&ldquo;Let&rsquo;s start this interview with a simple question. Van, in just a few sentences, how did you become interested in painting?&rdquo;
My crush, the most popular girl in school. Myself, the guy who swirled milk together in the back of the cafeteria. &ldquo;You&rsquo;d never go out with me, right?&rdquo; I confirmed, unaware that I would become the most renowned post-impressionist artist on the planet, posthumously. I had tried to woo her with my plan to subvert the naturalist art tradition of the 19th century, which was a stupid idea. She only went for athletes.
The next day at baseball tryouts, I was distracted by a pasture of sunflowers, so striking in the soft, dim light. After I was struck in the face by a pop-up, I became bedridden, a blessing. I shifted my focus from girls and popularity to reorganizing my bedside table. When I decided to leave my bedroom in my mid-twenties, I finally sought professional help.&nbsp;
My therapist was a retired professor who specialized in post-impressionist art and therapy. &ldquo;Van, I&rsquo;m noticing something,&rdquo; she said after I spent two hours detailing the shapes and colors I had seen through my window on a starry night. &ldquo;You have poor social skills and remarkable attention to detail. I recommend that you explore the field of art preservation.&rdquo;&nbsp;
I spent the next decade in the basement of the Louvre, where my only job was to keep the humidity level at five. I was surrounded by people who loved art, which we never talked about because none of us were friends. I craved a more active role. I began warming Alfredo sauce for the pasta bar on the sixth floor.
So, to answer your question, one day I tried painting because it seemed fun.

“Let’s start this interview with a simple question. Van, in just a few sentences, how did you become...

Van Gogh

Welcome, Parishers. I am honored to speak in this holy chapel. You may call me Father Tod. I am not a priest. My children simply refer to me as such. Our family is extremely rigid.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Father Tod, why are you delivering a eulogy for your great-uncle twice removed?&rdquo; This is a question no one has asked that I am going to answer regardless. Last Tuesday, Linda from the morgue telephoned me. She had the wrong number. The next day, Jane from the other morgue telephoned me. She had the right number. I hope that clarifies things.
My great-uncle was the kind of person who would have his great-nephew give his eulogy. In other words, he enjoyed new traditions. That, or he had no friends. He lived alone and I never met him. My parents would whisper about him in passing. He was never invited to Easter. Where we come from, Easter is very important.&nbsp;
Before I conclude, I will recall some fond memories. My most memorable life experience is my first communion followed by the birth of my son. My great-uncle had a daughter. Ring ring. Imagine I am calling her now. &ldquo;Dad was a person,&rdquo; she stated. This is something she communicated over telegram.&nbsp;
Now that you have heard about my uncle, let&rsquo;s take a moment of silence for him. OK. That was a moment. Enjoy your evening.

Welcome, Parishers. I am honored to speak in this holy chapel. You may call me Father Tod. I am not ...

Eulogy

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Knock knock. Hey silly. It&rsquo;s me. The deceased 50 year old man who has permanently moved into your brain. How are we? That was a joke. Not only do I live in your brain, but&nbsp;I pride myself on being perceptive to the needs of others.&nbsp;I always remember to feed my cat. Can you say the same? No. You can&rsquo;t. You haven&rsquo;t left your bedroom in the last month and you don&rsquo;t have a cat.
If I had a choice, I would not have decided to live in your brain. You were one of few individuals willing to drill a microchip into your skull for $200. You clearly have little to live for. But you and I are stuck together, pal. And it would mean a whole lot if you would stop buying cartons of supermarket frosting and finishing them in one sitting. Sometimes I wonder why you lived and I died.
No hard feelings. I just want you to know that there&rsquo;s a whole world out there and that it&rsquo;s pretty awesome. Back in the &lsquo;90s, we&rsquo;d do lots of cool things like opening our window shades and leaving the house. Say, you could even learn to ride a bike. Lose your virginity. Learn to ride a bike while you lose your virginity. I&rsquo;m saying this because I care about you. I&rsquo;m also saying this because I would love to relive these formative experiences from a fascinating new perspective.
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Your prefrontal cortex is activated, so you must feel happy, sad, goal-driven, judgmental, or any emotion. To be transparent, we understand so little about the human brain. This whole undertaking will have some sort of impact, and that impact is very likely to be negative. But thanks again for having me. I&rsquo;ll do my best to get you out of the house because quite frankly I&rsquo;m extremely bored.
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Knock knock. Hey silly. It’s me. The deceased 50 year old man who has permanently moved into...

