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Do I Wanna See Your iWhat?

Monday, November 12, 2012   by: Kevin PecoreDo I Wanna See Your iWhat?

“Dad, you should hire me to do your audio book. Don’t worry, no one will buy it so no one will hear it. Kind of a Zen thing. It’s win-win!” – Lurch

“Relax kid, life is an acquired taste.” – GOD

Let’s start with: “Hey man, wanna see my phone?”

Recently, someone offered me the opportunity to check out his new iPhone. I declined, as generous as it was. It’s was a little awkward. Then he became a little pushy about it – a little menacing. Still, I held my ground. He couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to check out his iPhone. I couldn’t understand why he’d want me to check out his iPhone. I told him I had a phone that was plugged into the wall back at my house, and we could stop by and check it out. Rotary dial and everything. He called me a “dick”. He’s a cool guy with serious fashion sense, but I can’t seem to relate to his love affair with his iPhone or any of his toys branded with a lower case ‘i’. In my mind, it’s a tad demented (which says something), and more than a little perverse (which again, says something). It’s like being in love with a h¬and-held Dyson or an eight pound monkey wrench. Finally I had to tell him after about three hours that if Mac were to change the name from iPhone to iDon’tGiveAShitPhone, I would only think about buying six and throwing them in a glacier-fed stream. It’s not an anti-Mac thing, it’s just that I truly don’t give a shit what kind of phone anyone has. Seriously. I’m not going out of my way to be a rube, it’s that I cannot be any more indifferent. Show me a laminated CNN collector card with Larry King smiling at me (true story) from behind his massive red glasses, and I’ll stare at it for hours, just don’t show me your phone. Or if you come home with a new mud pump, I’ll take a decent gander as I’ve always had an awkward affinity towards industrial mud pumps. They bring the party wherever they go. Rock on mud pump!

Well, you learn something new every day!

I learn new things every day of the week. For example: Did you know that there are still remote penal colonies? Who knew? It’s fer true. I’m not sure how useful this information is. It didn’t seem to impress anyone at Canadian Tire when I tried to return my stolen eight pound monkey wrench and the crappy rake that I built myself from a crappy Swiffer. Oh, and, did you know that Lady Gaga recently got a haircut? Or Miley Cyrus? No shit. It’s fer tru. A lot of people talked about it (not face to face). For a while. Not long. Then a South Korean guy who seems like he would be right at home in South Beach inhaling mucho, mucho designer drugs, recorded a novelty song and did a whimsical dance that had everyone talking (not face to face) and dancing (not cheek to cheek). Then something else happened. A storm? Can’t really remember, and people forgot about Lady Gaga’s haircut and the smiling South Korean guy riding an invisible techno-steed. I remember something about there still being remote penal colonies, but the details are now a little hazy. Maybe I just made up the penal colony thing because it sounds dirty. I think life can be an acquired taste. I forget who said this. His name is on the tip of my tongue. Nope. Lost it.
Take a bow, Keanu!

If I wasn’t so paranoid and neurotic, I’d think that things are really not as they seem, and that life, (life being defined as: “every waking moment when shit happens and where it happens and stuff”) is nothing but a massive smokescreen. That whole Matrix premise makes total sense to me, although I would have to struggle to come up with a more banal leading man than that uni-faceted Keanu Reeves. “Woah”. “Woah. Huh?” “What is this? Woah.” And so forth and so on.

I hired a pal down on his luck to be my psychiatrist on the single proviso that he be on call, all day, every day, and always within a few feet of me, unless I’m at work, during which time he can stay home, but available to take my call, like ShamWow Vince. Naturally, he’s not qualified in any way to dispense psychiatric care in any form, whether it’s regressive therapy or psychoanalysis. Yet, he owns an arc welder, so maybe electroshock? Hum, he’s actually not qualified to do much, which is why I got him at super cheap rates I can afford, but then again, like a Cuban holiday, you do get what you pay for.

“Dennis, is this all there is? I mean, are we truly alone in the universe? Please Dennis, tell me my melancholia is only skin deep and that life cannot be just random chaos? It feels like, I mean, is anyone even out there? Does anyone even care?”

“Look, man. I don’t know. Don’t care either. You want me to fire up the welder?”

Dennis is gifted with a beautiful mind but is shitty at math and most forms interpersonal communications. He’s a jerk in an elevator. A little while ago, he suggested that I am neurotic, and perhaps a little paranoid. This, after I demanded to know just what he was doing with his tablet computer during our eat-in session at Eat Street in North Bay Mall. Eat Street which is only A&W, is the shortest street in the world. He told me to relax; was just updating his Facebook Status. Then he showed me a picture of myself taken at a wedding two years ago. He laughed at my “wild eyes”. What the hell? I have no idea how a picture of myself ended up on his Facebook page. He did give the picture a ‘thumbs up’. He told me I was “tagged”. There is no instance when it is ever comforting to be tagged, bagged or flagged. Airports. Libraries. Police. Canadian Revenue Agency. Conga lines. Mall Security.

And so it was. And here it is. I was indeed photographed and tagged while drinking a refreshing soda pop at a wedding. It’s a good thing I wasn’t hauling from a convenience store opium pipe while trying to punch a puppy. That would just make me look bad. There was nothing wrong with the photo itself. I was sitting with my wife. We were both smiling. My wife has a beautiful smile. Me? A weird facial strain that I have yet to master. Had I known at that point that my twisted mug would be mirrored back to me on my fake-shrink’s tablet computer, at an eat-in therapy session on the shortest Eat Street in the world, I would have made more of an effort. Something a little more striking.

All the world’s a stage and so forth . . .


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