Tag: funny

Usually, he’d think it: “You’re your own man. You make your own destiny.” Occasionally, he’d speak it, sometimes with the addition of a final exclamation mark, or in particularly dire times, a question mark.  It was his mantra, his constant psychological companion. “And why shouldn’t it be?” he’d think. “After all, it’s the kind of adage grandfathers bestow to toddlers on their knees. It’s the spiritual pronouncement of self-made men!”

But for Henry Addleton, it had yet to bring him fortune or fame. Had he done something wrong? Was there perhaps some set of instructions that certain individuals possessed, and he did not? And if so, why them and not him? Why was it always that Henry, delightful Henry, time and again suffered the cruel hand of fate? How could it be that such a lovably affable, miniature, stooped, stout, near sighted, hard of hearing, bow legged, missing the index finger on his left hand, inexplicably somehow never stricken with polio, bald man could not be asked to the table, to partake in the feast of victory, if but only for an aperitif?

And to make matters worse cherished letter writers, the good years, if they were ever really good, had now long since faded into the should-have and could-have-been’s of yesteryear. So in the quiet of his one room apartment on the outskirts of Cleveland, on one particularly rain soaked New Year’s Eve, Henry made a resolution. He wrote it in big black bold letters, so he wouldn’t forget it. He wrote it with a permanent marker, so it would always remain.

He wrote it on every door, every window, and every wall. He wrote it on his dog. It was a proclamation and reminder, that on that night, that fateful New Year’s Eve, one minute from midnight, sixty seconds from Auld Lang Syne, sixty thousand milliseconds from never getting his security deposit back, and sixty million microseconds from the irreversible consummation of Two Thousand and Thirteen, Henry Addleton and the world would never be the same again.

He reinvented it. He took what used to be called, “the only game in town,” and twisted it into a novelty. Well, he helped. He contributed his part to take ruthless-at-any-cost-competition, the predominance of statuesque looks, born into money privilege, it’s about who you know license, male centered misogyny, the taller the better heightism, xenophobia, etc. — and spun it all so hard, so fast, and for so very long—the whole alignment of the game, its way of functioning, shifted irreparably. And in that one minute [Editors Note: It was actually a series of moments, over many, many years.], when all was askew, a strange thing happened. After all the trembling, turning, and twisting had ended, something remarkable and completely inexplicable took place.

For the first time since Henry Addleton had been born into the Virgo Cluster fifty-two years ago, in one of its fifteen hundred galaxies known as the Milky Way, on that third distinguished planet from the Sun, on the continent of North America, in the country of the United States, in the Midwestern state of Ohio, many agreed with him. And if this letter writer was a philosopher and betting man, given to long-term interstellar bets, he’d stake that alien life forms baring no likely countenance to our familiar, also gathered together, lights years perchance apart, conveying their own exacting forms of expression, fins, antimatter, and what not, in raising praise for Mr. Addleton’s accomplishment.

But fellow letter writers, this is the real reason I write you today: We have forgotten. We have overlooked that this New Year’s Eve, Two Thousand and Fifty Two, rapidly approaching Two Thousand and Fifty Three, marks the fortieth anniversary of the “Colossal Shift.” And yes, we know well the modern comforts that we have been luxuriously afforded today as a consequence, the pleasant life that living with respect for our integrality has brought us. But although we have pledged to forever move forward, to persistently progress from strength to strength, to relentlessly forge a stronger and more just world, we should also remember, nay not forget, those brave ones who paved the way for this lofty future of which we are now a part.

For in every era, throughout our collective history, there have always been those brave men and women the likes of Henry Addleton. There have at all times been those who would not go silently into anonymity, those thinkers, feelers, those lovers of justice for all, and hatred for none. They are the ones in every generation, the perennial torchbearers, those that we must hold and cherish as a species, as residents of this planet, this galaxy, and this universe.

