S t R E A M # 3 7

-
Start: Now. Do it. See the way. Now. In the apple orchard. No. The “Old Orchard.” Nothing “old” about it. Nary an apple to be found. Save for in a pie. And even then. Artificial flavor. Right? I dunno. Ask that clown over there under the “golden arches.” Ah, but the old “Old Orchard”? The way it used to be? No. Now. The way it is. The way it was… you don’t want that. That was lame. That’s when hardly anybody went there. But now? Good luck finding a place to park. And they keep building. And the new owners — they’re Australians — they don’t even want to call it “Old Orchard” anymore. They’ve got their corporate name taking prominence. They want to be the Six Flags of giant shopping malls. Plus: They don’t dig on word “old.” Who does? Just like Oldsmobile. What most folks don’t know, I’ll bet, is that there was a guy named “Olds.” According to Wikipedia, his name was Ransom E. Olds. That’s some first name, huh? So the name, the car company’s name, it had nothing do to with nostalgia for old-fashion cars. It’s almost a crime to be old today. Unless you’re a grandparent. If you’re not a grandparent, and you’re over thirty, and you’re not some kind of superstar, the advertisers don’t want you. They want your kids. And given that the advertisers fuel the economy — and thus the popular culture — they shun you, if you’re over thirty (roughly). Why? They figure you’ve wised up. That, or your dead broke. Or you’re both. Your kids, though? They spend and spend and spend. They haven’t earned it and they don’t know what it means to earn it. They don’t pay the rent, the gas, the water, the power. The parents, they pamper their kids — around here they do. But more importantly, when I’m on the treadmill, I like to watch the Spanish music videos on “LATV.” More and more, I’m discovering that lyrics — comprehensible lyrics — are overrated. It’s not the language, it’s the execution of the language. Emotion drives the lyrics. Anyway, the videos are nearly always about sex, love, cheating, and unrequited love. And, being human, I can relate to all of it. Sometimes, they do this thing call “Text TV.” You text-in messages and they post them to the bottom of the screen during the videos. It’s so stupid. There’s no conversation. It’s just dumb kids shouting out and wasting money. It’s just chaos. They text how great the Lakers (or whoever) are. They text wanting to know who else is watching from their ‘hood. They text how much they love the video that’s currently playing. They text absolute bullshit. There is no conversation. They’re texting into a void. It annoys me (if you haven’t noticed) because I’m trying to watch a sexy video to keep me stimulated while I run my miles. Yo, dumb arses: There are more effective ways to communicate with the world at large. Try the World Wide Web. Try facebook. Try Twitter. Maybe I’d feel differently if it didn’t cost anything to text to “Text TV.” But here’s the real question: Were you two in the car behind me? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t recognize the car. I would’ve waved. Often, though, I see people I think I know but don’t, or, rather, I think they’re people I know, but they’re not. But maybe you two didn’t want me to take notice. You both looked kind of tired… perhaps one of you more than the other. You two didn’t look entirely happy, either… but perhaps I read too much into it. You both appeared to be lost in thought. Later, when we (that is, those of us weren’t either one of you) went to The Glen, to dine at Ted’s, I wondered if we’d run into the two of you. But we didn’t. And I haven’t seen either of you since. And it’s been years. And I’m sorry. For everything. I was immature. Still am. Bottom reached? 

8 July 2008 

Popular posts from this blog

SHUSH

-
Along with the stomping freak who uses the flipside of my ceiling as a floor, the folks with whom I share walls cannot tolerate silence. No, they must blast on repeat any of Billboard’s Year-End Hot 100 singles of 2000 through their respective stereo’s speakers. This, in turn, forces me to blast all of my much less popular music to drown theirs out. It becomes a vicious circle of escalating sound. And perhaps the very point of loud music is to drown out all thought, fear, and pain. These days, who can bear to sit quietly and ponder life—let alone read a book? Indeed, the folks in this city—and perhaps the folks in every city—seemingly do whatever they can to stifle the natural inclination to think. At least, that is my impression. After all, the act of thought —the very act of reflection —necessarily slows production and consumption. And we mustn’t have that, no, no. Besides, we need not contemplate our lack of fulfillment or our actual worthlessness if we are too busy playing video ...
Read more

Ginny

-
10/24/2001 : Would you believe I was standing beneath the lit marquee of the Music Box Theater this evening, reading an Emily Dickinson chapbook? I was, but I was doing a poor job of it. And, no, I wasn’t there specifically to read poetry. But I might’ve been the first dude to read Dickinson at that particular location. And, no, I wasn’t reading it aloud. * In fairness (to me), I hadn’t thought to read it aloud. I bring a book or a magazine along wherever I go, just in case it rains. Gotta have something to hold open over my head. Can’t have a sudden shower muck up my carefully sculpted helmet of hair. And if I want something to read, I’ll take an umbrella. But seriously, it’s all about the waiting. If city life doesn’t cultivate patience, then it definitely cultivates insanity. If I find myself waiting (anywhere) beyond the walls of my apartment without something to read, I’ll end up gazing at the passersby, instead. They might gaze back. They won’t smile, though. Never mind if ...
Read more

S T R E A M # 3 0

-
Start: The dog did not enjoy the tuna casserole, and by “dog” I do not mean Sally’s pet collie, I means Sally’s husband, Al. When we stop to think about the things that do not matter – which is something we often do – then, when the time comes, we check our watches and eat our respective tuna casseroles. We eat the tuna casseroles because we know Grandma would be sad if we did not. Thus, or hence, or hence-thus, the problem becomes one of consumption. Finally, the problem is ALWAYS one of consumption. What do you think about Al’s dilemma with the tuna casserole? Beets are enjoyed by cats in the winter when strawberries are not in bloom. DO strawberries bloom? No. Yes? No. I wouldn’t know. I am not a strawberry farmer. Who told you otherwise? Who led you astray? And why would you believe his or hers or their words over mine? What I feel the next time we meet when you are not sad with happiness in the tuna casserole. I haven’t – I couldn’t tell you about the last time I ate apple sauce i...
Read more