Dear Mole: Laying Low

Posted on by desertcurmudgeon

Dropping out of the societal Tarantella is so much easier than I would have thought. All one has to do is spend a few months refraining from public expression and voila! Just like that, I have achieved the near-total obscurity so few seem to believe possible in this age of insecure high-tech self-promotion.

Sometimes– rarely, mind you — I miss hearing from some of those once-familiar voices, but then I remember that communication is a two-way street and that I have nothing to contribute to such exchanges.

Conversely, Jesse and I seem to understand each other better every day now that I’ve adapted so fully to speechless interactions. We communicate through grunts, wheezes and nuzzles, and that’s sufficient.

I contemplated making this post a series of grunts, wheezes and nuzzles to be more illustrative of my current lifestyle, but I don’t think that would have made for a very sensible transmission.

*Grunt*

*Wheeze*

The last time we talked like this, Bob Saget was still alive, and nobody cared. Now he’s dead and everyone is singing his praises. The moral? There are some fates worse than death and being Bob Saget might just be one of ’em.

Here’s an oldie but a goodie:

Snorflegurk,

‘Mudge

22 thoughts on “Dear Mole: Laying Low”

  4. Since my own sudden return from blogoblivion (long second “o” in that spelling) I have wondered where Paul was hiding out these days; I knew with Jesse, but I knew not where. I did spy an occasional use of the “like” button so I knew, deep down, that he had not gone the way of Bob S or Betty W or John M, luminaries who had recently passed (or near-luminaries we remember from 90s sitcoms but only after realizing they were still alive once they had died). No, the universe still has plans for Paul, even if he has no further plans for the universe at this time.

    Say, I work with a fella who speaks much the way you write. His name is Dylan, he wrote a blog once in 2018 for a week or two, and he’s been among my best mates for lo unto a decade now. Recently, when I needed a new salesperson at the store to take the load off of the otherwise overloaded shoulders of Tom, he expressed keen interest (being between gigs at the time) and we brought him on. Everyone who knows either or both of us (which is pretty much everyone in this red town) said “Dylan? A salesperson? But he hates people!” and we laughed and laughed.

    Turns out liking people has nothing to do with being a good salesperson.

    He’s the one I’ve mentioned in my own blog that has cancer (at age 38) and has been going through treatments. He’s doing well. But he still says things like “communication is a two-way street and I have nothing to contribute to such exchanges” out loud all the time. Anyway, you remind me, in paragraphs, of him, in person.

    Me? Yeah, I got Covid. I got better.

    As you’ve probably figured out, long ago – and again just now, I have no problem with communication, two-way or otherwise. If one side breaks down, I can fill the silence with Tom all day long.

    At any rate – as we say when we begin to wrap up – glad to hear you’re doing well, and that Jesse is doing well, and that the universe isn’t done with you, even if it is still bugging the hell out of you. That’s what the rest of us are here for, though. To illuminate, inspire, guide, and annoy you.

    Am I doing my bit?

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    1. Happy new year, Tom! Incidentally, your comment is considerably longer than my post upon which you’re commenting. As always, my words seem to imply an underlying negativity, but it’s quite the opposite. Ignorance is indeed bliss. And yes, my friend — whether I’m silent or loquacious, plese do continue to illuminate, inspire, guide and annoy me! Cheers.

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  5. Regarding the video – what, post post post post punk? Anyone here old enough to remember the Slits? Real, hardcore female punk? The same problem exists today as then. The suits still haven’t figured out how to record it. Neither have the bands doing it at home. It comes out as cutesy self conscious bubblegum. Hang a mic in the middle of the room, get it on. Screw what “they” say a record should sound like. I say that because people I trust say these kids live are a rare treat.

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  6. Ahhh, the old “So, what have you done for me tomorrow” two way communication thing. A coke dealer who re-careered back in 80s told me how many “friends” he discovered he could do without. A precursor to the feeling of loss when we dial out the digital “friends”. I am also reminded of the old psychic hotline joke.

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        1. Out of Frankenose territory. Kind of bumpy. Small bumps, like buried stitches. The doc says that’ll even out, but I go back in March for him to give it a once over and maybe sand it down if it needs it.

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