It drives me crazy that I can only semi-automatically text using my smartphone. How can it be 2017 when there is this kind of restriction? You’d think that in a free country I’d be able to fire off texts as quickly as I’d like. The kind of 21st century America I was told to expect (in my previous life) is one that gives its citizens the means to let texts fly in rapid fire succession whenever they damn-well please. But wait a minute: you almost never have anything important to say!
That’s probably true.
And still, that way of thinking assumes that informing my spouse about the ripeness of our avocados, the status of my commute, and how many scoops of ice cream the kids ordered for dessert are trivialities. And whatever else I’m thinking.
In the next few weeks, I’m planning to go fully automatic by way of attaching blue tooth-enabled probes to my head and hacking into my phone such that my conscious and semi-conscious thoughts are streamed to everyone in my contacts list automatically. It’ll be a Cat-5 text storm. I want to inflict maximum texting damage. You’re going to be swept downstream by my flood of texts. But don’t worry, if the text flood is too overwhelming I’ll throw a bunch of rolls of paper towels out to you so you can sop-up the flood.
Looking for additional storm-related texting metaphors, so send if you got ‘em.
The fake media keeps claiming that recently, in a private, closed-door session that was supposed to be off the record, I called our country’s leader a total boob and said that I would be resigning. They claim that I called him a numbskull and an ass, a knucklehead, an idiot, a clown and complete buffoon. They claim that as I got revved up I called him an absolute dink, an imbecile and a halfwit, a dolt, a blockhead, a lamebrain and a dunce. They even said I called him an ignoramous and a chowderhead.
So let me reiterate unequivocally for the record: I never said I would resign. Period!
You’ve never seen the band Antibalas, but that’s because you’re not managing your rock show life carefully enough. A less generous person might even say that you’re being lazy. Just because you’re in your 50s, it’s a weeknight, and you have two elementary school kids, what, you can’t see a band? Sorry to hear that you’re “tired.” The rest of us are tired as well, but we’re willing to go the extra mile to see a multicultural Afro-beat group with a great vibe and not a little bit of “pay back Africa” attitude.
The way you apparently can’t go to rock shows these days reminds me of how you “can’t ride a bike to work” because you don’t want to arrive at the office sweaty. Hey, I arrive at the office sweaty all the time, and by the looks I get I can tell you that my office colleagues love it! Similarly, I see bands all the time (i.e. 3 times a year), and do you know the kind of Twitter traffic I get?
Let me put it to you this way: I have no idea. Because I don’t tweet. But, as I stated in a previous post, in the future I’m going to tweet the living daylights out of you and everyone else in the world. Kim Jong Trump and I are going to battle for tweeting supremacy, and I’m going to kick their butts.
One thing I learned from the Antibalas show: there are many more of you tired/lazy middle aged guys out there than there are of me and my friend Mark, such that Antibalas didn’t sell out the Paradise Rock Club. If I had to guess (or, rather, since I have to guess), they could have fit another 400 people into the little venue. I’m not complaining; Mark was late and the sparse attendance meant that he could slip right up front to where I was without anyone stressing out, and midway through the show I could make a beer run. Not that I drink beer.
My friend Steve wrote a dissertation (and by that I don’t mean just a long and boring ax-grinding diatribe, but an actual Ph.D. dissertation) in which he observed that racial integration in the workplace existed in the form of jazz and other bands, where there was a long history of blacks and whites working together. Antibalas is an excellent example of that kind of interracial cooperation.
Come to think of it, the racial makeup of Antibalas reminds me a little of the band Defunkt, which I saw a few times back in the day. On the very unlikely chance that you never had a chance to see Defunkt, here they playing a concert in Germany in 1984.
If you ever pitch to me and I discover that you’re out of shape and have a bad knee, I’m going to lay a bunt down the third base line that will expose to millions of people watching television that you’re totally unable to throw me out.
I’m speaking metaphorically, of course, as you and I rarely find ourselves in head-to-head matchups any longer, and anyway, you can’t get the ball over the plate. Nor can I bunt. But even knowing this, you get all bent out of shape each time I metaphorically square up.
If you really hate it that much why don’t you just throw at me?
I doubt it will be a problem to get out of the way of your 45 mile-an-hour “fast” ball. And anyway, I’ll be wearing military helmet and bullet-proof face shield. And I’ll deploy a missile defense system to shoot down your softballs, just in case.
One or two columnists might write a few inches calling us both jerks, but many people (mostly lawyers) will defend me vociferously, saying that I’m just doing my job by laying down that proverbial bunt. And that, let’s face it, you’re not exactly spritely any longer.
Heading to the proverbial batting cages to work on my metaphorical squaring up, and all that.