Go Tell it on a Mountain
2002-05-31 - 11:56 p.m.
Thought up a name for what I�ve previously called �my generation�. We are the Jim Henson Babes, the Muppets. The Sesame Street Sidewalkers. And those before us, about ten years prior, I will call the Loony Toons, or some variant thereof. And the generation before them, at least two out of four of my parents, the Mickey Mouse Club. The Walts and the Mortimers. Now, go up on your mountain and tell the people that television does bad things, that it will poison your mind and make you lazy. Tell them that you have not become the person that you are, with the values that you have, because of the information that you�ve been fed through the box in your living room. Tell them that their children are in danger of having their heads eaten by this simple contraption, which is bringing down humanity itself, because they sit in front of the box, and not because of what they're not doing by simply sitting there. Because a hole is to dig*, and a mountain is for lying on.
New vocab for this diary: �per par�. Through or by normalcy or normal means. As always the middle, or just enough. As is, as is.
I was telling my dad earlier this week that it takes him too long to put his shoes one; should get Velcro (TM) and all that. But really, it�s the perfect time of the day for a good daze...nothing like tying shoes to remind you of your childhood, and every day after, because you�ve been tying them every day since you learned. We have so much dedication to this ritual that it has become part of our traditions...parents teaching their children to tie their shoes and knot their ties. It�s part of the power all adults hold, to make their children think that they know how to do everything...even a stoned and drunk janitor knows how to tie his shoes, and so can pass this on, so that there is a baseline standard for what any child should know, coming into the world. I taught myself to tie my own shoes, by watching other people (before that I prubly just tied them in a random knot and ran out the door). Not because no one was willing to teach me...I think I just wanted to learn how to do it before they thought I was of the age to tie a shoe. To this end, I don�t tie my shoes like anyone I know...switching the loops from one hand to the other...a simpler way to make the same bunny ears, although it�s noticeably hard to describe in words. Took about five minutes, the other day, to re-learn how to tie my shoes with one hand. Still can�t really tie them both at the same time, because my eyes can only watch one foot at a time. Not like it would be important if I could.
In writing, you have to paint with globs of paint first, and follow with dabs. It�s all about the details, of course, but it�s always easier to give the background a little colour before the main subject exists.
My first real check, $257. I thought this would be a fair time to list the people I work with, because it seems that I�ve past the two-week period of gelatin syndrome in the workplace. I know where they keep their mop bucket. Paula. Pay attention kids, because this is what happens when you put adults in charge of the business world: they sit behind phones all day and call one another. Paula is the secretary, and answers one of the two phone lines on an average of once every...four minutes or so. People calling for death certificates, wondering if their mother�s obituary has been typed up yet, and this stone might have been set crooked...really, the funeral home is a pontiff, the connection between the community and the things that the cemetery, crematory, and the hospital do. And all these calls go through her. She also has a tendency to �gripe� about things, but she assures me that this is totally natural if not necessary. Wesley, �Wes�. Builds planes in his spare time, and it�s assumed that some of them are built well enough to leave the ground. In short, he likes to fly in his spare time. He doesn�t have his embalming license, and doesn�t much care for going back to school to get it, so he�s basically a permanent apprentice. Tony. The main funeral director, although his wife (see next) also helps him out. Waves to everyone he sees, because that�s the kinda guy he is. He said yesterday that �it seems like all the really good embalmings get cremated afterwards...� But that�s the way it goes, as an embalmer...all your artwork is either buried or thrown into a furnace right after you finish the tiny details. Carmel (sp?). This is the person that owns Tony. Kind of an odd lady really; she drew little eyeballs underneath the toilet seat cover that say �I see you! Please put the seat down!� She might remind me of someone, what with her �life is too short and you only live once� atmosphere, but I�m having a hard time putting my finger on it, because I never see her under 5mph.
So this guy stops me at the gas station. �Hey, how ya doin�?� �Oh, fine.� And I went back to cleaning the windshield, one squegie in each hand. �Umm, hey, those girls over in that car was lo0okin� at ya. They said you�ve got a nice ass.� �Oh, that�s nice of them.� Back to the squege. �Yea, they wanted to know how old you are.� �Nineteen...is that all they wanted to ask me?� His eyes got big. �Just a second, lemmie find out.� Like an old man getting a free rental at a porno shoppe. So in the end they asked me to go camping with them...not an overnight thing, just some smores with this odd new guy in town and his nice ass. And in the end, I got called in to work late that day, and really wasn�t all that interested in the first place.
* �A Hole Is To Dig� is a very nice children�s book, right up there with the Golden Books, the Frog and Toad adventures, and the Harold�s Purple Crayon books. I very much recommend them...this has been today�s advertisement, and while we�re at it. BUY FLORIDA ORANGE JUICE.
