Phone books, I’ve concluded, are what annoyed people before the advent of the Internet and pop-up ads, showing up on doorsteps once a year, garish and large, in a desperate yellow bid to seize your attention. Honestly, now–when was the last time you cracked open a telephone directory? Exactly. Nevertheless, it continues to appear uninvited, and you’ve got to wonder about the economics behind such an institution. It’s like the Radio Shack of books, in a way, because it persists, yet you don’t know precisely why or how. Do people really buy that many batteries and transistors every month? Do businesses actually pay cash money to advertise in these hallowed pages? Why not purchase ad space inside, like, a dinosaur instead?
These are the mysteries of the modern world, but we’re not here to talk about phone books tonight. No, it’s more the time of year these books arrive–and are promptly pitched into the recycling bin–that’s relevant to me, because it’s usually around now that I mark my birthday. Normally I’d avoid mentioning as much because I prefer to fly under the radar, but yesterday was an exception because it began exceptionally poorly.
The long and the short of it is my car became surly as I was on my way to a celebratory lunch, its fine GM-quality construction kicking in at the perfect moment, effectively locking both my steering column and key in place. Apparently the piece of shit thought I was stealing it. Or something? Security measures sprung to life, preemptively warding off anybody in the Target parking lot who was planning on hot wiring my ride, and right then and there, as the smart key sat stupidly in place, I despised technology even more. What ever happened to plain metal keys that could activate automobiles with a simple turn?
After missing most of my workday, with two hours allotted to waiting for the tow truck, then another two to three hours spent getting my car onto said tow truck and transporting it to the dealership, where they essentially rebooted the security system for fifty bucks, I’ve garnered substantial insights. Prior to yesterday I operated from a framework of avoiding problems like this one. My goal, in other words, was to minimize the quantity of drama. But that’s something you can’t really control. For all I know, the goddamn wheels are probably going to fall off tomorrow, if everything goes well, right before my portfolio implodes and swine flu wracks my body. The real goal, I realized, is the art and manner in which I handle issues like this, and if the only way to figure this out was through a busted car, eighty-nine bucks out of pocket, and a few hours of waiting, well, it might just be the best present in years.
I’m going to proclaim something tonight, much to the chagrin of the St. Pauli Girl, patron spirit of all that is alcoholic, and it is this: here, at my current juncture, I’m content with a two-cocktail limit. Perhaps the optimal threshold is three, or possibly I could ingest double that without incurring the crazy eyes, but this is country I’m simply not interested in charting. It’s, like, I could get soused enough to start swinging from chandeliers, though I’m far more interested in retaining the ability to spell chandaleers without the aid of corrective software.
I assure you I can spell tonight, in addition to honoring the hallowed traditions of subject-verb conjumugation, and I shall marshal both in the service of dispensing deep social insights. First, though, some thoughts about Jack and Coke. Look, I don’t know who this Jack fellow is, but his life’s work seems to center on the wholesale ruin of soft drinks. It’s a culinary travesty, really, and you’d think something called “whiskey” would whisk you away to somewhere other than throwing up in your mouth a little. Or a lot.
But my axons are marinating not in adult beverages, but in two questions posed by the Operator. What do I find engaging? And why is it that people would easily label her as social, while I would instantly be classified as the exact opposite, even though she might also gravitate toward disengagement?
I find the second question easier to answer, because I believe people possess different capacities for social engagement. It’s a finite substance, in other words. Whereas one person could convincingly fulfill social contracts at happy hour, then a business dinner, then a party, all in the same day, another person might be drained after a single exchange with a telemarketer. I’m exaggerating here, of course, so here’s a more concrete example. I can recall at least two business dinners where I’ve contributed no more than a dozen syllables, which to others might seem like I’m suffering from adult-onset autism, when really my social points are just depleted, and conversing about the fucking weather or how A-Rod is doing these days just doesn’t affect the price of tea in India.
The first question–What do I find engaging?–is actually the same question I asked a few weeks ago, I realized. It’s a better way of asking my question–Why is it so difficult to connect?–because I have a habit of thinking in negatives. Let me explain. A potter takes a mass of clay and shapes it into what he wants. If you know how engravings or reliefs are made, well, that’s how I tend to approach matters, by carving away what isn’t to reach what is. This strikes me as roundabout, and maybe if I ask the right question I can save a whole lot of time and heartache. It’s time to be the potter, I think, and listen to the wheel whir as it reveals its secrets.
We usually celebrate every Tuesday with a different topic, a custom grown more out of my deficient attention span than anything else, but this evening is different. I’m still thinking about pathogens, specifically the avoidance of such, and in doing so I may have become a hypostrongdiac, a variation on the sniffling, WebMD-trolling species you know too well. Rather than embrace and catalog all manners of germs, I’m preoccupied with sidestepping them via homebrew remedies, sheer conviction that I must not get sick, and, of course, social distancing.
On Sunday, for instance, prior to lining up for communion I pored over a blurb in the program about how the bread was both baked and presented by the congregation’s children. This was adorable–I guess?–and truly horrific, once I pictured a band of soot-covered street urchins emerging from the hospital dumpster to prepare the Lord’s supper. Jesus Christ indeed. As I approached the tainted sacraments, eight feet, then six feet, then two, watching as parishioners took and ate, none the wiser, I suddenly veered off and retreated to a pew, relieved beyond measure that I did not partake.
And when I’m not engaged in evasive maneuvers at church, I’m stocking up on sleep. I’ve been catching about six to six-and-a-half hours each night for the past few months, which just hasn’t been cutting it, so I’ve been ponying up for an extra hour or two recently. There are health benefits to this, I’m sure, but really I’ve rediscovered that sleep may be my most favorite thing. Television and video games, viable sources of escapism they may be, simply can’t hold a candle to a cost-effective nap. You shut your eyes, and suddenly you’re two hours into the future. They call that time travel in some circles.