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Dec. 29th, 2014
Post Christmas Blues
Dec. 29th, 2014 09:09 amI was too quick in my Christmas merriness. It hit a strange note early on when Pop set off to leave for the festivities at Jack and Jill's place. Lorie had come here, so that they can prepare their gifts and leave together, leaving her car here. Before they left, she rushed into the big room bubbling over in yuletide cheer, while I was in midmeal. At least I did not have anything racy on the TV screen. She handed me a tiny bag of chocolate candies. Truffles? I have heard of them in movies and am curious, but I do not know if I will be adventurous enough to try one of these. It has all the feel of a Dollar Store purchase, and such is not the place to get your chocolate treats. It was, in any case, much more than what I had to give her, which was only a faint-hearted "Merry Christmas". She punctuated her gift with a big, tight hug, as if I were her favorite nephew who never did anything but make her feel proud. If she were ten years younger, that rather passionate embrace might have been a little thrilling. Again, I did not have much to give her in return, save a look of bafflement and perhaps a slight smirk of distaste. I ought to be grateful for any token of affection that somehow strays my way, but despite these long decades of torturous deprivation, my body still maintains some standards - like she should at least be under fifty, even if that is only barely true of myself.
After that, for the whole day, it was just the cats and me frolicking about, as free and happy as monkeys in a tree. They returned late in the evening, the whole gang, Jack and Jill and then some. I was prepared for Pop to rush into the big room and tell me that they want to see the new TV, which would not be particularly unreasonable since Jack is supposedly helping to pay for the thing. It actually might have been better if events had gone this way, but Pop was not in any condition to do much barging anywhere. I think they drove him home in his car, and he had to be practically carried to bed. He still drinks as though he were in his thirties or forties, rather than his decrepit seventies. I am not going to say anything to him. I know he is not going to change at this very late point. The time for personal growth is well-past over, and if he wants to live as though any day could be his last, well, after all, it just might be.
In my paranoiac suspicion, I wonder whether Jack is trying to kill him off. Maybe he is anxious to remove the movables now rather than wait for nature to take its certain but circuitous and slow, winding course. I do not actually believe that, though. If that is what Jack really wanted, it would be done. For one thing, they could have let Pop drive home on his own. They are simply thoughtless, and maybe Jack is not altogether averse to giving Pop a little shove along the way and making things a little easier for the grim Mr. Reaper.
As for Pop's physical condition, he is still a tough old guy, but it is just as well that the Commissary was closed on this Friday, because he does not make it out of bed until after noon. I will count it as a quasi-miracle that he gets up at all, and it's a good thing that Pop still prays before he eats. When we do go to get our groceries on Saturday, I learned that there are some more ramifications from the Christmas festivities at Jack's. Lorie fell and fractured her leg. She cannot blame it on our litter box this time, but no doubt she is still sure that she does not have a drinking problem. She is going into surgery and is hobbled. Pop has long struggled to get her to spend the night in his bed, and his diligence has paid off at last. She needs to lie up where she can be close to a bathroom, and Pop 'generously' offered his accommodations, as her own place does not provide such a luxury as a bedroom-bathroom combo. How is a crippled lady to refuse? Diamonds are nice, but necessities are necessary.
For me, on the most narrowly selfish level ((and, seriously, do I operate on any other level?)), this hasn't turned out too badly. I have been practically living in the big room these past couple of days as though it were my own bedroom, except for a couple of hours on Sunday afternoon, when Pop wanted to catch his Cowboys football game on high-definition TV. However, I am not sure how long she will be staying, which could begin to strain Pop's sense of fair play toward me after a while. Pop did say that it was just for a couple of days, but that could mean the time only up to the surgery, and the truth can be very slippery in Pop's hands. I still remember the time when he was practically crying to a creditor on the phone that he just lost his daughter, when he was actually talking about Princess. True, Princess was no less a blood-relative to him than Jack is, but at least Jack is the right species, aside from a few reptile genes that might have slid into his making.