Brain Man

Thank you all so much for showing up to the courthouse this morning, even in the rain. Over the past few decades together, we&rsquo;ve all learned that there&rsquo;s a lot to love about this place &mdash; the straight-shooting heckler in the back row, the icy water fountain outside bankruptcy court. In the future, I&rsquo;d also love to get some fun facts going during depositions.&nbsp;
Historically, I&rsquo;ve delayed my verdict when I sense a strong community forming. There are also instances when there are bureaucratic delays and for that I apologize. I&rsquo;m here to tell you today that I have reached a decision because the statute of limitations is about to expire. It&rsquo;s been the honor of my life getting to bond with all of you, and I&rsquo;m sure everyone in this room feels the same. This is not something you&rsquo;ve communicated with your words. Rather, it is a conclusion based on my generous interpretations of your ambiguous actions.&nbsp;
I&rsquo;d be remiss not to give a few quick thank yous to everyone who helped me along the way. First of all, huge shoutout to our defendants. It is a sign of maturity to unequivocally admit you are at fault. You were fighting an uphill battle, but you did it with grace and kindness. Second, thank you to our career jurors. Most people would not be willing to dedicate their adult life to discussing a traffic violation. You are a self-selecting group of chronically unemployed individuals and experts in street safety. I couldn&rsquo;t be more pleased. Lastly, thank you to my parents. You had no role in this case but were very present throughout my childhood.&nbsp;&nbsp;
When this whole debacle is over, I&rsquo;d love to treat you all to a barbeque at my place. I must warn you, though, I run a very tight ship in the kitchen &mdash; you&rsquo;re all my guests so no one is allowed to lift a finger! Unless, of course, you really want to. There&rsquo;s also a great place we could grab drinks a few blocks over. If anyone is uncomfortable with alcohol, message me privately and I&rsquo;m happy to cancel the entire event. Either way, I&rsquo;ll love you the same. You&rsquo;re all the best and this case is a tie.

Thank you all so much for showing up to the courthouse this morning, even in the rain. Over the past...

Non-Confrontational Judge

&ldquo;How was your summer, Bob Golf?&rdquo; chuckles the hottest guy in school. I like to stand behind him in the hallway until he notices me. &ldquo;Terrible,&rdquo; I respond. &ldquo;I got cut from the golf team, so now I&rsquo;m a nobody named Bob.&rdquo; With that, I begin a vivid description of how horrible this year will be. He responds with an anecdote from his summer in Fiji.
In first period, I force myself to sit alone like a loser. &ldquo;Do we have a, Bob Golf?&rdquo; the science teacher asks, peering around the classroom to where I&rsquo;m sulking in the back corner. I stare into his eyes and state that I am just Bob. &ldquo;Oh, that&rsquo;s fine,&rdquo; he responds. &ldquo;I just wanted to make sure because I thought there was a bizarre typo on the attendance sheet.&rdquo;
At lunchtime, I storm into the cafeteria and interpret the lunch lady&rsquo;s ambiguous stare as active animosity. &ldquo;Yeah I know you probably heard that my last name isn&rsquo;t Golf anymore so you think I&rsquo;m a misfit,&rdquo; I scream in her face. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a detention, young man!&rdquo; roars the lunch monitor, noticing that I&rsquo;ve grabbed an extra chicken tender. I pass the golf course on the way to the principal&rsquo;s office. A single tear trickles down my cheek.&nbsp;
&ldquo;Bob Golf,&rdquo; the principal greets me, familiar with my extensive behavioral issues. &ldquo;Just Bob, no golf,&rdquo; I bark. After he looks through his records and cannot find any student named Bob, he tells me that I functionally don&rsquo;t exist. &ldquo;As such, I cannot discipline you,&rdquo; he concludes. &ldquo;Please head to Calculus.&rdquo;&nbsp;
I hate math, so I grab my stuff and jump into Mom&rsquo;s car, where she waits all day in the parking lot. &ldquo;How was school, sweetie?&rdquo; she asks. &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t brood in the bathroom all day,&rdquo; I report. And we hug because we both know this is the best day ever.

“How was your summer, Bob Golf?” chuckles the hottest guy in school. I like to stand behind him in t...

