I live in an American household that manages to make potato chips unpalatable. Let that point sink in.
So, there is this thing people do, sometimes, and perhaps it is perfectly human behavior, except when it is so clearly statistically deviantα. Or maybe it’s just something about perception. Sometimes we exist in an environment where simple things are impossible: I am writing something; my coffee cup is empty; if you wish to take odds, no, I cannot manage to go refill my coffee cup without someone demanding that I stop what I am doing and undertake another task. And perhaps that summary sounds a bit pointed, but when you can watch someone get up and start searching the room for something to give you, they make some sort of point: Here is something that looks like it has a deadline in about four weeks; you need to stop what you are doing and do this thing right now.
And if you ask about this phenomenon, the one thing people don’t do is explain why they can’t leave you to what you’re doing; indeed, very often they come right out and—what, confess? admit? acknowledge? chide?—say the one has nothing to do with the other.
α There is, of course, a recursive dive into the question acknowledging that statistical deviance, real or perceived, is itself perfectly human; this is, to the one, a seemingly legitimate existential consideration, and, to the other, a nihilistic rabbit hole.
#yesreally | (#sigh)
To what degree is it significant that today is when a perfectly obvious fact finally occurred to me: My coffee pot is right-handed.
I mean, yeah, to the one, duh.
To the other, though: Really?
I wonder how much they saved by not putting numbers on the other side.
It seems an uncertain question; there are, after all, trivial occasions and results, but what of habituation? To the one, you say to the child, “I am going to [do this]. What do you think?” To the other, you say to the adult, “[The child] wants [this].” When it is what one intends to feed the child, perhaps this isn’t a particularly important distinction. But it really does feel, in other moments when you tell people what the child wants about various things, like a setup. And at some point amid the repetition it does occur to wonder: Is it that you don’t think I hear? Or do you really think telling a child something and then asking a binary question establishes what a child wants? To the one, we are all human. To the other, that this is not necessarily uncommon behavior is part of the point. Or the problem. The rest is less certain; perhaps there are occasions when the child says no, but on the occasions I do, in fact, hear, it seems a pretty predictable process.
Something goes here about the nights and days of getting older. It is one thing to be out of touch; to a certain degree that has nothing to do with age, and, on occasion, a matter not so much pride as relief. Still, though, I happened to find a piece of information interesting, but my daughter informs me that Spider Man soup has apparently always been a thing.
To the other, nothing ever begins.
Yet another holiday ruined.
In truth, there aren’t many holidays I enjoy celebrating with the rest of my society. I’m an American. Look at our big days. A couple of Christian days, three celebrations of genocide, and two borrowed cultural traditions we’ve managed to muck up into unrecognizable bacchinalia. St. Patrick’s Day is one of the latter.
I don’t mind the twist. I even look past the genocidal heritage, since we Americans don’t really care about all that and have our own chapters of morbid insanity to celebrate. St. Patty’s is a primarily a drinking holiday, like New Year’s Eve, MLK Day, and Cinco de Mayo.
And no, that wasn’t a joke about MLK Day.
Sorry. I wish it was.
The things we learn by watching. And sometimes all anyone needs is a witness.
Observations over the weekend:
(1) Adults talking about eating. One says he’s not hungry. The other tells him no, and proceeds to explain what he will eat and when.
(2) Someone announces his mobile phone is missing. The response is to remind him who he needs to call.
(3) A depressive explains a symptom of his malady; certain events can cause something very much akin to physical pain inside his skull—the signal to noise ratio is impossible. His own mother laughs.
What a world. What a world.
Yeah, I saw that. I heard that. And there is no fourth-frame smile. The punch line is sick.