Return of the Jedi

Prologue: What is there to Say?

I suppose I should introduce myself.  I am a stranger, but I don’t want to be.  I don’t know you, but I will if you give me a chance.  I am a conversationalist. What is that? I’ll tell you what it is…

I won’t lie to you.  It’s a big word that I just invented about two days ago.  But it has become so much more than an opportunity to sound smart.

  Conversationalism is an innovative faction that came about from being so doggone bored.  It’s a fancy-schmancy name for something far too simple to be grasped by true nobles and philosophers.  It’s the little-man’s chance to seem like he is doing something important, and By-Jove, it is important!

I still haven’t told you what a conversationalist is.  That’s one of the problems with us…erm…me (I don’t have a following just yet).  I tend to get off track, which brings me to my next point exactly.

I am a conversationalist.

Did I say that already?

I talk to people.  Anyone.  Anywhere.  I get to know them.  I learn who they really are, and I notate them.

You could say I’m like one of those courtroom typists.

Except…I’m not in a courtroom.  And only once is a crime committed in this story.

And it’s my doing.

Kind of.

There I go again.  Skipping around.

My conversationalism, almost ironically, cannot be explained through conversation.  Only through multiple experimental incidents that have happened and been recorded through this account.  Please enjoy.

Chapter 1: Fine American Business Establishment

I drove downtown to the corner store today. I didn’t go to buy alcohol. I didn’t go to “grab a Snickers.”  I wanted to interact.  And let’s face it; corner stores are a good place to start the odyssey that is interaction.

            “Tommo’s Anything and Everything Store” is a homey corner store…on a corner.  This, coincidentally I guess, is the usual location of these specific enterprises.  The “T” flickers, and the “O” hangs by a thread.  Positioned in the most pleasant part of town, it’s conveniently placed in between Slum Street and Shady Lane.

            A slouched, lanky, old man welcomed me into this fine American business establishment.  By welcomed, I mean sort of a low pitched…

Grunt…

And Hell-o-o-o-o to you, as well.

“Can I help you?”

No.

“Yes, do you have any ‘Red Bull Solid’?”

Now, there is no such thing as “Red Bull Solid”, but I figured it would be fun to ask for it, anyway.  I looked at his rusty, aged nametag.  I like nametags.  It showed his faded moniker. Clarence…

That’s a nice name, I guess.

“I don’t got no ‘Red Bull Solid’ is ‘dere such thing?”

No.

“I thought so, but I guess not…Clarence, I’ve got a question.”

“Wazzat, sir?

“Do you own this place, Clarence?”

I like that name. Clarence. It’s got a nice ring to it.

“Why, yessir, I do.”

“Then why is it called ‘Tommo’s’, Clarence?”

“Would you buy from a store called ‘Clarence’s, sir?”

Yes. But I decide not to overextend my complications.

“No, I guess not. Maybe, you are right.”

I said I didn’t come to “grab a Snickers”

But I got one anyway.

And some scotch.

Yum.

He’s a good man, that Clarence…

That Clarence…He’s a good man.

Chapter 2:  Clarence II and the Lost Art of Conversationalism

After my recent stint with that good man Clarence at the corner store, I felt compelled to continue my odyssey. Walking down the street looking for my next exciting adventure, I said ”Hello” to everyone in my immediate view.

That’s a lost art, isn’t it? Saying “Hi” and meaning it?

Well, I like performing lost acts of the past. Except for Latin…I don’t really like Latin.  In any case, I said “Hi”, “What’s Up?”, and “Howyadoin’” to everyone that walked past.

One man, coincidentally (and might I say, rather creepily), was also named Clarence.  This Clarence was also a masterful practitioner of my newfound hobby.  He actually stopped to converse with me!

“Why, hello there.”

“Well, howdy to you as well, kind sir! It sure is nice to stop and chat with someone who enjoys sidewalk conversationalism as much as me.” I say.

That Snickers bar was kicking in. Or was it the scotch?

Clarence asks “Didja hear ‘bout them Saints of ours?”

“Naw, What about ‘em…um…What is your name?”

“Clarence”

“Ah. Clarence.” That’s when he told me his name.

“What about our Saints, Clarence?”

“They’re moving!”

“No way!”

“Yeah way, they were sold to the Philippines; they are gunna call ‘em the ‘Manila Folders’”

Those Clarence’s.  They’re good men.

Chapter 3: A Child Conversationalist, and his Animated Interactivities

Ah, the Clarence’s. What fun! What Frolic!

I honestly had no foreseeable concept of a way that this interaction-based day could get any better, though, as any man with a perfect day behind him would do, I triumphed forward with the expectations of trumping my experiences of the day thus far.

