Sean Beaudoin is one crafty son-of-a-goat. He comes at you like “Hi, my name is Sean,” but it’s spelled S-e-a-n, which we all know should be pronounced Seeeeen, and then he’s all like, “My last name is Bwadowuhoin,” and it’s all like French or something, and you’re confused–is he like a voodoo priest or just really adept at making beignets or what?–and while you’re puzzling this out, he’s probably carrying on in a very clever manner about his very clever books like You Killed Wesley Payne and Wise Young Fool, leaving you weak-kneed and gullible.
Gah, who knows, he’s got me all mixed-up inside, the beautiful bastard. Let’s try this anyway.
Just who do you think you are?
Not nearly enough. Not big enough. Not famous enough. Hardly worshipped, except in certain undesirable municipalities. Barely smart enough, with the exception of geography or movie trivia. So un-Godlike it hurts, unless your bible is a pile of napkins with non-sequiturs written in lipstick. A better question is “Do you think?” The answer is “Not really, I’m sort of quick-twitch reactive.” Which, you know, explains the 3-to-5 I did in Leavenworth.
I saw the movie Wall Street with this guy named Mike who I barely knew. There’s a part where Charlie Sheen steps out on the balcony of his expensive Manhattan apartment, looks down at the masses teeming in the streets below, and asks himself “Who am I?” Me and Mike burst out laughing at the same time. No one else in the theater did. A bunch of people turned around and gave us dirty looks. I knew then that Mike and I would become best friends. I was right. So that’s who I am. Right.
Where do you get off?
Usually at the intersection of vodka and Ambien. But sometimes downtown by the bus station where I spend my afternoons communing with various runaways, beat preachers, and slam poets.
From what I hear, it’s String Theory. Which is about the omniverse or something. Multiple dimensions, endless realities, a refutation of the Big Bang. Which, frankly, is one quantum mechanic above my pay grade. Is it better to have a single big idea a thousand small ones? I should probably write bumper stickers. Or inspirational quotes for posters of cats wearing unusual costumes. The medium-sized idea is to get through life while causing the least harm. Also, tipping well. If you knew what I was capable of, you’d be asking smaller questions. And doing it more gently.
What is your problem, man?
They are vast. They are multitudinous. They are beyond compare or enumeration. I am a total mess. Which, if you read any of my books, should be readily apparent by sentence two.
Haven’t you done enough?
Nope. I need to win an Emmy and a Tony. Then become a Cartesian scholar. I need to trek to Nepal, tube the Ganges, ford the fjords, un-can some frijoles, hit .226 or higher in triple-A ball, ride the Sharknado, plumb the depths of an enemy’s soul, raise the roof in a Brooklyn squat, stop time, winter in Aspen, whisper to peacocks, get my doula’s certificate, uncork a prizewinning Beaujolais, solve crime, play bass for Motorhead, publish a chapbook of haiku, husband a wife, splice an heirloom, dominate the red carpet, own the paint, pen a ditty, sail the Cape of Good Hope, found Scientology II, befriend Phillip Roth, beat a paparazzi senseless with a stale baguette, be seen lunching with a model named Bijou, read Madame Bovary, become NASCAR’s overall points leader, hole a clutch putt, and eat my weight in artisinal bacon.