Rick's April Tirade
The Cynic's Dream
From the moment I woke up, unaccountably relaxed and refreshed
after four hours of sleep, I knew this day would be different.
Picture this: a Mozart piano concerto is wafting its lyrical
notes from my clock radio (finally, "golden oldies" worthy
of the name!) and the entire room glows with warm and soothing
sunlight. I reach over to nuzzle my cat and find, in his place, a
slumbering redhead tangled in the sheets, still blissfully oblivious
to the music. My wife, of course! How could I forget that we had
finally found each other -- we who had loved each other as platonic
ideals all our lives, now enjoying the fruits of our longing. A
decided improvement over personal ads and video dating services!
A moment later I hear a scratching at the bedroom door. It's
Skippy, the beloved dog of my boyhood: a splendid English Setter,
spry as ever at the age of 43... my friend for life. Old Skippy
fetches the morning newspaper and I begin to read. "Israelis
and Palestinians Agree to Share United Holy Land"...
"Serbs, Croats and Bosnians Form New Slavic Republic"...
"Turkey Cedes Eastern Provinces to Greater Armenia" (as an
American of Armenian ancestry, I derive particular satisfaction from
that one)... "Michael Jackson Abducted by Space Aliens: I'm
Going Home, He Says"... "Teddy Roosevelt Throws Hat in
Ring for Campaign 2000"... "Dow Jones Industrial Average
Jumps 1,319 Points to All-Time High -- No Inflation in Sight,
Declares Greenspan"... "Snider Belts 3-Run Homer to Win
Pennant for Brooklyn." I check the bestseller list: "The
Cynic's Dictionary" is solidly entrenched in the #3 spot; John
Grisham, Michael Crichton, and "A 16th Helping of Chicken Soup
for the Soul" are nowhere to be found. Ah, there's good news
today!
I sit down to a hearty breakfast of bacon, eggs and home fries,
all recently found to raise crucial levels of HDL (good cholesterol)
in the blood. The bacon is derived from a new genetically engineered
meat source that grows from fertilized pods; no innocent animals
need be slaughtered. I reach out my window, pluck a few oranges from
the tree, and enjoy a tall glass of fresh juice.
Our two children are dressed and ready for school. Running out
the door, they shout, "I love you, Daddy, and you never have to
buy us any toys that are crassly produced as commercial movie
tie-ins!" I'm fond of those kids.
Now I'm ready for work. (It's Wednesday; the weekend begins
tomorrow.) Tooling down a scenic highway as the morning sun slants
against the blue-green mountains, I realize that I've driven
directly from town into the open countryside: no congested highway
strips littered with fast-food joints and gas stations, no sprawling
tract-home developments or unnaturally immaculate condos, no
insufferable Wal-Marts or used-car dealerships or ugly high-tension
wires. Moreover, every traffic light I encountered as I left town
was programmed to turn green as I approached.
I reach the office, a Georgian-style colonial mansion on an
estate overlooking the sea. A few colleagues greet me as I stride in
the door at 9:45; it's still early, and more than half the crew
hasn't arrived. I have time to craft my thrice-weekly column,
"The Generalist," a 1,200-word discourse on any subject
that strikes my fancy. (Millions of enlightened fans look forward to
reading it, the way some folks used to look forward to an all-new
episode of "Seinfeld.") The job pays handsomely and takes
me only half an hour at most. I unleash a dazzling stream of
felicitous phrases that tumble effortlessly from my brain; I've
never known the meaning of "writer's block." What block?
You just sit at the keyboard and take dictation from God. Doesn't
everyone?
After browsing the Web for half an hour, I attend our daily 11
o'clock meeting for solving the world's problems. Today we establish
plans for reversing the deterioration of the inner city and stopping
the Microsoft juggernaut before it destroys civilization as we know
it. But soon it's time for lunch.
Three colleagues jump into my little Oldsmobile Achieva
(currently the most prestigious of all automobiles) and we make way
for France, just nine miles down the Interstate. Tall poplars,
straight and narrow, flank the sun-dappled road as we approach the
cathedral of Chartres. We stop in its shadow, where we hastily
assemble a lunch of fresh baguettes, camembert and champagne from
the local shops. Then we relax at an outdoor cafe to enjoy the
passing scene. Some locals approach me at the table.
"Etes vous vraiment l'auteur de 'La dictionnaire cynique'?,"
they ask. "Vous etes formidable, comme Jerry Lewis!"
They're handing me the ultimate compliment, and I thank them.
Back at the office, those of us on the creative team watch a Marx
Brothers classic, "Duck Soup," as part of our campaign to
re-introduce intelligent silliness into American culture. A few
upper-management people stop by to ask politely if there's anything
they can do for us. We tell them they can start working on the fall
catalog.
At 3 o'clock we're free to conduct independent research or head
home for the day. I've put in a long three-day week, so I opt for
the latter. Homeward bound, I take a slight detour along the Oregon
coast, stopping to enjoy the panoramas of craggy cliffs and
sea-stacks from windswept overlooks. How wonderful a place the world
has become since they moved all the good parts close together!
Home again, I inspect our rose garden and greet the children as
they step off the school bus.
"Daddy, we love you," they shout, "and guess what
-- we bought you the new Oxford edition of the Collected Works of
Samuel Johnson!" Delightful kids.
We frolic with Skippy in the backyard, in the cool shade of the
sassafras trees. My wife, home from work, joins us for a pitcher of
lemonade on our verandah. We nod hello to the Applebys and Stewarts,
who join us to swap a few neighborly yarns.
For dinner, it's off to the Vienna Woods, just 12 miles north of
town. After a hearty repast of sauerbraten and dumplings, we find
our favorite wine cellar and enjoy a bottle of ice-cold Riesling.
The crowd begins to sing lusty old university songs. My wife and I
know the words, and we join in the merriment. Outdoors in the
moonlight, we dance to a favorite waltz and take a carriage ride
through the darkening woods. It's a good life.
We're pleasantly fatigued as we walk up the steps to our home and
open the front door. The kids have done all the housework; they're
ready for bed. I read them an H.L. Mencken essay and they clamor for
more.
"He's almost as good as YOU, Daddy," they shout
gleefully.
But it's time to put out the lights. We'll read some more Mencken
tomorrow, I say as I tuck them in.
Alone in my study, I sketch out an idea for a new book, "The
Riddle of the Cockroach," and write half of it within an hour.
I'm humming; my mental powers are prodigious; I've reached
"peak performance." Meanwhile, my wife announces that
she's heading up to bed.
"I just want to write another cynical tirade for my
website," I tell her. "I'll be up there in twenty
minutes."
"OK, darling," she says. "I'll be waiting."
I sit down at my computer and stare at the screen. Hmmm. I draw a
blank. I can't think of anything cynical to write! The ideas just
won't come. I fidget in my seat; droplets of sweat begin to bead on
my forehead. Am I washed up as a cynic? It's not possible! Where did
I go wrong? Aaaaaarrrrrghhhhh!!!
I wake up with a start. "Wild Thing" is blaring from
the clock radio. It's 7:30 on a dark and drizzly morning. I lean
over to kiss my wife and get a mouthful of cat fur instead. This
would be a day like any other.
