One of my big fears is that when I'm an old man, a holiday dinner will be planned at my house by my lovely, aging wife, Dita Von Wargo, and the entire family will arrive. My grandson, Logan, and his beautiful Bolivian girlfriend will announce their engagement. My lesbian granddaughter and her caring life partner will be working hard on the campaign trail for one of the first great American leaders in nearly a century. We'll all be so proud.
....but then there will be the youngest, who brings over her Scientologist boyfriend. Did I mention that they're also both dressed as Furries? Cause they are.
I'll rise to my shrinking, archless feet, throw down my silverwear and vegan pad thai thanksgiving dinner will fly out my mouth as I declare "NOT IN MY HOUSE!! GET OUT!!"
Then the two of them will leave, holding paws and think that I'm just a bitter old man who is stuck in the past, when in fact, I'm livid that people who like to pretend to fuck animals and think they have aliens trapped inside them are attaching themselves to serious things like the civil, gay and women's rights movement.
That's why I'll be at the Celebrity Center on February 10th dressed as The Predator. I don't want to live in that kind of dystopian future.
The razorblade covered walnut lodged in my throat (a.k.a tonsilitis) notwithstanding I limped out to my voluntary work today. Usually I work with a woman who barely says two words and is apathetic to the point of torpor. Today I got a different woman who talks more or less constantly but without ever uttering anything remotely relevant. I quickly worked out that she could understand what I was saying and was, in her own deranged way, trying to respond to me. It's just that she's effectively speaking a different language. This makes it somewhat hard to interact with her, you have to phrase things in a yes or no manner and then judge for yourself whether the free association ramble about sponge cake that follows represents a vote for or against what you've just suggested.
Of course sometimes she's actually trying to change the subject and articulate a thought that isn't directly relevant to what we're doing. She gets a little frustrated when we can't decode the meaning behind her jumbled sentences but seems to be used to people not understanding what she's talking about. If you wait thirty seconds she tends to forget what she was talking about anyway and move onto something else.
There's the occasional lucid moment as well but they get lost amid the babble and her speech impediment. She's certainly someone who exhibits more challenging behaviour than anyone else I've had to deal with and interacting with her for an hour left me strangely tired, kind of like the feeling I used to get after a difficult exam.
Did you think you could scare me off with a bit of rewarmed drama?
No, no, no, no, no. You don't understand.
I like it here. I'm not going anywhere.
Sit. Sit down.
Let's really have a conversation. I'll tell you about my morning, and then you tell me about yours, okay? That's simple enough.
My morning went a little something like this: woke up with a swollen knee, couldn't be bothered to crawl in and out of the tub. Dampened a much too cold towel with icy water that sputtered out of the faucet against its will; scrubbed down in the dark in front of the sink while the cat yowled the morning gossip at me. Got dressed, remembered the bullshit that ensued the last time I posted to this Blog thing, reconsidered briefly, decided 'fuck it', Monday's no day for making decisions. By the time I'd worked boots onto sore and scratched up legs, was late late late. Got the morning fix at Starbucks, ran to the train, spilled a bit of coffee, and launched myself at the doors Die Hard style.
Got to the office. When I opened my four inboxes this morning it was bullshit all over. Need a shovel, elbow length latex gloves and waders.
In the absence of any real motivation, I plan on beating my knee with my fist until I have no choice but to focus on my very bright computer screen to avoid curling into a little ball on the office floor.
Your turn. Tell me about your morning, your day, your big plans this week.
It is 10:12 am when I start writing this. I've had approximately 6 hours of sleep. The first story Reuters scrolls to my feed-reader is about 19 people who were burned to death locked inside a house in Naivasha on Sunday. The article states the death toll is now over 800, and its not the only place in the world that seems to be getting more violent. Most of the news in my feeder, with the exception of those dealing with the arts & tech (A category I've put Grinding.be in) seems to paint a tragic picture of a world falling towards increased violence and chaos. Do journalists dream of dystopian sheep?
According to scientist Robin Dunbar 150 is the maximum number of folks we can really, truly give a shit about, so when faced with news of people dying in areas far from us, people we don't know and who have no overtly obvious impact upon our lives, its easy to just not care. Sure, we'll gape, and say the socially appropriate "Oh, how Sad! How Tragic, how Horrifying!" But I don't think we really care. Its not our friends being killed. It's some stranger. And inside, I think more than a few of us are glad its not us, its not one of our friends. We can turn off the news feed and radio, walk away from the TV, and pretend it didn't happen. Because it didn't happen to anyone we know, no one in our little monkeysphere.
I just realized I left my mp3 player in the car and I don't feel like walking back to the car to get it. And today they are playing country on the gym radio. Ugg. Maybe I'll make that trip to the car anyway.