A Likely Unhelpful Illustration
This was, in October, the only way I could describe the disease. When I try to dissect it, it sounds like its about language, but in a form closer to the essence of it, an illustration, it seems about something else. Your call.
Here in the restaurant I can see it clearly. I'm just close enough. A dapper, forty-something businessman in an 80's pinstriped suit has just ordered his crap food in this crap place loudly and proudly in the company of his mother, as if it takes character to acquire a large fry. She watches him order for her with a tight-lipped beaming pride for her caring, successful son. He is happy to be able to impress her so easily and will do so for the rest of her stay. They sit and begin the traditional Scandihoovian dance of benign conversation, as I finish my second square little burger. Between the sound of pickles and meat squishing in my head I hear her talking concretely about Angels and help from above as she veers into instances of divine intervention, he smiles and nods with an air of superiority that comes with wealth in the presence of the previous generation. A fish-netted teen walks by and his eyes follow her subtly from bootheel to ass. His mother tries not to notice as she continues her account of how her Henry, his father you know, was saved from the pain of this world at the the proper time, when his suffering had become just too much. We are only human don't you know. His eyes glaze with thoughts of the little angels he will watch online upon returning to the office, the ones that will save him just before his 2:00 with Hoskins. This leads him to thoughts of the hummer he received just last night, the first in a while. Nice what flattery and pearls can get you these days. A true businessman, this guy, I think as I suck down my coke. In the back corner of the parking garage he was pleased with the proper return on his investment.
to be continued
Here in the restaurant I can see it clearly. I'm just close enough. A dapper, forty-something businessman in an 80's pinstriped suit has just ordered his crap food in this crap place loudly and proudly in the company of his mother, as if it takes character to acquire a large fry. She watches him order for her with a tight-lipped beaming pride for her caring, successful son. He is happy to be able to impress her so easily and will do so for the rest of her stay. They sit and begin the traditional Scandihoovian dance of benign conversation, as I finish my second square little burger. Between the sound of pickles and meat squishing in my head I hear her talking concretely about Angels and help from above as she veers into instances of divine intervention, he smiles and nods with an air of superiority that comes with wealth in the presence of the previous generation. A fish-netted teen walks by and his eyes follow her subtly from bootheel to ass. His mother tries not to notice as she continues her account of how her Henry, his father you know, was saved from the pain of this world at the the proper time, when his suffering had become just too much. We are only human don't you know. His eyes glaze with thoughts of the little angels he will watch online upon returning to the office, the ones that will save him just before his 2:00 with Hoskins. This leads him to thoughts of the hummer he received just last night, the first in a while. Nice what flattery and pearls can get you these days. A true businessman, this guy, I think as I suck down my coke. In the back corner of the parking garage he was pleased with the proper return on his investment.
to be continued