Old Letters

A few months ago, I was fortunate enough to not only marry my best friend, but to move into her amazing house. At least, it could be amazing, provided that we put a little leg work into cleaning and organizing. The problem is, the more I have to do, the less I want to participate. I want to sit on the couch, play my fancy new X-Machine, and drink Stout Beer. If the weather permits, I'm content to sit on the porch, drink a Franziskaner Hefe-Weisse, which is much more of a porch type beer. This is a claim I'm proud to make with a little authority.

Elizabeth is an insomniac. Last night, she spent some time sorting through boxes and paperwork I'd brought from my apartment, and summarily dumped at the front door. She's a peach to endure my slobbiness. She found a lot of stuff I'd have liked to have found like my certificate as a quality trainer addressed to 'Michael "Jackson" Bishop', various letters to the Courier Journal that were published, and old band flyers. Among the clutter, she found a letter I'd once written to Ben Cundiff, an old roommate.

I was furious in this letter. I condemned his behavior on a multitude of different levels, some of which resonate with me as valid and reasonable, some of which sound like a crybaby twenty something, whining about the world. I was serious! I would not do ____, ____, and ___, for so many passionate, and angry reasons. I was the model of angst. Thanks a lot, Teen Spirit. You've ruined me.

Of course, I bear no grudge to my old roommate, we've had plenty of very pleasant encounters over the past few years, culminating in my playing a part, albeit a very small part, in his wedding a year or so back. What was interesting about the letter, wasn't so much the content, but the disparity between what was and what is in my life. Its an interesting exploration into my mindset then, which seems so alien now. Life just isn't that volatile any longer, which wasn't a situation that I exclusively engineered, but which was something that I helped perpetrate. Life is much more calm now.

Well, all that and my writing, which was pretty damned terrible. In fact, it irritated me so much, that the 29 year old, English student Syd wanted to bust out a yellow highlighter, and get to making corrections. I'm overcome by this sensation at times. I have to tie my pen hand down.

For example, one day, a customer, a very racist customer, came into work, screaming conspiracy by the utility company, and espousing racist viewpoints. He refused to speak with a Hispanic coworker. Then he told a black coworker, who is a superior, that he would only speak with a white superior. He left a letter that explained in confusing detail that the right to utility service was guaranteed by the constitution. And all this time I was under the impression that our founding fathers didn't have electricity. Hopefully there is a clause in the constitution about my right to an X-Box.

I was so compelled to respond to this letter. Not to argue, because how can I argue against the logic of our founding fathers fighting the good fight against the tyranny of the utility company, but to correct his spelling. Jesus. If you're going to hate authority, say it with some dignity. Thomas Jefferson may not have had access to Microsoft Word, but this guy sure as hell did. Just like magic, the computer would have told him that he had spelled wrong. Presto.