As I walked a cozy little street, I came upon that of an independent children’s book store.

The game of conversation and interaction is completely different when children are involved, though, at the same time, this game would be nothing without children.

Have you ever seen the T.V. show “Kids Say the Darndest Things”?

Because let me tell you, kids say the darndest things.

As I trotted into the book store, I saw a peppy teenager reading a story to a group of little buggers listening and responding to any queries requested of them.

Her name tag said “Meg”.  I like name tags. Name tags say a lot about people. They say things that people won’t say themselves.

 Her tag was shiny and new.

She hadn’t worked there long enough to hate her job yet.

When Meg finished the story of the sea creatures, which I must admit enthralled me just as well, she asked the children:

“If you were a sea creature what would you be?”

One boy was excited to venture into this philosophical concept. He was so excited that he got up and jumped around the room until she called on him.

“If…If I was a sea aminal I would be…A Octopus so I could slap all the bad boys and girls wif my testicles.”

I watched Meg suffer in silence as she withheld the hysterical laughter that was fabricating in her throat.

Kids say the darndest things.

Chapter 4: Fat, Food-Mongering, Dirty Fiends…Or: COPS

I headed down to the park with high hopes of meeting the people and keeping the trend, and as soon as I reached the premises I came upon two lovely law enforcement officers.

Good thing I brought that bag of donuts.

Now, that’s not nice.  I apologize for my insolent behavior and for contributing to the stereotype that comes with being a fat, food-mongering, dirty cop.

Not all fat, food-mongering, dirty cops eat donuts...

Good thing I still had that bottle of scotch.

Anyways, I ran into two lovely, fat (or should I say “Pleasantly Plump”?), food-mongering, officers…and I guess that’s why we had a problem.

I literally ran into them.

You see, I picked up a tricycle at the toy store next to the bookstore and…

Did you know that you need license and registration to drive a little tyke?

Well, you do.

And I didn’t have it.

“Can I see your license and registration, please?”

No.

“I need that for this?”

“Why wouldn’t you?”

“You mean, besides the fact that it’s a plastic tricycle?”

He coughed.  When a fat, food-mongering, police officer coughs, you tend to quit being so pushy.

  Usually.

“With all do respect, sir…You’re stupid.”

He coughed again.  Twice this time, so I decided not to throw in the fact that he was a fat, food mongering, dirty fiend, and instead I offered him a donut.

And that’s how I ended up in this jail cell.

Just kidding!

Happy days in the park.

Oh, happy days.

Chapter 5: Hobo-Joe and the Misconception of the Homeless

As I strolled across the government funded pavement of the city park, I stop and sit on the NON-government funded bench.  This particular bench was donated by Sally and Jonathon Aspartame for their 75th Anniversary...I thought that was a funny last name.

I stopped to watch the not-so-lazy river drift past me.  The currents in this area are terribly fast and cyclonic. In fact, they are deadly.  Did you know the only person who ever made it across the Mississippi River in New Orleans without a floatation device was completely shit-faced?

Yup.

Punch drunk.

Apparently, a woman stumbled off of Bourbon Street in the dark of the night and just fell in.  Just...straight up, dropped right in there.  I guess that last step was a doozy.

Well, she kind of just floated along, and eventually made it to the other side, slugged off to find a place to sleep, and didn't even recognize the achievement that, to this day, has yet to be matched...

I met a man named Joe sitting on the bench with me.

            Don't ask me his last name.  I don't know his last name.  Even Joe couldn't remember his last name. For all he knew, Joe might as well been his last name...

"Hobo Joe". That's what they called him.

I tell you. There are two things you are guaranteed when you visit a government sponsored city park.

Pigeons and Hobos.

It's true.

Well, many folks say that hobo's are bad.  A true conversationalist finds them as vital as children, if not more important.  See, hobos are like nametags.  Remember nametags?  They say things about people that people with reputations might not want to say.  Most of them are awkward, yes, but sometimes you end up getting a great conversation out of them. Sometimes, you can talk to one of their imaginary friends, too.

Hobos are such good conversationalists that even when nobody will talk to them, they make new people up.

Just like children.

I fed the pigeons and talked to Joe. I gave Joe a ham sandwich.

"Hi, I'm a conversationalist." I said.

            "Hi, I'm Joe"

            "Nice to meet you Joe...Hey Joe, anyone ever call you Hobo Joe?"

"Yes."

            "That's cool."

            "I'm glad you think so, I don't really have an opinion on it."

I asked Joe if he was afraid of the avian flu, you know, because he hangs around pigeons and all. He said he wasn't all that worried about it.

I told Joe, "I think a very common misconception is that homeless people are stupid."

