has become a test of endurance. A test I am miserably failing. Or rather a test I am about to flunk.

2:22 p.m. Duncan finally takes breath and a sip of his Diet Coke and asks, "So, I�m right, right?" I�m thinking, "Huh?" but make better use of my time by raking my brain as to what he is talking about. Is he still rambling about the way he was treated by the outpatient receptionist on his last visit to Kaiser or did he backtrack to his riveting story of being overcharged at McDonalds? Unfortunately, I waited too long and Duncan questions, "What?" "Nothing," I said. "Well, what�s that look for," he asks.

2:24 p.m. Feeling the pressure I merely suggest, "It�s just I know how oversensitive you can be." Duncan takes a lengthy and overly dramatic pause, obviously collecting his wits, before spewing, " I�m not oversensitive. I�m sensitive. Oversensitive implies that I�m too sensitive. I�m not too sensitive. I�m merely sensitive. However, one who�s sensitive only appears to be oversensitive to someone who is insensitive." I should have seen this coming and attempt to smooth Duncan�s ego with a sympathetic, "You�re right, I�m sorry."

2:25 p.m. As if out of nowhere Duncan retorts, "I just don�t like wearing nice things. When I spill crap on �em I feel like a slob. That�s not being oversensitive." So that�s what he was talking about and wondered were my mind was during that diatribe. Regardless, I am unable to muster the energy to placate Duncan and his bitchy huff, throwing wood on the fire, I tell him, "You�re right. That�s not being oversensitive that�s being neurotic." Looking like he is about to spasm, Duncan standing ground, left shoulder forward right shoulder back, hands on hips, asks, "You didn�t just say that? You didn�t just go there?"

2:31 p.m. Thinking a quick slit of the throat is kinder than a long dragged out blood letting I charitably respond, "Don�t be a fag, Duncan." As I throw a twenty atop the bill and get up to leave he hits me with, "Garloo, you are a rude man." "Duh," I say and head towards the door. Outraged, Duncan calls after me, "Where do you think you�re going. Come back here. Garloo, come back. I�m not finished with you yet." Magic words. Bingo. Ding ding ding. I slowly stop in my tracks, turning until I make eye contact with Duncan. "Excuse me. You�re not finished with me yet?" I said with a voice of anger mingled with contempt and continued with, "You didn�t just say that, did you? You didn�t just go there, did you? Because if you did, have the arrogant audacity, to say that and you did go there after I�ve been sitting across from you for the past two hours listening to you moan and groan and whine about your brokenhearted, dejected, colorless, pitiably, woebegone life expecting me to be willingly immersed in your grief and sorrow without even the hint of asking me about me then, Dude, you got bigger problems than me calling you neurotic."

2:33 p.m. Once again heading for the door, I toss over my shoulder, "Grow up Duncan. At least try it. You may like it." And I�m gone.

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