A Potential Curmudgeon Goes Full Blown
Curmudgeon
A Tale of a
Miserable Soul
The ominous,
blood-red, blinking tally light of the answering machine (yes, I still have one
of those); the unexpected lobby buzzer while garbed in p.j.’s and yesterday’s
Fruit of the Looms when no visitors are due; the text with no contact identified; the
Facebook message from a guy you haven’t seen since you were crossing guards on
the same elementary school corner in fifth grade, mere children with the
responsibility of life and death in your immature and very irresponsible hands –
such are the unwelcome signs of the apocalypse when all your mood dictates is solitary
seclusion.
To quote
Australian-born, pop-songstress Helen Reddy, by all evidence, presently adrift
in a Witness Protection Program, and her 1973 hit song Ruby Red Dress – “Leave me
alone, won't you leave me alone? Please leave me alone, now leave me alone. Oh, leave me alone, please leave me alone,
yes leave me. Leave me alone, won't you leave me alone. Please leave me alone, now leave me alone.
(And should you somehow be missing the gist) God leave me alone, just leave me alone, oh leave me.” (At this
juncture, you’ve surely surmised something in regards to the unpleasant
direction of today’s essay, as it recklessly barrels toward the oncoming
headlights of complaint and crankiness, like an airport drop-off chauffeured by
Annie’s sibling, Duane Hall.)
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| For all that is holy, won't you please just leave this fine lady alone? |
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| Alvy Singer and Duane Hall, airport bound |
As
much as the exposure of this very blog suggests a search and even sometime successful
securing of a public spotlight, on many an occasion all I solicit from life is
to be left blissfully, pacifically, quietly, serenely, relaxingly alone – a
2016 edition of Simon and Garfunkel’s Rock, “shielded in my armor, hiding in my
room, safe within my womb,” hermetically sealed and stowed away for some future
possible socialization, hopefully not scheduled any time in the very near
future. Jiminy, if I could keep collecting my salary while somehow never
entering the workplace again, that would be my Canaan, a gift from whichever of
the world’s thousands of gods you would chose to assign it to. Is my current catalog of blocked and
unfriended Facebook contacts, now threatening to outnumber and overwhelm the
count of those with whom I maintain continuous communication, the contemporary
indication of a modern Molierian misanthrope? Am I a contemptible cad?
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| Satisfying today's educational portion of the program - Moliere |
No matter
the positive or negative nature of this dispirited disposition, the seemingly simple
aspiration of temporarily, self-imposed solitary confinement can prove as irritatingly
elusive as a truth-telling Trump, a prophylactic employing Palin or a Sanders' soliloquy different in monotonous messaging from all previous, predictable
pronouncements – modern technology has it made it such that we are all
instantly accessible, and those seeking immediate entrée will no longer accept
postponed correspondence. And so, one must always be slightly on edge, in alert
anticipation of the call of the modern day town crier spreading necessary news,
or fulfilling personal needs. All of this being said, there is a duo of unique
exception who can contact me anytime, anywhere and be everlastingly, happily
and comfortably embraced – one is a cat (no judging, please) the other, a homo
sapien and composer of musicals (but not Cats.) Both, being highly skilled readers. should now be fully aware of their identities.
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| Bernie Sanders (see: Pony, One Trick) |
This search
for solitude, this quest for quiet, this pursuit of privacy is assuredly
exclusively a First World problem, one driven by data plans, USB chargers and
Skype, and ultimately of very little consequence or importance. But, sometimes,
there is no greater satisfaction or relaxation than an uncorked Sauvignon Blanc,
a recline on the settee ("couch" to those with less pretense), a properly aged
fromage (see), some saucisses (ooh, someone has Google Translator) and a vinyl
Jefferson Airplane platter, popping and skipping on the turntable.
“I Have My Books and My Poetry to
Protect Me”
And now,
live from the mid-sixties, when all of us were still in black and white, Simon
and Garfunkel with a television performance of “I Am a Rock.”
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions,
cash contributions? Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com.