After that, for the whole day, it was just the cats and me frolicking about, as free and happy as monkeys in a tree. They returned late in the evening, the whole gang, Jack and Jill and then some. I was prepared for Pop to rush into the big room and tell me that they want to see the new TV, which would not be particularly unreasonable since Jack is supposedly helping to pay for the thing. It actually might have been better if events had gone this way, but Pop was not in any condition to do much barging anywhere. I think they drove him home in his car, and he had to be practically carried to bed. He still drinks as though he were in his thirties or forties, rather than his decrepit seventies. I am not going to say anything to him. I know he is not going to change at this very late point. The time for personal growth is well-past over, and if he wants to live as though any day could be his last, well, after all, it just might be.
In my paranoiac suspicion, I wonder whether Jack is trying to kill him off. Maybe he is anxious to remove the movables now rather than wait for nature to take its certain but circuitous and slow, winding course. I do not actually believe that, though. If that is what Jack really wanted, it would be done. For one thing, they could have let Pop drive home on his own. They are simply thoughtless, and maybe Jack is not altogether averse to giving Pop a little shove along the way and making things a little easier for the grim Mr. Reaper.
As for Pop's physical condition, he is still a tough old guy, but it is just as well that the Commissary was closed on this Friday, because he does not make it out of bed until after noon. I will count it as a quasi-miracle that he gets up at all, and it's a good thing that Pop still prays before he eats. When we do go to get our groceries on Saturday, I learned that there are some more ramifications from the Christmas festivities at Jack's. Lorie fell and fractured her leg. She cannot blame it on our litter box this time, but no doubt she is still sure that she does not have a drinking problem. She is going into surgery and is hobbled. Pop has long struggled to get her to spend the night in his bed, and his diligence has paid off at last. She needs to lie up where she can be close to a bathroom, and Pop 'generously' offered his accommodations, as her own place does not provide such a luxury as a bedroom-bathroom combo. How is a crippled lady to refuse? Diamonds are nice, but necessities are necessary.
For me, on the most narrowly selfish level ((and, seriously, do I operate on any other level?)), this hasn't turned out too badly. I have been practically living in the big room these past couple of days as though it were my own bedroom, except for a couple of hours on Sunday afternoon, when Pop wanted to catch his Cowboys football game on high-definition TV. However, I am not sure how long she will be staying, which could begin to strain Pop's sense of fair play toward me after a while. Pop did say that it was just for a couple of days, but that could mean the time only up to the surgery, and the truth can be very slippery in Pop's hands. I still remember the time when he was practically crying to a creditor on the phone that he just lost his daughter, when he was actually talking about Princess. True, Princess was no less a blood-relative to him than Jack is, but at least Jack is the right species, aside from a few reptile genes that might have slid into his making.
Chris Rock
Dec. 29th, 2014 02:57 pm<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<
INTERVIEWER
Do you sit around and read other people’s Tumblr accounts, or their tweets, or follow them on Facebook?
CHRIS ROCK
A little. I follow a couple people on Instagram. You’ve got to follow all that stuff. You have to understand it, because if you don’t, then you’re going to sound like an old guy. You got to have the ability to use it as a reference. A lot of the time, the difference between hip and unhip is just reference. We did some sketch the other night on SNL, and in it I tell my wife, “Hey, honey, the cab’s here.” Then I look at it again. I go, “You know what? We got to rewrite this.” “Hey, honey, the Uber’s here.” That little difference, it’s a big, big deal. I remember seeing Robin Williams at Town Hall. He did some Elmer Fudd bit, and I was like, dude, if you change that to SpongeBob—
-- Chris Rock at Vulture.com
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
INTERVIEWER
Do you sit around and read other people’s Tumblr accounts, or their tweets, or follow them on Facebook?
CHRIS ROCK
A little. I follow a couple people on Instagram. You’ve got to follow all that stuff. You have to understand it, because if you don’t, then you’re going to sound like an old guy. You got to have the ability to use it as a reference. A lot of the time, the difference between hip and unhip is just reference. We did some sketch the other night on SNL, and in it I tell my wife, “Hey, honey, the cab’s here.” Then I look at it again. I go, “You know what? We got to rewrite this.” “Hey, honey, the Uber’s here.” That little difference, it’s a big, big deal. I remember seeing Robin Williams at Town Hall. He did some Elmer Fudd bit, and I was like, dude, if you change that to SpongeBob—
-- Chris Rock at Vulture.com
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>