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I received slightly more responses
to last month’s article then the one prior, although I still won’t be happy
until I get as many letters as Menudo. Most of the advice was given to me
verbally from readers who know me personally. I have to admit (now that they’re
not right here in front of me) that, although they seemed to be quite animated
on the topic of cell phones and such, none of it made sense to me. Most of it
sounded like a lot of numbers mixed in with words that sounded more like
appetizers at Chin’s Ginger Grill. It was actually my sincerest hope to gain
the attention of a cellular phone dealer who would see this as an opportunity
to get some cheap advertising, thus getting me a drastically reduced or
possibly (dare I think it?) a free phone. This would strain my journalistic
ethics to the limits, making me question my own morals and ideals. Then I would
quickly pummel all those do-gooder feelings into submission with the box that
my new Bambleweenie 8000 cell phone/quantum flux modulator came in.
I did get a very nice response via
email from Nancy who stated (and I quote), “Hey J.T.
- You are hilarious, and you are good with your words.” This made me almost
giddy until she said she picked up a copy of Tour Great Miami at a feed store
in Covington.
Well, naturally this made me think of Kathy Bates in the movie Misery making purchases at a feed store
immediately before going home and adding some odd angles to James Caan’s ankles
with a sledgehammer. I thought that maybe I was overreacting…until I read the
next line; “Have you written a book yet?” I mean, Nancy
seems like a perfectly nice individual and I have the upmost respect for “my
number one fan,” but I think I’ll avoid Covington
during the winter months, lest a tragic driving error and subsequent rescue has
me hobbling about for the rest of my life in a state of fearful flashbacks.
Okay,
that’s enough about Nancy.
Let’s get back to the topic at hand: my miserable existence.
An
ongoing issue with me has been my inability to fit in with any group of
individuals. I have a tendency to over think situations until I’m either
thoroughly disgusted or paralyzed by indecision. This horrible character flaw
enables me to be in a perfectly enviable situation that most people would find to
be a state of bountiful bliss, yet I can see right through that euphoric nebula
directly into the heart of misery (damn…there’s that word again!). As an
example, Denise and I recently went to the Fraze Pavilion to see Mix 107.7’s 80s
festival. Act after act ascended the stage to belt out their well known hits
from the age of decadence, only to quickly retrace their steps back into the
comfort of the air conditioned tour busses.
My
problem is not necessarily with the groups or their performances; my problem
lies within the realm of chicanery. I watched people in the audience dancing
with abandon, apparently unaware that the last time that they danced like that,
they weren’t wearing Depends and didn’t have to be concerned about breaking a
hip while trying to do The Clone. I then watched performers, some of whom had
hair styles that seemed to have been intentionally created with the sole goal of
scaring small children. I’m not saying that the performers should be put out to
graze at a Rocker’s with Walkers convalescent home or that people shouldn’t
enjoy themselves. I’m just saying sometimes it’s hard for me…nay…impossible for
me to suspend my disbelief long enough to find most things as enjoyable as
others do.
I have
never been able to convince myself that something was anything other than what
it is. Even playing with my eight year old son, Kerry, I tried to explain the
physics that would hamper Spider Man’s web slinging abilities. I mean, everyone
knows that if you shot a string of webs out of your wrist (another physical
impossibility) and attached it to a large, inert building as you flew by at 50+
miles per hour, the moment that the web snapped taut, your arm would be pulled
out of the socket and you would be an amputee, albeit for a very short time,
until you plummeted to the ground and succumbed to deceleration trauma. His
normal reaction is to throw the toy at my head and call me a “meaner.”
I
am fully aware that the problem lies within myself. There were 3,500 other
people at the Fraze who were dancing their middle-aged butts off while I sat in
the bleachers thinking that all I needed was a Totally Eighties CD cranked up and I could have just as much of an
enjoyable experience while still being able to get something else done whilst Eye of the Tiger played in the
background. I guess the question is whether or not I should change my outlook
and how to do such a thing, or just not subject myself to any events where I
may be asked to take a trip into the wonderful land of make-believe.
Send
your advice to
This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it
or actually break out a pencil and paper and scrawl your response on a piece of
paper and mail it to Dear You, c/o Tour Great Miami, P.O. Box 191, Tipp City,
Ohio 45371.
This includes you, Nancy!
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