It will soon become obvious that I need some sort of spiritual renewal — the sooner the better. On the other hand, I need to rant.
I call it convergence. It’s when the coin always turns up tails. For example, I live on a hill. I can see many blocks in all directions. Backing out of the garage, it’s clear there is no one around (for a mile, seriously) EXCEPT for one person, slowly pushing a stroller, talking on the telephone and who will likely reach the driveway at the exact moment of our departure. This may be the same person who is at the end of the long, empty aisle at the grocery where I have gone to pick up one essential item. In the stretch of 100 feet of rare, empty space, I target the product to find that the sole, other customer has set up camp in front of my shelf — well not mine, exactly, but you know what I mean — and is examining each ingredient in it and in competing products and sizes.
The other day, in need of a couple of hours of passive entertainment before bed time, I cursed network TV in general (especially now in tacky reality shows and summer reruns) and PBS’s constant state of fundraising with repeats of how I can eat something that will make me brilliant and live to be 100 if I live long enough to get through the show to find out what it is and buy the book. The Netflix disc arrived cracked. Netflix download refused to give anything up — not even the wonderful documentary Helvetica, which I’d gladly watch again. “Unavailable now, try later, ok?” OK. The button will only let me agree. Just as one cannot, or should not, I suspect, run over a person pushing a stroller, I don’t have a choice here. Back to an obscure channel on TV. It’s Seinfield, I guess. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I call it convergence. It’s the John Cleese freeze. It is my doing.