THINKING AND DRINKING AND TYPING

I suppose that when I retire I will miss all those little voices calling out my name.  For attention, for recognition, for comfort (and for what lately has seemed, more and more often, the whininess of long-distance whiner.)

But sometimes, I swear, I am becoming royally sick of hearing my name.  It conjures those years when my mother wasn't, um, the most stable octogenarian in the precinct, and she'd call, at least a dozen times a day, leaving messages on the answering machine, all of them beseeching and pleading, some tearful, most ridiculous, every one prefixed by my name.  Fuck, I got sick of hearing my name.

So I need to remind myself -- on my way to the finish line -- that children are children.  And they are the reason I wanted this job in the first place.  So,

Yes, Isabelle, I'll get to you in just a second.  Benjamin, go ahead.  Your hand was raised first.  Then you, Katy.  And Liam, you're after Katy.

Oh, hell.  I guess it's better that not being called at all.

Llewellen... need I ask?  More beer, old son.

LOST BURNS POEM

'Tis time to toss the caber

'an eat the oatcakes, sure;

'Tis also time to stab the haggis 

'an get ye sooo fookin' pissed

ye won't notice me stealin' ye'r bloody wallet -- 

or ye'r girl.

Yeah.  Okay.  Robbie didn't write this.  So fookin' sue me.

Llewellen... pipe in that haggis and bring us a few wee drams o'the good stuff.

Ever thought what your final post would be, knowing it was to be your last?  Who would you acknowledge?  What would you say?

I've devoted a fair bit of thought to this and I've come to a conclusion.  A final post should be short.

A simple adios.

And thanks for all the fish... or whatever.

So, thanks.

I THINK I JUST BECAME MY FATHER... or

The child is father of the man.

My son was home for nearly two weeks over the Christmas break.  (He's a first-year university student, living in residence, enjoying immensely his freedom from the drudgery here at the Lunch Counter.)

That I miss him is a given.  Those two weeks went by in an eye blink.

Which seems to be the way of things.  While my life is speeding towards its conclusion, his is stretched out in front of him, luxuriously, with tantalizing possibilities.

Funny, isn't it?  I'm on a fast track to the big stillness, and all I want to do after work is close my eyes and remember.  He has years ahead of him, but can't gobble it up fast enough, making memories as he goes.  Guess I was the same way.  Guess we all are.

Guess I just had to write it down.  And maybe remember what Wordsworth said:

          My heart leaps up when I behold
              A rainbow in the sky:
          So was it when my life began;
          So is it now I am a man;
          So be it when I shall grow old,
              Or let me die!
          The Child is father of the Man;
              I could wish my days to be
          Bound each to each by natural piety.

'SPLAIN THIS ONE, LUCY

How the fuck do five thousand birds just drop dead and plummet to the ground?  Lightning my arse.  Ditto fireworks.  Is that what killed all the fish, too?  Right.  Sure.

If I didn't know better -- and I don't -- my money's on some kind of CIA/Defense Department experiment in selective slaughter.  Either that, or Arkansas just ain't no proper place to spend the holidays.  (Nor yer growin' up years, neither, for that matter.)

In other news, the Lunch Counter has suspended its import of Arkansas fish.

Llewellen -- prepare the haggis.

DOCTOR'S LOG, STARDATE 1/1/11

I spent the greater portion of my day on the couch watching a Star Trek movie marathon on the Space Channel.  That's because I'm not terribly bothered by the here and now... except for the occasional urge to get up and pee.

Traveling faster than light, carrying a shitload of weapons, and romancing them feisty Klingon women... yowza!

Happy New Year, earth-lubbers.