First thing’s first: I have returned from exile! In what can only be described as a global grassroots movement, the governments of the world have been forced to take notice, and I am home from my forced labor. Also, my step-father-in-law just got tired of cleaning. The tomatoes remain now, only in my dreams. By no means take that as an indication that the rallies and protest should cease.
Because now we have bigger problems. And when I say “we,” I mean “I.”
You see, I’m worried about my edge. Now, I totally own that I’ve mellowed with age, but I like to think there’s still a little edge there, enough that you should keep me in a drawer, and only use me pointing away from yourself. So there’s a modicum of edge, and now I’m worried about it. We’ve all seen it happen. I know I have, but always to other people. And it’s always so tragic. Maybe it’s spending so much time around destructive, damaged artist types. They’re dark, and hurling venom at a world too numb to care. They have an edge so sharp you could slice through hypocrisy with it. And then…
Then they have a baby.
They get this shotgun blast of love to the chest and suddenly they’re smiling at… things. Normal things that have no deeper meaning, or are ironic, or at least reveal some sick truth about life. Things that are just “nice.” Suddenly they’re all, “Don’t you love cupcakes?” and “I got the first 4 seasons of King of Queens off eBay for next to nothing!” and eating at Applebee’s.
The thing is, we’ve been working on the baby’s room. We got one of those decal wall-murals and, well, I made this little scene:
I know. Dark, brooding men don’t create love scene with big-eyed birds. Everyone knows that. I’m on my way to being edgeless. Spherical.
I don’t think hope is lost, not yet. But that’s a red flag, isn’t it? Hang tough, Byronic Man. Hang tough. Deep breath.
Maybe a bloomin’ onion will help me regain my focus.
(*Editor’s Note: I’ve just been informed that the Bloomin’ Onion is not at Appelbee’s, but a different chain restaurant. See? See? I didn’t know that! There’s a little iconoclasm left. A little edge.)