What was thinking like before words? Before we created these unique and elaborate sets of mouth sounds to symbolize things and ideas (language), how did we think? I don’t know about you, but most of my active, conscious thinking is word dialogue, my Introverted Thinking (Ti) for those of you following the Myers Briggs Series (Part 1 and Part 2 so far).
I have word dialogue going on in my head almost constantly, sometimes multiple streams, maybe a stream of thought trying to solve a problem with a simultaneous soundtrack going on in the background, something like “You’re the best…AROUND! Nothing’s gonna ever keep you down!” Don’t take that too narcissistically; that was just our theme song for the college golf team my junior year. You know, that mega hit for the Karate Kid soundtrack? Megastar recording artist Joe Esposito? No? Catch up and read this, son.
I still love this cartoon, and it’s appropriate again:
Holy Crap! DT is actually president! Of the United States! I think it was the narcissism thought bubble that brought about that realization…again. Even now, six months later, I keep getting those “holy crap, this is reality” sorts of slaps in the face. It’s like those dreams where you won the lottery and it seems so incredibly real, but then you wake up and sort of begrudgingly come to terms with the fact that, despite the excitement hangover you’re holding on to, you didn’t actually win the lottery. It’s like that only what you thought (hoped) might have been a dream is, in fact, real. I’m probably a good case study in denial right now.
Do you ever stare at a spinning ceiling fan that’s a little loose, watch it wobble, and wonder how many spins it’ll take to finally fall out of the ceiling mount and onto your feet? That’s my version of the Tootsie Pop licks conundrum right now. It’s actually a bit distracting and hard to focus on the typing. Are those fan blades spinning fast enough to cut off my toes? The world may never know…probably because the electric cords will prevent it from falling all the way. Hold strong fan…hold strong.
Hey! If the moon were a hotdog, would ya eat it? Okay, that wasn’t my random thought, that was Harry Carey. Actually, it was Will Ferrell doing Harry Carrey. I mean imitating Harry Carey. That was an important clarification. Check that, it’s “Harry Caray” not “Harry Carey,” says Wikipedia. I don’t know how I’d ever finish a blog post without Wikipedia.
Evidently Harry Carey – Carey with an “E” – is also a person, but not a Cubs baseball announcer. He was one of the earliest superstars of the silent film era. I wonder if he’s related to Jim Carey. Wikipedia says…crap…no, because it’s “Jim Carrey,” not “Jim Carey.” Also Yahoo! Answers says that Drew Carey’s dad’s name was “Harry,” but he’s not the famous “Harry Carey” whom we just established was a silent film era star. I’m going to assume Mariah isn’t related to any of them and end this Wikipedia charade.
You ever have one of those weird relationships with a person that you see quite frequently, maybe daily, and yet you’ve never said more than “Hey. How’s it going?” the entire time? There’s a guy I’ve known at work for over two years. I met the dude briefly at the HR orientation, enough to get his name, which I no longer remember, but since then I have literally never said more than “Hey. How’s it going?” for over two years, probably through over a hundred encounters.
How do you get out of that? You certainly can’t stop saying “Hey. How’s it going?” because then you look like a dick pretending you forgot this person. It would also be weird to stop the guy in the hallway and say, “Hey, maybe we should take this to the next level? Would you mind, I mean, only if you’re cool with it, but…maybe, next time we run into each other, I could maybe ask you if you did anything cool over the weekend or something like that?” Yeah, I’ll probably have to quit my job. And I think I just earned my masters in social relations.
Did you guys see this Corpse Flower thing? It’s the one at the Greater Des Moines Botanical Garden that everyone was talking about because it blooms like once every five or ten years, only for a day or two, and when it does it smells like the rotting remains of someone in the wrong place at the wrong time on the mob side of town. Sorry, that was probably more graphic than necessary to get the basic point across. Anyway, I don’t know if it’s true, but I saw a news story on Facebook that it grew really big and ate the botanical center? Again, not sure if it’s true, but can you imagine? I don’t know, but you can read it by clicking this link (that was the link…the words “this link”).
Cripes, that kid is paranoid about his toes.
So I had this dream the other night…no, still not a lucid dream, but hey, maybe we should move on from that now, huh?
Anyway, I was at some event center that was letting us sample different late night talk shows, sort of like a music festival with different bands on different stages at the same time. By the way, a little background, this late night buffet would have been childhood nirvana for me given that, around age three, I would routinely decide to forgo the bedtime my mom had selected for me that night in order to watch Johnny Carson deliver a monologue, imitate a clairvoyant, and invite his buddies over for silly conversations.
Initially I was watching one of the shows with a pretty full live audience. This particular show was, I don’t know, Seth Myers maybe? Clearly I was less than enthused even though I do appreciate his actual show in real life. At any rate, I decided to head over to another show that was a little sparse with only about five viewers in the audience. There on stage was David Letterman in a wheelchair with one of his legs severed. Apparently this injury served as some sort of motivation for him to come out of retirement? And he’d been gone long enough that his loyal fan base was dead or playing shuffleboard and canasta in a Florida retirement home, so he had to work his way up from the bottom again? I don’t know; it was a dream.
Given the small audience, and the lack of security, ropes, or gates, I walked right by the stage and said “Dave? Is that you?” He acknowledged as much. Then I asked him, “What happened to your leg?” His reply, in the uniquely self-deprecating and deadpan manner that only David Letterman could produce: “I had a son.” I just sat there looking at him sympathetically and thinking “Man, having kids must be rough.” I should probably send my mom a sympathy card for keeping her up late at night over thirty years ago. Or maybe I’ll just call her now on the phone. Yeah, that’d be cheaper. I mean, that’d be more personal.