The B.F.L.

The following babble is cross posted at Burt Reynolds' Mustache.

In my modern life I hide behind a career in software and a love of guys with the last name Mario (especially if their first name also happens to be Mario)in hopes that I will exude a level of geeky-cool so complete that no one will ever suspect that I was once only steps away from a level of theater nerdiery so advanced that in high school I bemoaned my lack of access to a Renaissance fair. The truth is that in addition to my computer science degree I have a lesser known Theater Arts degree that I earned primarily through my brilliant portrayal of a French women who was into some freaky incest with her very own brother. College theater likes to push the envelope, often in the direction of really bad ideas. During my senior year in college I was involved in a couple of plays with my friends Amy and Jill and one very cute sophomore boy who came to be known as The BFL. Amy and Jill and I were speeding along on our way to adulthood and in the spirit of clinging to the small bit of time left in our collective childhoods we devoted way too much energy to discussing this boy. (Do you like how I imply that now that we are adults we never do things like spend entire afternoons munching on fries and talking about boys? Hilarious.). There was giggling, and lewd commentary, and a graph of his behavior. As the one computer science major in a sea of English degrees I probably have to take personal responsibility for the graph. I'd like to claim that I am not proud of this behavior but that would be a lie because I think graphing a person's actions against how those actions affect my opinion of said person is a brilliant idea and, frankly, wish I had time to compile and chart data on everyone I know because then I would be almost as cool this Polish play write guy

He kept a formal list of his friends in order of importance. His best friend would be in the first position and so on. In the event that a "friend" somehow irritated him or, perhaps, pleased him in some way he would be demoted or promoted on the list as the case may be. Witkacy then would send a formal letter to the person indicating his new position. Occasionally he would publish the list in the local newspaper.

This post was going to be about the graph and possibly also about how the making of the graph is representative of every ridiculous thing I have ever done and probably something that I should discuss with a doctor. And this would have been an ok post because who among us doesn't love a good graph based yarn at the writer's expense? But then I googled my former crush and now? Now the story is all about something else. Let's start with the acronym (acronyms = almost as cool as graphs) BFL. Blue Friendly Leroy? Nope. Best Freehand Lassoer? Nu-uh. Bright Fuzzy Leftie? Negatory. BFL stands for Big Fat Liar which is perhaps the most understated nickname I have ever bestowed upon a boy because when it came to stretching the truth our yummy little sophomore could give James Frey a run for his million little pieces (of lies coated in a sweet dusting of crazy).

It all started when he missed a play rehearsal supposedly because he had an audition for some soap opera in NEW YORK CITY (back in college I considered NYC a very big deal and totally worthy of CAPS LOCK). At first we three found this incredibly exciting, what if our little sophomore crush got famous! Certainly this would prove that our collective crush was well deserved and that we have the best taste in the world when it comes to vaguely immature swooning. His plot to skip out on rehearsals would have worked too if not for a meddling 1st year theater student who was desperate enough for a little love from a group of senior girls to cop to seeing The BFL at the sketchiest college bar in the world which is shockingly not located in NEW YORK CITY with the soap stars but 300+ miles away in the exact same town where we went to school! But how could a boy travel to the city, get teary over the death of his father who also happens to be his uncle and who had in an earlier episode threatened to keep him out of the will if he didn't force his pregnant girlfriend to abort their love child, and then travel back upstate all before ridiculously early weekday last call at midnight? Soon after this little episode things spiraled out of control. Below is a (nowhere near exhaustive) list of the series of lies that spewed from The perfect pouty lips of The BFL on a daily basis.

• He told us he went on a date with a classmate and included details like how she smoked on the date and how this turned him off (we ran into that girl not 3 hours later, she had canceled the date earlier in the evening.)

• He claimed that he was on the short list for the neurotic prep school boy in Rushmore (this seemed unlikely and years later we watched the dvd extras and confirmed that he was in no way short listed).

• One day he described his bedroom at his parents house. Firstly the room is apparently round. Next to the bed was a mini fridge. On top of the fridge was a waffle maker. Inside of the fridge he always kept a supple of pre-made waffle mix. This is all so he can roll over on the morning after and whip up some waffles for his many lady friends. (I wish this were true because it would be a sure sign that there is hope for 20 year old boys everywhere. Sadly I know he was lying because were the waffle claims legit dude would have had bare chested women following him around in awe. (boys, take note, the ability to supply me with waffles as soon as I wake up is one of the best way to ensure seeing me naked)).

And then one day, shortly before the debut of the end of term one acts The BFL found out about his nickname and stopped speaking to us. He could not be reasoned with. This may have been because my attempt at reasoning with him was "but... well... you did lie A LOT so the nickname is kind of accurate... " His inability to see my side of things was sad mostly because I was supposed to perform in a scene with him that would have had both of us naked on the steps of the theater building acting out phone sex. (envelope pushed? check. bad idea? check.).

So, fast forward to today. You know when kids do mean things in grade school and moms the world over swear that someday they'll get what's coming to them in the form of a valuable life lessons or (if we're lucky) a disfiguring punch in the face? Well it turns out moms (or at least my mom) are fucking brilliant. This post might have been a charming little tale of early adulthood silliness between three older (and I do say ravishingly beautiful) women and a younger lad looking to impress them. We might all assume that I am a bit of bitch for calling out a boy on his lies nearly 8 years hence and I would concede that in general, I suck. Except this time I don't. This time it turns out that my little story is precursor to another little story that USA Today reported on (if I may be so bold as to use "reported on" in reference to USA Today). (Afraid that having USAToday.com in your internet history might get you fired? I'll sum up: HE MADE UP AN ENTIRE DOCUMENTARY FILM).

Yes, my own little BFL is the Jason Blair of the film world. The best part is that he totally could have interviewed the actual subject of the film but he decided to just hire an actor instead --it seems possible that his biggest vice might actually be sloth not dishonesty

I think Amy put it best,

He must have thought, "eh, he would be really old if he's alive... in fact... probably dead. I'll just hire some old guy. Old guys look all the same, and there are tons down here in Florida. In fact, if he was alive, he'd probably be in Florida. I don't see him. Must be dead." Understandably his next thought was "Hmm. I bet he liked pancakes. He could have some batter in a mini fridge next to his bed... no... no mini fridges in the 40s. Dammit. How can I tie in breakfast food..."

Now obviously the most important lesson to be learned from this story is that I give prophetic nicknames but there may be other take aways. Karma will kick your ass. Sometimes actor does equal liar. And of course, don't fuck with Pat Croce -- dude wrote no less than 2 books on pirates.

When I first contemplated this post I had planned to not reveal the name of The BFL because I am classy and also because I much prefer talking about people behind their back to actual confrontation (everything I know I learned in grade 6). I would hate to have this page pop up at him the next time he googles himself (as I assume all people do on a weekly basis) because that could lead to him actually talking to me. Luckily, USA Today did that dirty work for me and he's already outed as Mr. Pants Aflame all over town. The only thing left for me to do was edit his wikipage.