My blogging, which for the most part has been cheerful and (as DV puts it) “phlegm free” seems to have undergone a slight shift in tone recently. One could reasonably assume that after lying in bed for the better part of a month, I'd arise with the sun and sing cheerfully with the birds. Instead I slouch to my keyboard and expectorate.
Take the last post (please): do I really want to see some guy get handed his walking papers? Chances are the guy has a wife and kids. Chances are even better the next editor in chief isn't just going to scrap the fiction (Granger's biggest crime, so far as I'm concerned), but the journalism, too. Esquire vs. Stuff — you want it, you got it.
Maybe I'm just succumbing to a dangerous nostalgia. Guys my age tend to do that, particularly in Generation X. We were born nostalgic — and why not? The Flower Children may have been a filthy clueless bunch, but our contribution to the scene was Grunge: Punk, phase II. Filthier, with just a touch of me-first nihilism. Our gift to the world, and you're welcome.
Three weeks in bed tends to have a reverse-Van Winkle effect: the world hasn't changed in any discernible fashion. It's the same as it ever was, if by “same” we mean, “Steadily getting worse.” I wake up from three weeks' slumber, and what's the big news? There's a new phone!
People: we don't need another goddamn phone!! Forget the bees for a second — these things are killing us! First off, there are the traffic incidents — the faster, gentler way to go. Secondly, there's the technology itself. In order for you to talk to your spouse, that handy little device has to broadcast microwaves to the nearest cell-tower. If those microwaves have to go straight through your head, so be it. Just think about where you keep that phone while you're waiting for it to warble: if you're a guy it's probably on your belt, snug against your kidneys and prostate, and not too far from your balls; if you're a woman, it's in your purse, which you sling under your arm and cosy up to your ribcage. And I'm not even mentioning the landfill issues.
It'd be nice if Apple, or any other corporation, took these issues into consideration before they introduced a new doo-dad to the market. But the free-market assumption is the consumer has the knowledge and the will-power to make her own responsible decision. That's the generous take. Not-so-generous: if Steve Jobs thought he could make a buck selling you a bullet for your brain, he'd do it.
Three weeks in bed, so much of it sleeping, so little of it dreaming. My breath, my energy and my mojo are slowly returning; last night I finally had an honest-to-God dream. I should be happy, but the killer is I dreamed about buying CDs. All my sick-bed epiphanies — time is of the essence, love is the only engine of survival* and what does the Lord require of thee but to do justice, love mercy and walk humbly with thy God?* — all washed away by the glittering vision of a good ol' shopping spree. Eef — go ahead and count me among the chimps sprinting from the trees toward that flashy thing on the horizon.
Sigh. I'll be fine, I'll be fine. My pleasant disposition will return. I've just got to clear all this gunk from my lungs, my head, my soul....