about eating with the wrong end of the fork …………
OK, so I sat down at the keyboard and started a “blog”. Now what?
I’ve always had a habit of putting the crap that runs through my head into some kind of visual format, so it isn’t like a new concept for me, just a new way of doing it. Whether anybody notices it or even likes it is actually less important than the fact that I just like doing it.
To me, words are toys as well as tools. You wouldn’t think it would be a very good idea to walk into a shop and start throwing screwdrivers at the wall just to see what happens, but that’s just because most people are trained early on not to do such things and they remain pleasantly compliant throughout their lives. Good for them. They provide the world with a certain amount of stability.
On the other hand, whether it is the result of some problem with genetics, environment, or a downright willful choice to color outside of the lines, eat with the wrong end of the fork, and launch spitballs at funerals, there are others whose quirks, personality disorders, and incomprehensible behaviors lend an otherwise reliable grey-toned world a flash of color and unpredictability. I like that in a person.
I don’t think I fit in either category, but that would be consistent with my resume. I’m a pre-boomer “war baby”, raised in a conservative New England family that said grace at the table, flew the American flag, and didn’t say “ain’t”. Misbehavior and disrespect were met with a whack and a harsh word, foul language was forbidden, and words were for communication not for endless chatter or pointless rambling on about nothing. You cleaned your plate, hung up your clothes, believed in Santa Clause, and went to college. The only answer to the “Why” question was “Because”. Grey-toned to the max.
For some inexplicable reason, I learned the “F” word when I was six, suffered fits of hysterical laughter almost every day, to the extent that my mother frequently sent me to my room in exasperation, where I would spend hours perfecting juicy 100 decibel fart noises played on my bicep and building a ramp up over the railing to the stairwell just to see if my Lionel could crest the top of it with a running start from the other end of the room. I developed an absolute phobia about not leaving at least one morsel on my plate at every meal, thought all body noises were a riot, especially at the most unforgivable times, and drank my way through six years of college, squeaking through with a borderline GPA to escape with a generic Bachelor’s Degree in Nothing of Use.
Nevertheless, this unholy marriage of good manners and a mastery of anti-social behavior netted me an eclectic life track which provided me with moments of financial and emotional stability interspersed with regularly spaced explosions of bacchanalian pleasure alternating with bouts of stark terror and depression the likes of which the Grey-Toned respond to by clucking “Tsk-Tsk”, but which I suspect they quietly grin about sometimes as well, in a perverse sort of way.
It would be a terrible waste to just grow old and die without friggin’ around with the stories such a life gives birth to, at least a little.
OK, so I sat down at the keyboard and started a “blog”. Everything I write here was inspired by something I saw, someplace where I inexplicably found my ass at some point, someone I knew, something I allegedly did but will enthusiastically deny, or something I simply thought up and decided to lie about….
Clean your plate.
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