Emerz Lights Out For The Territory, My Place

Anna Faris leaves the Playboy Mansion, and settles down in a loose, closer-to-life version of the reality she has just escaped. Isn't that what we want? To become our best selves? Somewhere between the glossy and the grimy? Between Saturday night and Sunday morning? Say, Saturday at 10:35? When the momentum is palpable but not yet the scraping undertow it will soon become? Emerz fixes me a vodka and wheat grass. Its called a lawnmower, says Emerz, pulling tight the belt of his robe. Emerz refuses to manage his dreams in this way. Emerz invests in Powerball tickets and Valtrex, in eHarmony and bomb shelters. The grip of home, that at once critical and forgiving place, the place we run towards and hide from, is squarely in Emerz' rear view mirror. Who knows how long the gas cards will work? So we're at my place. Emerz looks around. Sniffs. We watch The House Bunny, eat Papa Johns, fight over the last jalapeno. Rumer Willis wears a back brace, but still manages to show off her burgeoning chest. The lead singer of The All-American Rejects courts the black-eyed girl from Superbad. Katherine McPhee wears a prosthetic pregnant belly. Has anyone seen Sydney White? I mean, besides the writers of The House Bunny? Anna Faris/Amanda Bynes cage match, says Emerz. His breathing quickens slightly. We discuss our own Greek lives. Emerz' frat got thrown off campus, mostly because they let him in. I left mine after Mardi Gras was over and dues were due. I told Emerz about running into a few of my old brothers at a bar in a forgotten city I no longer call home. You're okay with us, McGrath, they said. Yeah, yeah. There was a chorus of yeahs. I noticed a recent Real World alum in the corner, chatting up someone who was drinking something I had just bought her. Yeah yeah, they said. We don't care what they say about you. They talk about me? I said. It was vaguely flattering even though I knew where it was headed. Oh yeah, they said. You're the warning, the alternative. The rest of the world. Like, if we're slacking on our push-ups. That's me, I say. The one who doesn't want it enough. Next to most naked people we see, the Playboy bunnies are relics, shiny statues with mindboggling birth dates and banal interests, unreasonable chests held up by sturdy forearms. Where's the gynecological details? Where's the degradation? Where's the cup? So now do we need The House Bunny? The feelgood story of an expelled Playmate who finds a slightly less judgmental place to live, with even less nudity? Playboy is 6:45 on a Tuesday, over at a friend's house across the street, working to look cool, working to cover your lap. The House Bunny is 2:45 on a Sunday, over at your grandparents, soup and sandwiches, oh now what is this says your grandmother, walking back in, mildly embarrassed, after fetching seconds.