So, There's This Guy
Lemme back up here, lay the groundwork. I often take my dog for a long walk at the end of the day. She needs it, I need it. So, we're sitting in the shade of some awfully tall shrubberies, out on the great lawn of the Cité Universitaire, and there's this guy. Shirtless, standing out in the sun, in shorts and sneakers, burned a walnut brown and not a gram of fat on him, and you'll see why in a moment. Playing his "game", which consists of keeping an orange frisbee aloft, by himself. He has no friends. And for good reason. Yeah, so I have no friends either, but that's by choice.
Anyways, how does he keep his frisbee up, you ask? Well, by slapping it and whacking it and kicking it--basically anything that will keep the damné thing wobbling and spinning in front of his face. And he does this over and over and over and over...
I first noticed him back around March when the great lawn was all green and plush. Now, it's 90° and the lawn is baked brick covered in dusty hay and stubble. And yet, he's still going, with the same intensity. Admittedly, today he stopped for about 30 seconds for a sip of water, but then he was right back at it all a-slappin' and a-kickin' and a-chasin' his orange frisbee, all over the lawn. He was there when I got there and he was still there when I left. For all I know, he's there all night and all day; he has that sort of manic, obsessive vibe coming off him.
So this got me thinking. First, that if I ever need amphetamines, he'd be my go-to guy. But mostly, I'm thinking that city life makes you crazy. Could you imagine someone, out in the country, say, someone who had something useful to do-- hauling hay, shoveling manure-- something that serves a purpose, something that people actually need, can you imagine them taking time to slap a frisbee in front of their face? No, you could not. Not for five minutes. Certainly not all day, every day.
Or take someone like me. If I didn't have a dog to walk would I even be in this park? I would not. I'd be in a cool place, drinking. Maybe checking my datecheerleaders.com updates.
But do the city life for too long, even in a city as low key as Paris, and you'll find that the life of Metro/boulot/dodo (subway/work/sleep), that life where you know that what you do makes no sense, has no purpose, in fact you wonder how they can even find the money to pay you, what you do is so worthless (is this really all just a Matrix-like simulation?!), well, that life can, and will, eventually drive you out on a sun-baked lawn, flipping frisbees all by yourself.
I can see the writing on the wall. This is no place for old men. It is time. Time to get out of here before I slip over the edge into a pool of madness I won't even notice I'm standing in. So, if anyone has a spare room and airfare, you know where to find me. Consider it your moral imperative. Your civic duty. If you can save just one life...
Anyways, how does he keep his frisbee up, you ask? Well, by slapping it and whacking it and kicking it--basically anything that will keep the damné thing wobbling and spinning in front of his face. And he does this over and over and over and over...
I first noticed him back around March when the great lawn was all green and plush. Now, it's 90° and the lawn is baked brick covered in dusty hay and stubble. And yet, he's still going, with the same intensity. Admittedly, today he stopped for about 30 seconds for a sip of water, but then he was right back at it all a-slappin' and a-kickin' and a-chasin' his orange frisbee, all over the lawn. He was there when I got there and he was still there when I left. For all I know, he's there all night and all day; he has that sort of manic, obsessive vibe coming off him.
So this got me thinking. First, that if I ever need amphetamines, he'd be my go-to guy. But mostly, I'm thinking that city life makes you crazy. Could you imagine someone, out in the country, say, someone who had something useful to do-- hauling hay, shoveling manure-- something that serves a purpose, something that people actually need, can you imagine them taking time to slap a frisbee in front of their face? No, you could not. Not for five minutes. Certainly not all day, every day.
Or take someone like me. If I didn't have a dog to walk would I even be in this park? I would not. I'd be in a cool place, drinking. Maybe checking my datecheerleaders.com updates.
But do the city life for too long, even in a city as low key as Paris, and you'll find that the life of Metro/boulot/dodo (subway/work/sleep), that life where you know that what you do makes no sense, has no purpose, in fact you wonder how they can even find the money to pay you, what you do is so worthless (is this really all just a Matrix-like simulation?!), well, that life can, and will, eventually drive you out on a sun-baked lawn, flipping frisbees all by yourself.
I can see the writing on the wall. This is no place for old men. It is time. Time to get out of here before I slip over the edge into a pool of madness I won't even notice I'm standing in. So, if anyone has a spare room and airfare, you know where to find me. Consider it your moral imperative. Your civic duty. If you can save just one life...
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