I’m in the office right now, dear reader, and I’m basking in the warm afterglow of sniping an eBay auction. The prey in question was a piece of jewelry, a Mother’s Day gift for my grandmum. Should this somehow detract from the image I’ve cultivated, evening after verbose evening, let me put you at ease: I shall resume eating whole, raw babies immediately.
The other reason I’m here, besides comparison-shopping for the tender flesh of newborn children on Peapod.com, is you. Our discussions are enjoyable–at this point, they constitute a secret seventh food group unbidden by the government–and a sharp pang of guilt would overwhelm me, were I to miss a consecutive night of interacting with you. Also, Comcast screwed the pooch again at around 8:30 PM. Hard. Can’t stop them, though PETA will try.
There is a technological Shangri-la nestled in my mind, dear reader, and this shining metropolis boasts two inconceivable amenities. First, the Internet works when you need it, not whenever it goddamn pleases. Second, a cellphone embraces its modern status as indispensable and functions, if you can believe the rumors, without a cord. I’m grateful for having this mythical city beaten out of me.
We could’ve had a conversation earlier yesterday, that much is my fault, and in this case any bitchfits would rightfully target me and me alone. All mea culpa aside, however, would it be possible to have my connection work at a time of my choosing, mayhap when I’m not busy? This is what I wanted to ask Comcast when I jabbed their number into my cellphone.
Too bad my phone died right before the Combot could describe, in so many cushy words, my lack of Internet. For the past month or so, the lithium battery has rendered my cell all but useless, transforming it into a rather metrosexual castanet. This is why I continue to carry it with me, understand. Because I crave rhythm. It also grants me 10-minute conversations, after which it must be promptly given a nap to recharge. Yes, it goes from three bars to no bars on its own volition.
That’s enough housekeeping. Tomorrow, assuming we have a means to talk, we’ll probe the delicate subject of food mascots. So, you know, brainstorm or something. Toucan Sam and Tony the Tiger are part of the old guard. I think it’s time for the new.
Net is down again. Phone went with it.
Good thing yogurt still works. More tomorrow.
“M” is for Monday, yes, and it’s also for mortality. My apartment building, situated cozily in downtown Wilmette, is a few clicks away from a funeral home. Perhaps it’s because I’m not observant enough, or possibly it’s because I don’t sleep in the wild, but the only thing that seems dead is the funeral home itself. The parking lot is perennially empty. Door’s always shut. No hearses making their forlorn deliveries.
I saw some cars parked there once, a veritable anomaly because the lot usually entertains skateboarders, bikers, and people playing ball. You’re tempted to believe the Norshore transcended death, sometime after eating a plate of petit fours but definitely before wiping its fingers on the nearest Coton de Tulear. And then the funeral home came alive over the weekend.
I was walking to the supermarket when I smelled something burning. The odor probably came from a household desperate to cling onto the Chicago winter, I reasoned, until I saw people filing in and out of the parlor. It was a wake. There was a fireplace going. Some people were dabbing their eyes, others were laughing, one woman whipped out her cellphone, and all of them were presented with a very real picture of finality.
We normally don’t talk about death. Certainly killing and needless violence creep into our discussions, it can’t be helped, yet there’s a distinction. If you look at some quotes from Woody Allen, for example, it’s safe to say he thinks about it a lot. Whether that’s advisable or not, I can’t say, though you get the distinct impression he’s just going to lean back in the director’s chair and give up the ghost.
One thing’s for sure: I feel older. Much of my brain is filled with new facts and memories and stray bits of Sour Patch Kids, but at the same time my reflexes are getting slower. Time was, I’d play all of Super Mario Bros. 3 in a single sitting, one life, no flinching. These days, I pick up a controller and Mario turns to me and shakes his head. He’s like, “Yeah, the princess is in another goddamn castle, but I don’t think you’ll make it, let alone remember how to get there. And sweet Moses’s pants, it doesn’t matter how many ‘shrooms or fire flowers I eat, ALL THE HERBAL REMEDIES IN THE WORLD CAN’T STOP YOU FROM GUIDING ME INTO THE PITS OF UNDOING.”
40 to 50 years from now, how’s it gonna be? I can see myself looking down at my wrinkled hands and saying, “Man, I’m really tired. It’s been a good run. I think I’m pretty much done.” Sad? Maybe. But it doesn’t have to be.
Also, my guinea pigs have been loudly humping each other at about 7:15 AM every morning. Spring is here, apparently.