"Return to Normalcy," and Other Phrases I Hate.

In fourth grade, my science teacher was Mrs. Gay. (I know, this is endless fodder for a ten-year-old. The really unfortunate thing was that she had an overweight son named Jude that played air-guitar A LOT.) The only thing I remember from that science class, aside from the fact that she pronounced the word “urine,” “YOUR-EEN,” was a pearl of wisdom she shared with us idealistic children. “There is nothing you can think,” she told us one day, the reason why eludes me, “that has not been thought before.”

This was a supremely harrowing and life-changing bit of information. When the truth of that statement socked me hard in the gut, like Joey Ivy had done only a year before, my perception of life and the possibilities of my future took a sudden and cataclysmic turn. I was returned to that moment when I read Fight Club years later, when Tyler was explaining to me that I was not a beautiful and unique snowflake, and I was never going to be famous.

I don’t know what to do at this point. I have so many things to say, but it’s all been said before, by people more involved, more informed and more articulate than I. The news coverage is more and more overbearing, and I find myself less and less interested because they never say anything new. I can only find solace in the fact that all of my family are safe and dry, and many are helping in the recovery. It’s sad to think that New Orleans, a place so close to my heart, will most likely never be the same place I remember, but then, I never spent much time there at all, so perhaps the place I remember never really existed anyway.

I feel no obligation to write anything about the hurricane, the subsequent disasters or the relief operations. I have no desire to congratulate those sacrificing so much to help, or even to expose the opportunistic shit-bags that want to blame this on any one person for the advancement of their own twisted ideologies. Except this once: Fuck you, Phil Busse. If I see you on the street, I’m going to kick you in the neck and put dog poo down your non-branded, non-sweatshop, boot-cut, $80.00 American Apparel corduroy trousers.

Is it time to laugh again? It feels like it’s been so long. Since my “brief departure” to, once again, defer to my betters, things have really taken a turn for the worse, and spirits have been way down, here at the OTR Institute. We, the team and I, fully intend to rectify that solemn situation. There is perhaps no better way than to regale you with the world’s funniest joke:

Two hunters are out in the woods when one of them collapses. He doesn't seem to be breathing and his eyes are glazed. The other guy takes out his phone and calls the emergency services.

He gasps: "My friend is dead! What can I do?" The operator says: "Calm down, I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There is a silence, then a gunshot is heard. Back on the phone, the guy says: "OK, now what?"

Okay, so now you’re nice and warmed up, right? What’s next? Shall I point you towards a great story about the testicle-cooking championship in Zagreb, Croatia?

Or shall I mention that there is a 100-square mile “bulge” growing in intensity in southern Oregon. (note: this is most likely unrelated to the child-care facility recently opened by former Portland Mayor and admitted "suffer unto me the little children" enthusiast Neil Goldschmidt.)



No?

Nothing?

I admit, it does seem a little strained.

I tell you what, take one of these, and I’ll call you in the morning.



* “When they slick their hair back, they look nine!”