Published Tuesday, August 10, 2010 8:49 PM
Updated Tuesday, August 10, 2010 8:50 PM
It’s pretty easy to see, if you think about it. On TV, the tacky Middle American shlubs spin the wheel or press the button or otherwise cavort foolishly in the hopes of winning some grand booby prize. Soon, they wake up with cruddy prizes they can’t afford to keep.
Read the day’s foreclosures, and you’ll see a lot of parallels.
We’ve been so focused on style so long, I worry we’ve completely lost touch with substance. The echo chamber was never more popular, the lack of thoughtful dialogue never more profound. How are we ever going to even put a finger on our problems, much less come up with a solution, when we can’t even agree on a definition of the verb “to be?”
It’s such thoughts that make my worries about entering middle age so disturbing. On the one hand, this prevalent societal narcissism is going to be the ruination of us all. On the other hand, I am deeply aware that my descent into early curmudgeon-hood is the very epitome of that narcissism.
But sometimes I can’t help it. I mean, the next time I walk into a virtually empty restaurant, only to find myself seated in the shrieking baby section, I’m going to seriously consider spending the rest of the afternoon atop a water tower with a high-powered rifle. In my mind, if we must have smoke free sections in restaurants, then we certainly need shrieking baby free sections as well.
That’s a lovely way to demonstrate my innate selflessness and love of compromise, right?
On the other hand, there are things that have always bugged me to no end, it’s just that now I am closing in on that time of life that allows me to speak my mind and lose the diplomacy that used to rule my reactions to egregious infringements upon my equilibrium.
Partisan politics, special interests, zealotry in all forms all serve to create a target for my wrath.
There’s an old story about a drunk who, after the bar closed, had taken a couple of his buddies back to his apartment for a few good night pops, and was proudly showing off some of his toys, the Wii system, the DVDs, the smart stereo. Then he led the way to his bedroom where there was a big brass gong and a mallet.
“Dude, what’s with the gong?” one of the guests asked.
“It’s not a gong. It's a talking clock,” the drunk replied.
“A talking clock? For real?” asked his astonished friend.
“Yup,” replied the drunk.
“How's it work?” the friend asked, squinting at it.
“Watch,” the drunk replied. He picked up the mallet, gave the gong an ear-shattering pound and stepped back.
The three stood looking at one another for a moment. Suddenly, someone on the other side of the wall screamed, “You miserable jerk! It’s three-fifteen in the morning!”
I can’t help it; I am becoming the voice of that clock. I want to grab people and shake them; I want to give them shock therapy so they can finally shut up already and see the light of reason.
And then comes a single epiphany: Of course I do. We all do.
That’s basically what’s wrong. We all know about the shouting.
Does anyone remember anything about conversation?