31 May, 2008

the meaning of life and other afternoon beverages

why is it that a cheap red or white tastes like barnyard refuse while the cheapest white zinfandel is simply delicious in its summertimey strawberry-hued undemanding way? and yes, i am having a glass of vino with dinner: it's 2:30 so it's ok.

i am listening to jazz while the speakers hooked up to my i-pod periodically make the kind of noise that makes me wonder if a spaceship hasn't landed somewhere in the vicinity, its green-tentacled inhabitants shooting neutronium-powered laser-phasers at the curious on-lookers. oh, the end of the world is nigh*.

i keep worrying that in case of an actual end of the world, or at least a dramatic decrease in quality of life due to war or nuclear attack sort of thingie, mr. monkey and i haven't got a plan of action. after all, he is often at work, i am often here. where do we go, should some generic evil ones decide to bomb edmonton (in fierce heaven-decreed punishment for the urban planning idiocy that is south edmonton common, indubitably)? where do we go should oil-hungry emissaries of some evil empire decide to take over fort mac? if we are apart, where do we meet? do we head north? south? (all other directions being impossible on account of there being only one highway in and out of town...)

families are supposed to have fire drills and i want to have a nuclear/terrorism drill. after all, i want to know where my monkey is, and i want to be with my monkey, that, in my mind, being the whole point of being united as monkeys.

need to work on this bit of strategic powerplanning.

my god, this pink girlie drink sure is strong. whee!



*i am reading a lot of douglas coupland lately and the side-effect is relentless thoughts about the end of the world, the uselessness of civilisation and a blessed sense of thankfulness that i am not lost at sea like the gen-x'ers he often writes about. perhaps having something resembling a career is selling out, but good god, what are the alternatives? losing my hearing manning a howling espresso machine at some local cafe? dusting shelves at a drugstore, feeling my soul turn opaque and sticky from my deep abiding hatred of the antisocial asshole who owns the place? slicing overpriced veal scallopini at a frou frou deli, engraving in my mind for all eternity that 1lb=454g?

been there, done that on all three counts, and while scraping calcified twinkies off people's teeth hardly seems like a step up, there is the very nice bonus of a respectable paycheque and decent working conditions. but even that is wearing thin. next job? nothing to do with people. i think perhaps i will become a census worker in antarctica, counting penguins making more penguins, once removed from the meaning of life but only once removed, unlike now...

1 comment:

the Dude said...

Whenever asked questions about direction, the answer is invariably "Go west, young man", or in your case "Go west, young vixen".

Have you read Coupland's "Girlfriend in a Coma"? It was my first of his and the most memorable, although I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or not.