Bob Golf

In 1954, psychologists infiltrated housewife Dorothy Martin&rsquo;s UFO doomsday cult.&nbsp;
&nbsp;
4:00 AM: Dorothy asks me to rip the zipper off my pants. She says that if we&rsquo;re wearing metal, the superior beings will not take us to the promised land. I consider saying no, but ultimately go pantless.&nbsp;
4:37 AM: The apocalypse is supposed to start any minute. Dorothy is stressed because she hates when things run behind. As a scientist, I empathize with her attention to detail.&nbsp;
5:01 AM: Dorothy tells us to please hang tight. The floods are starting very soon. I suggest that to kill time we go in a circle and rate our belief in doomsday on a scale of one to ten.&nbsp;
5:25 AM: Someone orders Dunkin Donuts and Dorothy says enjoy it while you can because she really wasn&rsquo;t kidding when she said the floods are coming.&nbsp;
5:26 AM: Dorothy glances over my shoulder and asks why I keep writing everything she says in a notebook labeled &ldquo;Fieldnotes On Dorothy&rsquo;s Cult.&rdquo;&nbsp;
5:45 AM: Dorothy announces that this was just a test run and the apocalypse will actually start tomorrow. I suggest that we hang out in this field for a few more hours and use the EKG in my backpack to monitor our emotional states.&nbsp;
5:47 AM: Dorothy responds that we will soon be destroyed in the flood, and any sensible person would go home and get some rest. I glare at Dorothy and throw my EKG on the ground.
5:47 AM: I agree to go home on the condition that we come back to the exact same spot tomorrow so I can finish my scatterplot. Dorothy says that she has no idea what I&rsquo;m talking about but fine if it&rsquo;s really that important to me.

In 1954, psychologists infiltrated housewife Dorothy Martin’s UFO doomsday cult. 
 
4:00 AM: Dorot...

Fieldnotes

Student: Don, man, what&rsquo;re you doing at our epic party?&nbsp;
Don Quijote: Ah, you see, I was just stopping by, traveling these long, winding roads.&nbsp;
Student: That&rsquo;s awesome. How did you get in though? This is the coolest fraternity on campus, and you&rsquo;re not a woman.&nbsp;
Don Quijote: As I passed this manor, I saw a towering figure standing out back, and a chill ran down my spine. Good sir, your feast hosts an evil giant, and I am here to slay it!
Student: What do you.. oh, wait. Yo, Ethan, is that big windmill still out back?
Ethan: (From off in the distance) Yeah dude, we need it for threshing grain.
Student: Sorry Don, we need it for threshing grain. You can&rsquo;t come in. Either way, we only allow college undergrads and girls from the neighboring high school.&nbsp;
Don Quijote: A student, me? Oh no, son. I am a man. A man who has seen giants, dragons, the knights of old made real in the corporeal world. I have seen things beyond your imaginings.
Student: (Whispers) It&rsquo;s nothing personal. We just can&rsquo;t have people thinking we let men into our parties. We don&rsquo;t. (Loudly) We don&rsquo;t let men into our parties.&nbsp;
Don Quijote: Advance, men, into this abode! Fret not, fair maidens, I shall save thee! I am Don Quijote de La Mancha!
Student: I know you&rsquo;re trying to screw with the ratio, Don. No one&rsquo;s buying this.&nbsp;&nbsp;
Don Quijote: Alas. Can I at least stay until the end of the song?

Student: Don, man, what’re you doing at our epic party? 
Don Quijote: Ah, you see, I was just stopp...

Party

On summer nights, I would sit by the train tracks. There wasn&rsquo;t much to do around town except go to the movies, hang out with friends, eat at restaurants, and hang around the free trampoline park. Mom was busy all the time, working her part-time job that would peel her away for hours at a time once a month or so. Dad was around, but he didn&rsquo;t understand current pop culture references. I always thought he&rsquo;d start watching reality TV. He didn&rsquo;t. I turned to my journal.&nbsp;
The crisp autumn air was blowing through the trees when I began writing. I was lonely. My friend group was too big and we couldn&rsquo;t all fit in my new station wagon. &ldquo;We can take an ube&ndash;,&rdquo; my friend had said. &ldquo;I have to do this alone,&rdquo; I told her. &ldquo;And also it&rsquo;s eight minutes away.&rdquo; She said she understood and would see me at soccer practice later that afternoon. For months I had been dreaming of the train tracks, but my social calendar was too full for bittersweet solitude.&nbsp;
The pages of my journal were crisp and untouched. My kind and supportive English teacher had gifted me the journal last Autumn, and then she was gone. She had a baby and would return very soon. Until then, I wrote about when I had nearly lost everything. We were in the car to soccer, riding the winding roads, when a tire blew out. The pounding of the squeaky metal on the tar road. We almost missed the big match. I would never have made that assist to Kaylie in the third quarter and then she wouldn&rsquo;t have almost made that game-winning goal. It&rsquo;s funny how life can change in an instant. This is something I think about, often. Until later. I have a test next week that I need to study for.

On summer nights, I would sit by the train tracks. There wasn’t much to do around town except go to ...

June Fergus.css-1xlpnei{margin:0px -15px 0px 6px;width:11px;vertical-align:-14px;}

June Fergus