Eater X, "Papa," And Late Night Television's Crap-Hawking Kevin Trudeau

I met up with Eater X on Sunday at a coffee shop in SoHo, where Eater X ordered water because he doesn't drink coffee or soft drinks with caffeine or sugar in them. It was supposed to be an intervention at which we were to discuss his bizarre behavior, but I was the only one of his friends who'd made it out of bed that morning. Each of them was hungover.

"Good God, this water sucks!" Eater X cried upon taking his first sip from the contoured 10-oz. glass placed in front of him by the waitress. "I hate water. It doesn't taste like anything!"

I'd heard this complaint before and, frankly, had grown quite tired of it. He's a grown man, 29 years old. He doesn't need to whine about water. "So then put some sugar into it," I suggested impatiently.

Eater X looked at me as if I were crazy. "Have you seen my teeth?" he said, and then he opened his mouth up wide so that I could have a closer look at them. "They're terrible. They're falling apart. Sugar will only hasten their departure."

"So then use some fucking Splenda!" I snapped, and I threw a couple of yellow packets in his face.

It was early, I was tense, and I was frustrated that I was the only one who'd shown up for the meeting. I made the decision right then to postpone the intervention and to my eat my breakfast as quickly as I could and leave.

When Eater X had finally created what he deemed a "potable" sugar-free beverage, he pulled out a book from his jacket pocket and began to read aloud. "Ssh. Ssh," he said. "Listen to this.

"Pedro Romero had the greatness. He loved bull-fighting, and I think he loved the bulls, and I think he loved Brett. Everything of which he could control the locality he did in front of her all that afternoon. Never once did he look up. He made it stronger that way, and did it for himself, too, as well as for her. Because he did not look up to ask if it pleased he did it all for himself inside, and it strengthened him, and yet he did it for her, too. But he did not do it for her at any loss to himself. He gained by it all through the afternoon."

Eater X closed the book and placed it on the table and looked with at me with satisfied smile on his face. "So? What do you think?" he asked.

I looked at him for a second in disbelief and pulled out a book from my jacket pocket and placed it on the table in front of me. It was the first book in Kevin Trudeau's series of MEGA MEMORY books, and I'd been studying it for weeks. "Honestly? I don't know what you're talking about," I told him. "But because of this book," and I pointed to mine, "which has helped me to unlock the full power of my memory, I can repeat to you exactly what you just read."

I started to recite the passage he'd read, but Eater X raised his hand to stop me. "You know how I loathe Eaters of Fortune?" he asked.

Eaters of Fortune is the derogatory term Eater X has given to those eaters who care primarily about money and fame. He eats--and he'll poke you hard with his index finger as he tells you--"for honor and pride and for love of the game."

"Of course, I do," I said. "You've made it abundantly clear."

"Well, lately I've been conflicted because I've found myself eating for reasons that I can't quite accept with a clear conscience." He looked at me intently as he finished his sentence, and I couldn't help but ask the question his admission was prompting.

"And what are those reasons?" I said.

"Eating as art. Eating as war. And eating to share my art with those around me that I love." He sat back in his chair. "I wondered at first if those three things cheapened my purpose. I wondered if they brought me down to the level of the Eaters of Fortune. I was worried because I always thought that Purpose had a finite number of units and that I had allocated every one of those units to Honor and Pride and Love of the Game. I thought that if I introduced a new purpose into my life, I'd subtract units from the purposes I've always cared so much about."

Eater X paused, and I nodded for him to continue.

"I see now that as long as I love what I do, and as long as I do it for myself first, I can do it for my own Lady Brett, too, whoever or whatever she is--because she doesn't have to be real or even human--and it can strengthen me, just like it did for Pedro Romero."

I stood up and slapped my hand on the table and released a $10 bill to cover the cost of my juice and cereal. "I'm glad to see that you're not crazy," I said sarcastically. And I turned and walked out.

P.S. Cheers to the guy or girl who attached to my last post a link to the video of an exploding whale. Fantastic Fuck-it, Cold War logic on the part of Oregon's beach officials, who apparently, after much deliberation, threw their arms in the air and said, "Hey, you know what? Let's just blow it up." Whoever posted that link deserves something very special in return, like this video of a chimp attacking a primatologist. I'd share it with Eater X, but I'm afraid he'd fault the primatologist's strategy, whip out a telestrator, and then attempt to "break it down on film" for me. I can hear him now: "Fie, fie contemptible fool..."