            He replied, "I concur, fine gentleman, I find that multiple times in my occupation of being occupation-less, people have mistaken my aptitude to be concurrent with abilities to understand regulation, sciences, or contemporary proceedings.  Too much of the populace believe that with lack of a trade, comes a lack of intelligence. They treat me as if my capacity to comprehend has abruptly dissolved, just because my influx of currency has vanished."

Hobo Joe. What an unforgettable day.

Chapter 6: Hobo-Joe’s Counterpart

            So, as you can see, sometimes we underestimate the homeless…and then there are other times that we don’t.

            Richard is a goodhearted homeless man. He just doesn’t have all of his stuff up there.

When I say that he doesn’t have all of his stuff…I really mean he’s short of every bit of it.

Richard was gazing at the river on his bench to the left of Hobo-Joe’s.  This bench was donated by “Alex’s Oyster Bed”.  It’s out of business and is now home to “Tommo’s  Anything and Everything Store.”  Apparently, people thought it was quite stupid to open a restaurant on Shady Lane.  I noted that Hobo-Richard (doesn’t have as nice of a ring to it as Hobo-Joe does) seemed like a pretty cool guy.  I soon came to the conclusion that my conversational techniques are exceptionally keen.

I asked Richard if anyone called him “Rich” for short.

“Why would they? I’m poor as dirt.”

Ha.

As Richard began to preach about his views on politics, I came to find out that Richard was quite the taboo kind of guy.

“George Bush is a bastard.”

…

Okay, he’s not the first to say that.

 But he continued with a slur, “George Bush is also the product of sexual relations between the first chimp that the Russians sent to space and Frank Sinatra.”

He said that his only doubts of his newfound theory were that our 43^rd president just doesn’t have that pretty of a voice.

Awkward.

If the tabloids knew about Richard’s abilities he wouldn’t be living on a bench in the park.

Epilogue : WHAT DOES THIS ALL MEAN!?!?!?!

I'm sure that many have gotten this far through my epic tale waiting for a conclusion.  Many of you are hoping that I will say something drastic that might suddenly make all of these stories of my absurd invention called conversationalism reach some sort of significance. To all of you, I commend you fro sticking to it.

Conversation in the daily word is gone.  Kapoot.  Family dinners are scarce, meeting new people is frowned upon, even stopping to chat with a long lost friend in a supermarket (the most common of stop and talk time) is quickly rising to extinction.

In a high tech world, where everything we need done needs to be done "NOW NOW NOW" we can't even find time to enjoy the simple "Clarence's" and "Hobo Joe's" out there.

Look back to the time of Edward R. Murrow, who under terribly stressful circumstances as a newscaster, still managed to make you feel like you were somebody when he was talking to you.

It's even disappointing to see those news tickers around today.  A headline doesn't make good conversation.

An article does.

What does this mean I am asking you to do?

Nothing.

That's right.  The best deal in the house.  Do absolutely nothing.

Work less.  Spend more time around the water cooler.  Take lunch to socialize, not to play Tetris on company time.

View life from the position of a child, or a homeless man, two instances where the human race isn't caught up in the rush of the world.

Oh, And one more thing.

Octopus testicles.

.

Currently Listening Some Devil By Dave Matthews Dodo see related

One day, I woke up and felt like a new person. It was great. I woke up realizing that today was a new day. Today I could become something more. The past is behind me and the future ahead. All that great pizzazz. 

 Cliches kill.

 Of course today isn�t a new day. Without the past, everyone would be a success and no one would know the pain and suffering of failure. That�s why we invented those cliche in the first place. To feel better about ourselves. But of course, it's a load of crap.

 Like the rest of the world.

 I opened this new blank document with the intent of breaking this writer�s block that eats away at my brain everyday. Like a parasite, it waits for an event to exist worthy of writing, and then sucks the life out of it. I've spent hours staring at a blank computer screen with a great idea and no where to start. Lately though, I've spent hours staring at a blank computer screen with no great ideas, and certainly nowhere to start.  Then I come up with this crap. I've lost something along the way. I don't know what it is. I don't know where I lost it. I suppose I could chronicle it via xanga entries, though I'm pretty sure I know the truth.

 The truth is I never had it in the first place. Sure, I thought I did. Sure, I spit out some good adjectives here and there. But nothing was new. And nothing ever will be again.  My writing is dead. My writing was never living in the first place.

 Like the rest of the world.

 I encourage Phillip to keep LPC alive, though I am, at this moment, announcing my retirement from the lamppost.

 It's over.

 That's all folks.

"And the rest is silence."

 --Hamlet

-David McDowell.

Reposted, and made more fun!