The phantom philosopher

 

 

Frank Cotolo

 

I am very much like that old philosopher... what's his name? You know, the guy who said that our existence is all that counts. He was French. No, he was Dutch. No, he was German. No, his parents were French-Dutch-German mixtures but he grew up in Switzerland. No, he grew up in Spain. Yes, that's it, he grew up in Spain but he had a French name because of the French side of his parents' bloodline.

 

What makes me like this guy is that I came up with a philosophy when I was around 10 and when I told it to someone, that person said, "Hey, that is not a new philosophy. It's credited to that guy... He was French. No, he was Dutch. No, he was German. No, his parents were French-Dutch-German mixtures but he grew up in Switzerland. No, he grew up in Spain. Yes, that's it, he grew up in Spain but he had a French name because of the French side of his parents' bloodline."

 

So I went to the library, though where I lived they called it the liberry [sic] and even the sign in front was spelled that way. I asked the liberrian [sic], "Who is that philosopher, the one who said that our existence is all that counts?"

 

She looked at me and then looked up at the ceiling and said, "Wait, wasn't he French? No, he was Dutch. No, he was German. No, his parents were French-Dutch-German mixtures but he grew up in Switzerland. No, he grew up in Spain. Yes, that's it, he grew up in Spain but he had a French name because of the French side of his parents' bloodline."

 

"That's the guy," I said. "Which book did he write that explains his philosophy?"

 

"I think it was called something exists or some things exist or only things exist. Yes, that is it. Only Things Exist." Then she paused and unwound her ponytail. She took off her glasses and suddenly looked really foxy.

 

"Can you show me where to find that book?" I asked, drooling.

 

"Yes," she sighed, walking around the desk and waddling down an aisle of bookshelves.

 

I followed and she stood next to her when she stopped. She began to fondle books on the shelves until she pulled one out and looked at it. She said, "This isn't it. Maybe I am thinking of someone else?"

 

"You know this guy," I said, frustrated. "He grew up in Spain."

 

"Well then," she said, putting on her glasses and pulling her hair back into a ponytail, "if you are going to speak to me like that, forget it."

 

I never forgot her and how that philosophy affected my future relationships and me with women. Isn't that strange?