Here is how it rolls when I take a vacation break: my beau springs for tickets to the local Shakespeare company, I don’t mean DC but local-local, Arlington’s own “Avant Bard” (they of the nude Macbeth and other creations), and we arrive only to find that half the audience is one entire grade of a nearby Montessori school.
In the words of some Tumblr blogger that I poached a while back: “Why is it that little kids feel the need to scream constantly as if they’re being brutally murdered” (the blogger neglected the question mark, either from illiteracy or quaintness). The twenty minutes before the lights went down were sheer hell; it was hot, someone in the row in front of me had doused herself in Eau De Jungle Rape, and having brought my ashplant — my left leg is going to be slow unfolding after a long sit for many moons to come — I could feel my hands and arms rehearsing the moves of laying about me and breaking as many skulls as possible before anyone could restrain me. Perhaps it’s the upper register harmonics or something. Children should have their mouths taped shut until they reach puberty and their vocal qualities cease to resemble being stabbed in the head with a rake.
They shut up when the show started. Maybe something they teach them at Montessori. For the record, the production was terrific.
I go to the gym the next morning — a bit later than usual, since I don’t have a schedule to meet. Preceding me in the door is a woman trailing a mental defective — the kind that used to be called “imbecile” before everyone got all PC about it, grinning vacantly and making incoherent noises. No one said a thing as she signed in. Jesus Fuck. Time was gyms didn’t let people in without some assurance they knew what they were doing in there. This thing obviously couldn’t be trusted alone with a paper clip, and I had no way of knowing when I was going to turn around and find it underfoot (only once, thankfully, as it turned out, but that was one time too many). I guess this is the inevitable result of all the dumbing-down and disappearing equipment.
So I come home after the quickest lick and promise I can tolerate, pick up a shovel to continue digging out a new herb bed, and a guy in a suit walks up out of nowhere and starts trying to sell me financial services.
I was holding a shovel with fangs. He doesn’t know how lucky he was.
I’m trying to cultivate a sense of philosophical irony. This must be going on all the time while I am working. I guess I should just never take time off.