Do you hear it? That’s the sound of renaissance, a new start around these parts, and its cadence became clear to me this weekend. You may have noticed a downward slope in our conversations these past few weeks. Actually, any imbecile with a pointy compass could’ve told you as much, but what you may have missed is the impending upswing.
Here’s the difference. I’m off the manufactured sugar again, for the most part, and the difference is astounding. I’m just more awake. It feels like someone took a multiplier to the IQ points. If you were to administer a Rorschach test this very moment, I would be able to divine the secrets of alchemy simply from the blot on the left side.
What this means is more talk for us. It’s magic, really. A full night’s sleep here, avoid a snickerdoodle there, and pa-pow! Renaissance, a word which here means “finding the inspiration to become burnt out again.”
You say you want a normal conversation and can’t be bribed? Links won’t placate you, movie clips will only incense you, and games? Well, you’ve just about had enough with games. You want to be treated as an adult, with big people talk and big people privileges.
Uh huh, I understand, I understand completely. Look, I have a treat for you! It boasts arguably the greatest kazoo rendition of “Man of Constant Sorrow” you’ll ever hear. I’ll only be gone for a moment, but I promise to roll down the windows.
Full circle, I believe is what they call it, and that’s precisely where we’ve arrived after the past few weeks. Wherever we were headed–picture an elysian expanse of nightly dialogue without any vulgarity–didn’t exist in the first place, not to my knowledge at least, so here we are. That’s that. Any further explanation would be like holding forth on the function of pants to a nudist colony.
I’d like to tell you I was absent the last few days because the campus police tossed me in a dank cell, their fascist reply to the amends I demanded for the parking ticket over which we adjourned. Tortuous sentence construction aside, this didn’t happen. I called. They voided the ticket. I wish I could tell you they sicced dogs on me, dogs frothing with injustice, to liven this conversation.
The truth is, as Spasticat pointed out recently, these websites are like PR pieces for our grandparents. I suppose this would be even truer if Secondhand Rants were available in those mystic Asian languages my grandparents so love, but you get the point. We’re relating to the public of our choice, and on some days there’s just nothing to relate. Days like today, for instance, hang-me-Mondays where you wonder what would happen if the FedEx guy walked into your office and delivered a noose, and then you saw your door hinge, and then you said, “Huh, I spy a turnkey solution, so to speak.”