It has been my experience that folks who have no vices have very few virtues.
Leslie and I went to Temecula yesterday to see the Avengers movie (awesome!). The theater is next the mall and we had time to kill before the three o'clock 3-D showing so we took a stroll around the place. There is nothing like walking through a mall to give you a good idea of where you fit into the American social maelstrom. I kept looking around for a woman without an ankle tattoo but if they actually existed they were few and far between. I had the instant realization that America is suffering from some disease of terminal hipness. And of course when everybody is hip, nobody is hip, if you know what I mean?
We had dinner with a bunch of friends friday night, one of whom was enjoying time with her stepdaughter, fresh from rehab. She said that the younger generation was deathly afraid of not being hip enough, hence all the ink and alterations. Whatever, I have talked that stuff to death.
I ran into Helen from Guacamole Gulch at the mall, one of my favorite bloggers and all around nice person. She complimented Leslie's picture on the Blast (which my wife doesn't like) and made the observation that it was interesting to see somebody, me, that she knew everything about, thanks to this new medium, but seldom saw in the physical flesh.
Blogging, and maybe the Blast in particular, has to be one of the most narcissistic, self absorbed pursuits known to man. My worst nightmare is that some cave dweller in Bhutan is organizing a calorie counter this very minute with all of my last month's meals charted out on an excel spreadsheet. A daily blow by blow of a rather insignificant life.
I just got off the blower with my dear mother, second day in a row, she was very upbeat and happy and wants to get a new cat. All of her children called yesterday, even Liz, her firstborn, the one who lives forty five minutes away from her in Maryland and has never taken the time to visit. We chitchatted a bit, she is apparently reading the blog every day but her location and name aren't being tracked so I suppose from now on I have to be on my very best behavior.
The conversation eventually drifted into something that resembled this: "You know, it seems like all your friends are getting sick, could it be from your horrible diet? I am sure that you know that pate de fois gras is all grease and fat..." I forget my stuttered retort but it was probably merely a weak backhand as I quickly changed the subject. Besides if there is anyone to blame for my gustatory indulgences, it is my dearest mother. While the other kids ate their waffles, we were the only ones on the block forced to eat calves' brains and eggs, tripe and quiche, before anyone else had even heard of the stuff. The only mom I knew who had her own table at Le Veau d'or.
I, of course have a pretty good take on my list of deficiencies. I am a serial interrupter. Wanton exaggerator. I occasionally use my business card, if not my little finger, to dislodge the little bits of foodstuff caught between my teeth at the dinner table. I have been known after bathing to sit my wet ass down on the toilet seat, even after repeated warnings. I have limited facility with hand tools. I could no sooner fix a car than I could write the Magna Carta. My rule in life is buy nothing that you have to either fix or back up. I can't cook. Little tolerance for the mentally weak. My cursive writing is near impossible to decipher. I have gotten so fat that a sideways look in the mirror will send me into some sort of paralytic shock so I don't. Toenail trimming has also become exceedingly more difficult.
I also possess some phobias, imperfect creature that I am. I don't like heights or driving on bridges. Hate driving next to the highway barricades known as k-rail. Abhor driving in low ceilinged parking garages. Obsessive about spelling or syntaxual errors, unless of course they are of my own making. ´and others say that my slow Mr. Magoo style of conservative driving reminds them of the motoring of an old lady.
I can't stand large crowds of people surrounding me, hence I can't go to estate sales or things like that. Always need to sit in a corner with my back to the wall in a restaurant. Can't drink scotch or gin. Never learned to dance properly. Horrible sense of rhythm. My glasses are always dirty. I snore. Continuously flatulent. Leslie says that I can even do both at the same time. Won't hang my own shirts up or put the cd's away.
I could go on and on but you get the idea. If Honest Abe was right and a multitude of vices are indeed a true measure of a man's good character, with my laundry list I rank right up there with MLK and Mother Theresa.
Yours in deficiency,