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passed into the annals of history, if “annals” means what I think it does. I told Sam Hellerman about I Hate This Jar. He was visibly shaken, but he knew better than to fight me on a band name. On the plus side, I noted, we could still use the Encyclopedia Satanica logo, so all those hours spent on perfecting its illegibility would not have been in vain. So Sam Hellerman agreed in the end but recommended that we not tell Shinefield about the new band name till later in the day when he was good and stoned and more likely to take it in good humor. Shinefield was an agreeable sort of guy about almost everything, but we both had a feeling he wouldn’t have an easy time understanding I Hate This Jar.

REMAINING ALOOF
    I expected more discussion, but Sam Hellerman, to my surprise, simply sniffed and put his headphones back on. He was no longer taking notes but rather staring off into space, bizarre expressions animating his face one after the other. And he had just been complaining about
my
face! What a hypocrite.
    Sometimes I don’t know what to make of Sam Hellerman.
    I mean, you know the type of person I’m talking about? He may seem like he’s not much of a friend sometimes. He may kid around a bit and even cross the line occasionally, not caring all that much about the consequences or who happens to get hurt. His motives may not always be noble: in fact, they rarely are. And sometimes he can just be a total bastard for no reason whatsoever. Nevertheless, you know that when the chips are down he’ll be there to back you up, that deep down he’s a pretty good guy with something approaching a heart of gold. And somehow, coming from him, after all you’ve been through together, having any heart at all seems to mean more. And you have to admit, life is certainly a lot more interesting with him around. You blink in amazement at the surprising realization that in the end he turned out to be a pretty good friend.
    Well, Sam Hellerman is nothing at all like that. I mean, are you kidding? Sometimes I think he might be pure evil. I’m joking. Sam Hellerman’s a great guy, really, greater than the sum of his parts, whatever the hell they may be.
    Figuring he must have some reason for doing what he was doing, and that chances are it would turn out to be interesting in some way, I tried to be patient. But just sitting there next to him in silence while he listened to his tape and contorted his face was eventually too much of a strain. After what seemedlike two and a quarter centuries of trying to make my own face communicate something along the lines of “What the hell are you doing, Hellerman?” I finally resorted to the spoken word, much as I hated to do it:
    “The fuck, Hellerman?”
    Sam Hellerman, possibly the last person on earth, and certainly the only person under, like, forty, who still winces at an occasional “the fuck,” winced. You’d think he’d be used to it, coming from me, and just about everyone, but Sam Hellerman is a man of tender and unusual sensibilities.
    I resisted the urge to pat him on the head.
    “This is known as remaining aloof,” said Sam Hellerman, his tone implying that a little more aloofness on my part wouldn’t go to waste if I knew what was good for me.
    The thing we were remaining aloof from, if you haven’t guessed, and as I should have realized, and as I soon discovered when I scanned the horizon for things it might be plausible for us to be remaining aloof from—this thing was a girl. I’m sure you guessed, though. Remaining aloof from anything less important than that wouldn’t be worth mentioning.
    The girl was seated on this low wall in front of the 7-Eleven across the street from our bus stop, sucking her Slurpee and kicking her legs, obviously waiting for someone to come along who just as obviously wasn’t us. Bare legs. Little boots. Ski jacket with fuzzy hood because of the California chill, but with a short jeans skirt too. Warm on top, freezing her ass off on the