And Friday, as I’m leaving, I end up between two women who are walking probably 25 feet apart from one another down this hallway. And picture that I’m just exactly halfway between them. Each of them is talking on her cell phone, and I can hear both conversations equally well (that is, poorly). One of the women has an earpiece, or an implant, or was perhaps not on the phone at all. Both are loud but unintelligible. Plus: I have (disclosing this only because it’s relevant) just finished reading a chapter of Infinite Jest on the toilet. (try not to picture) Not to mention: I’ve taken a fair amount of Advil Cold & Sinus that day.

So I’m here to report (for your information??) that the effect of hearing two simultaneous, gibberish phone conversations echoing around a concrete hallway with a head full of David Foster Wallace and pseudoephedrine is as close as I would like to come to experiencing a schizophrenic hallucination. A nice little taste of madness to end what was already a pretty loony week.

Once home, it was pizza and Two-Buck Chuck, neither of which made me feel even temporarily insane.

Elise: Is it something that moves?
Dad: No.
Elise: Is it colorful?
Dad: Yes.
Charlotte: Is it a dead chameleon?

Dad: ……You win.

Margot: Please, more Cheerios.

If only I were half as creative as them.

I don’t remember putting this together.
I think my computer was trying to make its own mix tape…
that would drive me mad!

I’ve always been the sort who’s more awake at night than in the day.
I do try to get up and work among the decent, respectable people.
But it is unnatural, and I fail daily
to override the circadian rhythms which have been hard-wired into me.

It’s difficult to have a nocturnal orientation around these parts.
I sense a proud agricultural/industrial work-ethic.
And “Early to bed and early to rise” is a fine way of life,
but does it follow (and screw Ben Franklin)
that working late into the night and then struggling,
with your eye-bags and cowlicks,
to join the living at sunrise
should inherently be counted as sloth?

What difference does it make nowadays,
with the illumination available from our modern electrical light-bulbs,
what time of day a man chooses to work?

But night owls have always been seen as deviant; possibly immoral.
Alas, even the stuffier poets have been slow to accept our ways,
as we see with Rillsbrook:

Who flower ‘neath a different Sun;
A cold and pale and ferrous One
BURN THEM!

But, Rillsbrook, you idiot!
Are we insomniacs not human, just like you?!
Do we not hope and dream?
Do we not love our children?
Of course we
would if we weren’t so damned tired.

Maybe we should organize,
we creatures of the night,
and show them what we’re made of!
Maybe form a “Vampires’ Union”
and lobby for siesta rights!

Who’s in?*

*No meetings! I don’t want to meet any of you creepy-ass, milky-eyed weirdos!

Poet name “Rillsbrook” comes from Scott Emmons’ poet name generator.

“What Are America’s Quirks?”
http://ask.metafilter.com/200224/What-are-Americas-quirks

Some recurring themes:
- Americans are blatantly religious, nationalistic, hard-working, polite, and still a little Puritan
- EVERYTHING HUGE!
- American customer service is superior (really??)
- Everyone is terrified of medical bills (we had some recent first-hand terror with this)

But this one made me think of something:
“When Americans kid one another, they will wait a few seconds and then let the kidee know that they were just kidding. Every time. This shocked me for a while.”

That’s an interesting observation, but I don’t know… it hasn’t been my experience at all. Growing up, no one in my family ever said when they were kidding. There was almost never a wink. (My wife’s family is similar). The word “kiddee” above is appropriate– the dry humor could be very confusing when you were little.  But much appreciated once you were in on it.

To me, it was wonderful to be trusted to figure out the joke on your own. It made it yours. It made you feel respected. It taught you to parse everything people said very thoroughly– there was treasure everywhere. It also made you intolerant of ever being talked down to by grown-ups (or newscasters, or advertisers…)

My grandmother is the best at this. I don’t know anyone who can work little twists into the conversation so gracefully. She can tell you exactly what she means without even saying it. She can use the verbal negative space. It’s so rich.

That’s what I’m thankful for.

Growing up, we had humor. We had the fun of expressing love and respect through teasing.

So Happy Thanksgiving, America, you gonzo-religious, gun-stroking, truck-humping, flag-flailing, no-vacation-taking, broke-ass, fat, drunk sons of Jefferson! ♥