A strain of pep talk, I guess

(Another picture by my sweetheart.)

Dear diary,

I hate to break it to you, but I don’t think that we humans are living up to our sublime potential.

Yet, take away that word “sublime” and we can say we’re on the right track. Cuz who can tell us what our true potential is, or whether or not we’re living up to it?

For, behold, my neighbor Jack stole a car yesterday (hence the lament: “My car got jack’d!”) and that was an accomplishment. — Plus there’s a diner down the street that invented a menu item that consists of two 50-gram beef patties (grilled and savory) topped with juicy tomatoes, fresh lettuce, Thousand Island dressing, American cheese, crunchy pickles, and sliced white onions — served in a soft, sesame-seed bun. Is that not progress?

Moreover, people are hard workers: My friend John P. works eighteen jobs; and his wife watches everyone’s kids. The whole neighborhood is constantly ablaze, and volunteer firefighters keep spraying water from their hoses.

Ever wonder what happened to all the animals that used to pull our buggies before motor-coaches were invented? So do I.

But what do you do when someone joins your club and isn’t able to grasp what the rules are about? I had this oaf walk into our mom-&-pop shop last week, and he said the right password so we let him into the back room; and then he begins ranting about the unfairness of ownership. So I had to school him about how small businesses are different from Gigantic Evil Monopolies like agriculture firms and the fourth estate. Then we made up, because he was a good listener. (Note the progress.) And we even found that we had a favorite artist in common. However, later that evening, when he took my wife and I on a tour of his house, I was shocked to see that he only displayed the UGLY portraits done by our beloved mannerist. Let me elaborate:

You see, most creative types will manufacture products that are, to a certain degree, acceptable; but there’s no way that anyone is adept enough to avoid putting out a failure or two. So what I’m getting at with the story of our group-infiltrator, which I was telling directly above, is that this guy instinctively was attracted to only incorrect ideas.

The way I solved this problem was to hire him on as my employee (our family business is a gas station that doubles as a mini art-museum) and then I promoted him so high up into the administration that I rarely have to see him. I think he’s officially working as our curator now.

And I’ve never dyed my naturally-brunette waves; but, if I ever dye my hair, I’m dying it blonde. Cuz I’ve heard that blondes have MUCH more fun; and I could really use some fun. Plus it’s rumored that the greater percentage of billionaires actually prefer blondes; and I’m trying to attract as many billionaires to myself as possible — I wanna find one who’s willing to wed me. Tho I should mention that I’ll only court females; and I’m already married. So if any affluent damsels are interested in financing a madman for life while indulging in polygamy, please leave an alphanumeric message on my one-way pager. It can’t hurt to be clever. (For instance, if you type the number “80085”, it can double as the English word “BOOBS”.)

One reason I was thinking of hair dye is that the passage about Mikhail Bakunin from yesterday’s entry is still on my mind — the one where he wears disguises to hide from the cops. Now that’s a life that I’d like to live. I don’t care about espionage, cuz that seems like it’d be too much work (having to write down notes about what dives your target haunts; what car he last jack’d; and the ingredients of his favorite flame-broiled hamburger), but I’d love to wear masks and strange outfits for the purpose of fooling adversaries:

Think of the classic disguise: the fake mustache. The mere idea of this accessory excites me. — The first thing I’d do is go to the movies. I’d watch some chick flick that no one would expect me to attend, with my blondie curls concealed beneath my sun hat, and my thick black stache.

Then, when the film is over, I’d go to the clerk at the box office and say “I’d like to speak to the manager.” And when the manager approaches, I’d pound my fist on the counter to accent each of my words in all-caps, which I’d shout at top-voice: “I… WANT… MY… CASH… BACK — that motion picture was atrocious!!” And the manager — actually he would also be the owner of the theater — would be so nonplussed that he’d refund my entire ten bucks. But then I’d calm down and say: “Oh, that’s not necessary — I only expected a discount in proportion to the film’s lacklusterness; in truth, it was about 25% spellbinding — only those last three quarters were insufferable (why would the heroine settle for marrying such a bland jerk!?) — so, here: I’ll make change; I’ll keep seven fifty for myself; and I’ll give you two dollars. The remaining 25-cent pieces I’ll use to buy us each a gumball from the machine over yonder, to commemorate this truce that we have arrived at.” Then, as the owner and I stand together officially chewing our gum, my mustache would come unglued.

And sometimes I wouldn’t even be attempting to go incognito, but the agents surveilling me would be thrown off my trail by pure chance. Like, in the present episode, I am at a retail store whose employees are all required to wear red shirts, and I just happen to be wearing a red shirt this day. So a spy comes out from behind the wall panel and approaches me and sticks his gun in my face and sez: “Could you tell me which aisle has the electronic devices, like those tiny cameras that come in handy during a stakeout? Cuz I’m thinking of buying one.” Then the gun clicks, signifying that he has cocked back its hammer.

So I answer: “Sir or madam, despite my attire, I do not work here.”

Then, just as quickly as he appeared, the man vanishes back in the shadows. And I think to myself:

“Why was I so mean to that mysterious character? Would it have killed me to help this guy find a good camera for his mission? He’s only trying to make ends meet, like the rest of us. He probably has a wife and two kids at home, and three cars in his garage. And a mortgage to pay. (Tonight, the family is probably planning a dinner of chicken & potatoes, with a side of green beans.) So why did I assume that he assumed that I’m an employee of this establishment? Perhaps, when he asked me directions to the electronics section, he was addressing me as his equal — a fellow shopper — and he was counting on my good will to help him locate the item that he wished to purchase. But then I ended up letting him down.” So I return to my studio apartment and spend the rest of the evening fighting back tears of remorse, while transferring into my coin-sorting mechanism all the loose change that I stole today from blind beggars.