Friday, November 08, 2013
Way, Way More Than An Hour On The Stage
Shall I sing you the song of my people?
Shall I strut and fret an hour upon the stage? Wait a minute, I don't take music gigs any more. What I mean to say is, do you want to hear a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying, well, not nothing, but not much, either?
I said earlier that if I describe my life accurately, no one believes me. If I tell the truth, I'm disbelieved, or excoriated, to taste. People think I'm bragging when I'm expiating my guilt, and they think I'm being modest when I'm thumpin' my chest. I have some problems explaining that I don't like explaining jokes, especially if I have to explain that I was joking before explaining the joke.
But enough about me; what do you think about me? (There. that's a joke. Drat. I'm doing it.) Should I tell you what I did this summer? Think before you answer. By proxy, you're asking me a direct question. That's like making eye contact with panhandlers or people handing out flyers in front of the alternative bookstore. You're going to have to shoulder some blame if you look me directly in the Intereye and say, Sippican, what did you do this summer?
If you ask a normal person what they did this summer, you figure they'll tell you about their tedious trip to Disney World, or whatever normal people do in the summer; how would I know what normal people do? I haven't talked to a normal person in years. I've retreated to my mountain bolthole and only get to espy circus families in the Walmart to gather intel on my fellow citizens. I gather you like NASCAR and Funyuns more than I do. Other than that you're all a mystery.
So be warned; if you answer in the affirmative, I'm not going to tell you about vacation, because I haven't had one in fifteen years or so, and I won't tell you about the interesting things I saw on television, because there is no such thing, and I can't take pictures of my food in funky restaurants and Instagram the shite out of them because I never leave the house, never mind go to restaurants.
All I can tell you about is lifting my house six inches with no money and a seventeen-year old to help. If you're not interested, say so now.