some thoughts about favorites, using my friend Peter as an example

I could say a lot about Peter-- he could be the example I picked to discuss any number of topics. Like being a smart-ass or guys who wear short shorts. Or political astuteness. Or propensity to use the word Champion. Or intensity (I love intense people.) Or how I think some people, you're actually destined to be friends with. 


But this post is about the nature of a favorite (this is especially after yesterday, a truly great last day in NYC). 
I've been kind of obsessed with the idea of "favorite" for a long time. I talk about in Paddington. Favorite as… like, an ontological idea. (Epistemological?)(Maybe I need to start new terminology—favorology? The study of favorites?)

He's easily my favorite photographer. His pictures make my heart hurt for non-specific reasons. And... He's probably even my favorite all-time writer. Yeah, I said that. 


Peter's writing is one of those things (this the destiny part) that's kind of floating around your inner cosmos for who knows how long. Things you know of by way of by way of by way of. When he actually first entered my orbit as himself, rather than just someone his family and other acquaintances mentioned that I should know, was the night Spring Awakening opened. Due to a long, annoying set of circumstances, I thought I had been dis-invited to the opening (not true- I could have gone-- curses!) so instead, I found myself reading a (what?) live-blog of the happenings on Duncan's website written by his brother. Who was this guy? Oh, right, everyone said I'd be friends with guy! Wait a minute, that's hilarious. "Tavern on the Green looks like Christmas threw up all over Easter?!" I LOVE THAT.  (Sadly, this masterpiece no longer exists on the internet) But let's just say, that I never doubted anyone again when they told me that one day, I should be friends with Peter.

And then, several years later, after a concert, suddenly we were. From the first minute, even, when he totally totally called me out. He questions my taste in almost everything (I’m obviously more of a populist than him—in addition to just having more, ya know, feminine tastes). He busts my balls about Buddhism, music, everything. But he always gives me a chance to explain why I think the way I do.

And by the end of each discussion, he normally sees my point of view. Or at least he humors me and pretends to. In either case, I appreciate that he respects my opinion, even if he disagrees. It’s pretty much all you could ask for in great conversationalist. 


He's one of the few people I can think of that I would not change one single thing about. Okay, maybe one thing... I wish he'd take himself off the leash... less commenting and more writing. Just run with it. 


Because this guy.... and this guy... this guy...and definitely this guy... the guy who wrote those things is my favorite writer. I'd take more of that any damn day. He’s a fuckin poet of prose (as I believe I one time drunkenly said to him.)  Talent. Crush. 


And there's something really special about what it means to be favorite. It's a totally different category than good, or excellent or even genius or well-crafted, etc. Of course, if something is your favorite, it generally implies that you think it is all those things, in addition to/the reason for being your favorite. But favorite is something extra because it's personal and undefinable. I suppose you could try to articulate why something is your favorite, but that’s not really the point. One of the best things about the idea of favorites is that it’s so subjective, you're under absolutely no obligation to justify it to anyone.

All this is extra extra special wink-wink interesting because not only is my favorite lyric of all time ABOUT favorites, it was written by another favorite… and another Sheik!  “It’s an infinite world and I want you.”

Does that line like explode the universe for anyone else but me?? I mean, I hope it does... But I doubt it. Because it’s my favorite…and you probably have your own.

But I bring it up in particular because that, my friends, that lyric, to me, is the definition of 1. What it means to be alive in the universe. It’s an infinite world…and I. want. You. (choice!) and 2. The definition of love. It’s an infinite world and I want you (out of alllll the things, all the people.)

…!!!.... 


it’s the most magical thing I can think of.

(Then you start researching the origins of the word and suddenly you’re going down a linguistic and etymological worm hole full of crazy and fascinating (and probably overcomplicating, especially when you consider how we use the word today) innuendo. Wow, maybe I’ll save all that for another post!)

..Because back to Peter.

Largely, I tend to set my compass by the things that make me obliterate (or maybe…transcend…) my own sense of self or ambition or whatever... When I forget to even consider myself, or when, if faced with a choice, I’d choose the not-me option.

So this is how I know I’m serious when I say this about how Peter writes.

For example, If given the choice, “Ryann, would you rather Dan Brown get to be a widely disseminated author that the masses have the opportunity to read or… YOU, who would you pick?”

I’d pick me!

…Or obviously he’s not the best example, since I don’t care for him at all. That’s an easy choice.  Let’s pick someone I do like (this is about favorites, now, not quality) I’ll make this one hard—Tom Rachman. That one hurts.

But I’d still pick me!

There are probably only a few people I’d throw myself under the bus for, as far as favorites and writing go (Cronin being one of them, probably the only living one, the rest are dead, so probably a moot point).

But what I’m saying is, if I had to choose, I think I’d rather see a book by Peter Sheik displayed in the  front windows of Barnes & Noble and on bus vestibules and billboards, etc. I wish for him the ability and self-assurity (I made that word up) to quit his job, travel around the world taking photos (or not-- just lock himself away) and write a book of pure Peter champion-ness. 

I don't even know that/if he wants this for himself, but...man. I would buy that book. It's not even an idea except in my brain, and the idea of what kind of book that could be already has me at the edge of my seat.  With a literally unstoppable smile. Sometimes my cheeks hurt from smiling when I read the good stuff. And that’s a nice feeling. The kind of amorphous, shapeless, yet remarkably concentrated-to-the-center, all's-right-with-the-world feeling that can only live in the midst of a favorite.