Nothing funny about feldspar

About a month ago I emailed an old friend who’d sent me a christmas card last year with her news. It only took me 10 months to respond. I told her about some of the stuff that kept me preoccupied and mentioned that I’d been away from home about eight months.

She responded right away (or as fast as I’ve ever seen her respond at least) — news about her kid and her Important Job. And she asked “Where were you for eight months?”

I had hinted at it in the first mail — a “took care of my folks for a while” sort of statement. I took her question at face value, so I wrote back a short but detailed summary of all that had happened to my father and mother from September to April.

I think I overloaded her, because she hasn’t responded. Or perhaps I didn’t catch that our friendship had become so superficial — I knew it was heading that way, but… or maybe she’s waiting ten months, too.

Once upon a time, there was a telecommunications overlord by the name of AT&T. When the people decided that they didn’t want an overlord anymore, they forced AT&T to sunder itself into many Baby Bells. It remained AT&T, though severely weakened and with only a shadow of its former greatness. Over the decades, the Baby Bells grew and ate each other, while AT&T grew weaker and became more marginalized, much to the chagrin of the people who built it up. At one time, it was the most popular form of corporate ownership in the United States, held by thousands upon thousands who saw their retirement plans sink into oblivion. One day, AT&T became so weak that one of its children ate its left arm. This left AT&T small enough to be swallowed by another of its children, but this child, shunning its own name, took the name of its parent in hopes of restoring it to its former greatness, and the possibility of rekindling of its status as benevolent overlord.

Bill lately sounds a bit like the old dog, don’t he?

Plagioclase and I have decided this year we are going to have a holiday season. “Christmas,” we call it, though neither of us considers ourselves christian. Tradition at the traditional time, and all that. And yes, it’s a bit early, but after a couple of years of not participating, one must plan ahead a little.

First, we have to figure out where we’re going to put a tree. Since Plagioclase’s mother moved in, we have precious little floor space, and none in tree-appropriate spots. This will entail moving furniture and the assorted detritus of two-and-a-half packrats (I do not count myself as a whole rat, as I can quit at any time. Really.)

Then there’s the ritual digging out of the decorations, and the associated futzing about with lights, santa costumes for the dog, and chile-pepper tree-toppers.

I’m kinda looking forward to it.

If I wanted to do my own ’80s flashback, I’d've titled that last post “Qui es muy macho?”

But of course, I didn’t think of it soon enough.

So here’s a philosophical question: if you gave a million monkeys a typewriter and a million years to type, would they know how to edit?