So on this New Year’s Eve, Two Thousand and Fifty Two, remember the likes of Henry Addleton, men and women who stood up with such a sound that others joined them. Remember their cries against inequality, for love to reign over tyranny, for justice to prevail, for empathy, and for selfishness to end at last. Remember their pledge to live and lead by example, a life of mutual responsibility letter writers, and be forever thankful for their sacrifice.

Author: David Prosser

Image: “Looking at the Ball in Times Squar” by joewcampbell on Flickr.

“Ahh, time for rest,” George said, lying down on his side of the bed. “Well, goodnight.” “Goodnight,” Sarah said. They turned off their matching bedside lamps. A moment passed. “Do you ever think about how interconnected we are?” she said. “Have you been waiting to ask me that?” “It just came to me.” “Did I do something wrong?” “No. Just-” “You know, that’s a helluva thing to ask when I’m about to fall asleep.” “Is it?” “Yeah, well, I think so.”

“So, do you?” Sarah asked. “Do I what?” “Do you ever think about it?” George turned his lamp on. “Why’d you do that?” “So I could see just how crazy you looked.” “I’m serious,” Sarah said. “I am too.” “You’ve never thought about it?” “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” “Really?” “Of course. We’re married.” “No,” she said. “I mean with others. How we’re interconnected with others, with people we’ve never even met before.” “I’m turning the light off now.” He turned it back on.

“Maybe I don’t want to meet them. You ever think about that?” “I don’t know,” Sarah said, a broad smile forming. “I think I’d like to meet them.” “They’d probably ask me for money. That’d just be my luck. ‘Connected? Really? Gee in that case how about giving me some dough?’ No thank you.” “But that’s just the thing George. Whether we meet them or not we’re still connected. Somehow, someway, we’re all connected together. You should really think about it sometime.” “Why? What for?” “Because if we’re all connected it means we’re all interdependent too. And that means…”

“Well don’t just leave me hanging in suspense. What’s it mean?” “It means that we rely on each other.” “I’m turning the light off now,” George said. “We rely on them, and they rely on us.” “Alright, you can believe what you want.” “But it’s not belief. All you have to do is pay attention.” “Then how come this is the first time I’ve heard you utter a peep about it?” “Cause I just started paying attention.” “Alright, alright. I’ll pay attention. Now can I go to sleep?” “Promise?” “I just said I would didn’t I?” “Yes, OK. Goodnight.” “I only say goodnight once in a night. You already got yours.”

“George.” “What?” “You said it again.”

The Next Morning

The time was half past seven. In his Swedish bed with sheets from Michigan, pillows from England, and blankets from Italy, George awoke. Down from his bed onto the wooden floor manufactured in Portland, assembled from lumber cut in Japan, he carried out his daily routine.

Step 1: Turn on shower facet made in Taiwan. Let run.

Step 2: Place Columbian coffee in German coffee grinder. Grind. Deposit ground coffee into Turkish coffee filter. Brew in French press coffee maker (patented by an Italian), over a Milwaukee produced stove.

Step 3: After showering, select suitable clothes for work from China, Taiwan, Indonesia, Peru, Italy, or France. Dress and walk downstairs.

Step 4: Drink Columbian coffee. Eat breakfast made by Sarah from Pakistan consisting of eggs from Los Angeles, bacon from Chicago, English muffin (called an American muffin in the UK) from Columbus, and a glass of orange juice from Brazil.

Step 5: Grab briefcase made in Holland, kiss Los Angeles born kids Samantha and Patrick made from Sarah and George, grab phone made in China involving nine companies located in four countries, and drive to work in automobile produced in South Africa made from parts from Germany and Austria.

“What was that she said?” George thought. “Oh yeah. Something about being interconnected and interdependent. To pay attention.” He was nearly to the office now, one branch in a communications firm with offices in Houston, Los Angeles, Holland, and Switzerland (involved in North American, South American, European, and Asian markets).

“Pay attention she said,” he shook his head. “Just exactly what am I supposed to pay attention to?”

Author: David Prosser

Image: “Old key chain in the shape of a small Earth globe” by Horia Varlan on Flickr.