The Fruits of My Sabbatical

Wow. It’s been a long time since I’ve posted anything, huh? Thanks to a kind coworker who has me on a strict no-apology regimen, I am in no way contrite for the lapse. Sometimes I have lots to say, and sometimes not so much. That’s just the way I be, I guess.

But reading recently in the news about Madonna’s desire to be like a petite Indian man who liked to sleep with nekkid, nubile women and seeing that New England Patriots’ hunk-o-back Tom Brady getting his (ex)girlfriend knocked up is above-the-fold news today in Boston, it is clear to me that my absense has somehow caused the Earth to tilt off its axis. And it’s up to me to put some no-nonsense nonsense out into the ether to balance things out. I’m nothing if not dutifully nonsensical.

How do you know, I mean, really, really know … like so know you don’t know, it just is … time to pare down?

Finding amongst your possessions this magazine.

That’s how you know.

Number One Way Not to Begin the First Conversation of Newly Minted, Grasping-at-Straws-to-Save-Our-Tenuous-Relationship “Date Night”

“At the Playboy mansion holiday party …”

Goddamn Bravo and its Real Housewives of Orange County marathon. It does make my life seem much less pathetic than usual, though, so there’s that going for it.

How do you know, I mean, really, really know … like so know you don’t know, it just is … time to move to the tiny, tipsy table next to the stinky bathroom?

#1 Boy-man 1 at the next table over starts expounding on the malodiferous urine of a friend.

#2 Boy-man 2 tries to explain to Boy-man 1 the difference between women who are good dumb and those who are simply dumb.

#3 Boy-man 1 observes that Texas is one of the few states he’s never been to, and he doesn’t much care to ever go. Boy-man 2 concurs. Silence.

#4 Boy-man 2 wishes aloud that he was able to type text messages into his phone faster.

I’d love to say I was kidding or making this shit up, but I ain’t and I’m not. These are snippets of an actual … conversation doesn’t really seem to fit, but whatevs, to which I was subjected this afternoon. The two dudes were clearly past the age of majority, but beyond that I could not definitively say how old they were. My best guess is not very.

And these inanities were not four hours worth either. I sat next to this table only for as long as it took me and my companion to shovel down two slices of pizza. This conversation was—generously—90% verbal ipecac, 10% conjunctions and helper verbs.

I wonder how in the name of all that is holy Boy-man 1 has any idea what his friend’s urine smells like and in what socio-subculture it is okay to discuss this with another dude human being. I also wonder how flattered Boy-man 2′s girlfriend would be to know that she is, apparently, the good kinda dumb. My best guess is not very.

The good news? Ignorance is highly curable. Youth even more so.

Now, a conversation on the relative merits of good dumb versus bad smart … that would be riveting. No, seriously.

(Possibly) related items

• Wine and Sweet Words
• Dead Guys I Like, Part 8
• Hear Me on That

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cheese for dinner by kirsten k. hammann is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

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