Writing while eating Mush (Or, Post-Anniversary toothlessness)

To demonstrate how much I actually enjoy writing these log entries, I am taking time out from watching the FOX network’s 25-year anniversary to finish this one up. That’s interesting that they are one week younger than the Yacht Club. I wonder if there was a TV in the Yacht yet? (Yeah, yeah, probably the same one that’s in there now.)

I’m going to run through a few non-sequitars very quickly, and than surprise you at the end by tying them all together, so don’t skip any or the puzzle won’t seem complete to you.

It has only just occurred to me, like a lightning bolt out of nowhere, that I might actually never win the lottery. Yes, I know the odds are a gazillion to one against winning, but I always thought that if I diligently played for years, twice a week, I would eventually win. I wasn’t even going to be sore if I won when the prize was only 12 million dollars as opposed to, say, 650 million. One thing has always been certain in my mind though; and that is that I would win the lottery before my Earthly body went to pot, so that I could have private doctors and nurses and Ma Seuss and all that rich-old-people stuff.

Well, my eyes got worse again, though actually it doesn’t happen in spurts as that implies, but is a continual progression. Body parts deteriorate in infinitesimally small increments that become noticeable when their failures, directly, or indirectly, cause pain. (And yes, that most definitely includes emotional pain.) I use “WORD” to type, and there is a little window on my tool bar, which allows me to adjust the font size. It truncates to size twelve, but I have always enlarged it to sixteen. Since the 25th anniversary, nothing smaller than 18 will suffice.

The desire to be famous that burned in me through my adolescence is completely gone, thank God, but I still have burning urges. For all I know everyone has them. I mean, you can look at someone under 25 years old and practically see them burning to be famous.

I know, and you know that telephone calls are out and texting is in, unless you’re talking to your mom, or one of those last, hold-out, stick-in-the-mud people who are clinging to the past (and their reasons for not texting are as hilarious as ever, my favorite being that they can’t afford it), but you may have noticed that some people really have trouble wrapping up an exchange of texts (maybe even you are struggling with this dilemma) and I want to help! The root of the problem seems to be a fear of being rude, because a lot of people are still laboring under the misconception that telephone etiquette still applies to texting. It absolutely does not!

This is an actual example of what I am talking about:

“Good! I hope you’re doing well!”

“Yup. Fixing to get off work here soon.”

“Tell X I said hi!”

“I’ll do it!”

“Good to hear from you!” (He initiated the text exchange, by the way.)

“You too!” (Now it’s getting stupid.)

“All right, take it easy!”

“You too!”

“All right! See you later.”

“Be good!”

This could go on forever, as you have probably perceived, and it’s a shame, because one of the other arguments that non-texters often put forth is that “If I want to talk to someone I’ll call them” (completely overlooking the probability that the recipient doesn’t want to talk to them), but there is another aspect of telephone use that they overlook, and that is ending a conversation. For Jesus’ sake people, if you have made the tremendous leap from telephone to texting, please don’t tote your telephone-style baggage along with you! You’re going to get your feelings hurt if you’re waiting around for me to text Good-bye, or wrap up an exchange as if I’m on the phone. I am genuinely trying to be helpful here. Texting for Dummies hasn’t come out yet, but when it does (and don’t be surprised if I’m the author) I guarantee that brevity will be emphasized. Here is how you end a text exchange. . . .

“. . . “

That’s right! By not responding! Rude? No! Will the person you are texting be relieved? Yes!

What is the #1 complaint about fast food?

It’s not fast enough!

STOP SAYING GOOD-BYE!!

By the way. . . .

If you are one of those non-texting sluggards. . . .

Don’t feel bad! It’s not too late. I am learn new things that make my life easier all the time! You should have seen me with my new “smart phone” last month trying to select the Grateful Glutton’s home page! I finally decided there was something wrong with it and started in on Turnin’ Trixx. Same results. The links were just TOO TINY!

