C’est Bizarre

Published October 1, 2007

By Max Johnson

If I’m not full of shit, I’m about to make something happen. Much like whoever coined “déjà vu” before me, I’m about to use French to describe a peculiar sensation that has plagued mankind for years but has scraped by without being identified. It’s not really a big deal but neither was déjà vu, really. It’s just damn satisfying to put a finger on it. C’est bizarre.
Try saying it. Really emphasize the French r’s in there. What abstract, fleeting feeling is it meant to capture?

First, a story. I was playing pool at the Davis Center with my roommate. An important detail: I seriously blow at pool. As my friend would say, I blow bubbles at pool. But no, that’s too cute. I blow at pool like the line at New World blows between classes. I’m that awful.

Despite that, I have an unjustified confidence that I know how the game works. So I scratched the cue ball (that means I hit the white ball into a hole. You’re not supposed to do that). Consequently, my roommate casually reached into the pocket and removed one of the few balls that, with glorious fortune, I had already sunk, and he put it right back on the table.

Apparently, some people play pool with that rule, but I had never heard of it. Without even thinking, I told him to put the ball back, because, seriously, who plays like that? He looked at me like I was crazy, and I looked at him like he was insane.

But then doubt started creeping in. Maybe my whole life people have been playing by that rule, but I never noticed because I always sneezed just as it happened. Because, you know, you can’t sneeze with your eyes open. I read that somewhere. Or, even more horrifying, maybe I never encountered that rule before because I’ve never gotten a ball in. That’s scarily plausible. But no. It just couldn’t be. It was impossible.

As we argued about it, I reached a sad conclusion: my new roommate is an alien. I felt like, man, I used to be able to relate to you on a basic human level, but now I can’t take anything for granted. Later, I discovered that he’s actually just from Massachusetts, but the damage was done. I was so concerned about cross-cultural delicacy that I spent the next week pointing at things like my blanket, asking, “what do you call that back home?”

I actually learned a lot about people from Mass. They’re pretty cool. Drummer types. They like video games and the movie version of Clue. C’est bizarre.

He changed from a relatable dude to a bizarrely foreign stranger in an instant. When something that is always taken for granted becomes weird in a passing moment, it fucks with your mind. So why not say so? Like when you spell a word correctly but you could swear it looks wrong. Is it “door” or “dore?” Or when you suddenly forget your e-mail password, even though it’s been the same since 1999. Is it “britneyspears” or “christinaaguilera?”

That instant when a simple rule made me look at my roommate, myself, and the game of billiards in a new light remains the most peculiar sensation I’ve experienced in the Davis Center so far. And you know what? I hope Dudley H. Davis himself, whoever he is, reads this and takes that as a challenge.

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