Well. You can probably guess the advice I got. “Make it bigger!” And I’m thinking, “What am I, God?” But, of course, making it bigger was something any Gino with a thumb and index finger could do, kind of like a reverse pinch, and clicking on Turnin’ Trixx, or Grateful Gluttons became easy.

I understand the resistance to new things, but I have to question the wisdom of resisting new things that make your life easier and are definitely here to stay. Seriously, if you’re less than 70 years old, you might as well take twenty minutes and save yourself a years-long pain-in-the-ass. Learn to text.

STOP WASTING TIME!

Let’s try to figure this out, shall we? Why do morons make 10 million dollars a year twirdling some type of ball while obviously brilliant, charismatic people like you and me don’t have a pot to piss in?

It’s because the government owes us a living! Ha ha! I was just trying to give Jeff Clark a heart attack. It’s because those twirdlers practice ad nauseum. They hone their little, specific, 10-million-dollar-a-year skill.

Well, good-bye, suckers! I’m going to be incommunicado for the next five years while I twirdle away on . . . something. No way am I telling you what it is, but suffice it must to say that I am going to be really good at it in five years.

Well, I’m back! I didn’t last five seconds honing my twirdling! Ugg! Well, truth be known, I’m glad to be back among my friends, clients, and co-workers. Twirdling is boring!

Ugg, stupid social media fanatics. In case you haven’t heard, and you should know about this; some tweeter reported that the governor of South Carolina, Nikki Haley, who is smokin’ hot, but dumber than a stir-stick, was about to be indicted for tax fraud when, in fact she was not. Within two minutes it was on the web sites of the Washington Post, CBS News, The Huffington Post, BuzzFeed, and The State (The big newspaper in S.C.). And within two hours it was . . . well, basically everywhere.

Let this be a lesson to you; if you want to screw somebody over, tweet something bad about them! I can just see the political strategists in both camps trying to shield their eyes from those great big light bulbs that just went off over their heads!

Not Your Average Bar

I really thought that the most discussed topic at the bar this week was going to be the Anniversary Bash, but due to a very strong finish on Friday and Saturday, the reigning champion, Death, won for the third straight week.

From where I stood, behind the bar, there seemed to be three contributing factors to this Stygian fixation by Yacht Club customers, which actually were unique to time and place. The first, oddly, was the Twenty-Five-Year Anniversary which, while always a merry subject initially, inevitably encompassed the interlocutor’s incredulity at the passage of time which then led to contemplations of the future, such as the odds of living to see a (gasp!) Fifty-year anniversary.

The second was the death of people known to us, whether through celebrity (Levon Helm, Dick Clark, Barnabas Collins) or because they were regular customers (Len Atwell, Alice Hellman)

And third is that damnable “Death As A Continuum” which I would have classified as a Stoner Topic if I didn’t know for a fact that the people I hear talking about it aren’t smoking, and if it wasn’t all over the New York Times, Discover magazine and various quasi-reliable internet outlets. It’s just a damned hot topic right now, and controversial to boot! One conversation I heard started out as an “out-of-body-experience” story that evolved into an exchange of anecdotes about people who have frozen to death for various lengths of time, than revived. The conversation ended up as a discussion of a book called Brain Wars, which discusses an astounding new medical procedure in which patients are intentionally frozen, operated on, then thawed and revived.

So, I propose we get in on the ground floor for once and start persecuting these people who have died and come back to life. You know there’s going to be more and more of them! And why should we let some religious nut, or greedy politician get all the money? If we could just get a couple of bucks from each of these . . . Horrors (we need a good name for them, like terrorists, but that’s already taken by Muslims), or if we could sell some product to protect people (regular, good ‘ol God-fearing people who have never died) from the disease that they carry, or the spiritual malady they can inflict with a touch . . . no, a look, then we can rake in the dough! And we won’t have to spend one minute practicing our twirdle.

I have to be more careful about letting these little log entries get too lengthy, but from where I’m standing (behind the bar) it often seems like one long unending phantasmagoric narrative. I shall endeavor to do my best to trim it down. And in fact, for now . . . here’s where the story ends.
Gino 2-23-12
Trieste-Zurich-Paris