Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Would you help me to carry the stone?
I've been thinking a lot about friendship lately, what with being off my meds and all. I've come to the conclusion that friendship is an odd concept. Odder even than love. I mean, in love you're at least in the same room with the whole sex thing. Let's face it, if men could only achieve orgasm with, say, vacuums, we'd have massive electric bills but we wouldn't even speak to anything with breasts.
But that doesn't explain friendship, or why we're friends with the people we are friends with. Or even if we are even friends with the people we are friends with. For instance, what's up with that guy at work who always tags along when you and Jim and Steve go to T.G.I.F. for lunch? You know, Marc from accounting. He seems to be tight with Steve, so he's always there when you are. You would never call Marc on your own, because, well, the guy's kind of a tool and has the social skills of a drunken grizzly, but because he's friends with your friends, you have to be friends by proxy. What is that?
I mean, it's not like you are friends with Jim and Steve, anyway, right? Oh, sure, y'all eat lunch together all of the time, and every now and then you hit Hooters after work to have a few beers and check out the talent, but if you could find a job where they didn't treat you like crap, you'd be out the door and ol' Jim and Steve would be a distant memory within minutes.
My "friend" Paul introduced me to the proper name for these individuals: location friends. Roughly translated, these are people that you would never be friends with but for your forced co-existance -- they are co-workers, generally, but they may be your neighbors or people who hang out at your favorite bar. There are times when they resemble friends, perhaps when you even think they are your true friends, but they are no more your true friends than that stripper who's begging you for a lap dance is your date.
At least you always have your true friends -- you know, those true-blue few who have seen you through thick and thin. You went to college together, laughed together, got arrested together -- these are your compadres, your amigos. Of course, you only see Billy at Christmas ever since he took that job on the West Coast, and even though Brian is in town, y'all never hang because he's got 2 little girls now. You should probably call more or make a special effort. I mean, a friend would, wouldn't they? Of course, the phone works both ways . . . dicks.
Well, what about your girlfriend/fiance/wife? Didn't you marry your best friend? Face it, if you weren't attached to a penis the only way your wife would let you in her house would be to fix the cable. Besides, could you ever be close friends with someone who thinks "Tinkers-to-Evers-to-Chance" is the title of a boyband album?
Elvis, Mitzy, or Snowball? If you fell down paralyzed and alone with them, they would eat you eyeballs first. Probably within the hour.
Well, what about co-bloggers? They know the real you, not the fake one you show to people in the so-called "real" world. *cough*blowjob!*cough* Yeah, quit posting, cowboy. Within 3 weeks, your closest internet friends will be going "Larry who?"
Face it, Mark Twain was right when he said,
But that doesn't explain friendship, or why we're friends with the people we are friends with. Or even if we are even friends with the people we are friends with. For instance, what's up with that guy at work who always tags along when you and Jim and Steve go to T.G.I.F. for lunch? You know, Marc from accounting. He seems to be tight with Steve, so he's always there when you are. You would never call Marc on your own, because, well, the guy's kind of a tool and has the social skills of a drunken grizzly, but because he's friends with your friends, you have to be friends by proxy. What is that?
I mean, it's not like you are friends with Jim and Steve, anyway, right? Oh, sure, y'all eat lunch together all of the time, and every now and then you hit Hooters after work to have a few beers and check out the talent, but if you could find a job where they didn't treat you like crap, you'd be out the door and ol' Jim and Steve would be a distant memory within minutes.
My "friend" Paul introduced me to the proper name for these individuals: location friends. Roughly translated, these are people that you would never be friends with but for your forced co-existance -- they are co-workers, generally, but they may be your neighbors or people who hang out at your favorite bar. There are times when they resemble friends, perhaps when you even think they are your true friends, but they are no more your true friends than that stripper who's begging you for a lap dance is your date.
At least you always have your true friends -- you know, those true-blue few who have seen you through thick and thin. You went to college together, laughed together, got arrested together -- these are your compadres, your amigos. Of course, you only see Billy at Christmas ever since he took that job on the West Coast, and even though Brian is in town, y'all never hang because he's got 2 little girls now. You should probably call more or make a special effort. I mean, a friend would, wouldn't they? Of course, the phone works both ways . . . dicks.
Well, what about your girlfriend/fiance/wife? Didn't you marry your best friend? Face it, if you weren't attached to a penis the only way your wife would let you in her house would be to fix the cable. Besides, could you ever be close friends with someone who thinks "Tinkers-to-Evers-to-Chance" is the title of a boyband album?
Elvis, Mitzy, or Snowball? If you fell down paralyzed and alone with them, they would eat you eyeballs first. Probably within the hour.
Well, what about co-bloggers? They know the real you, not the fake one you show to people in the so-called "real" world. *cough*blowjob!*cough* Yeah, quit posting, cowboy. Within 3 weeks, your closest internet friends will be going "Larry who?"
Face it, Mark Twain was right when he said,
Life itself is only a vision, a dream. . . . Nothing exists . . . (not) God, man, This World, the stars ... all a dream . . . Nothing exists except empty space and you-and you are not you-you are but a thought-a vagrant thought, a homeless thought-wandering forlorn among the empty eternities.Damn, I gotta quit drinking bourbon and listening to Pink Floyd. Or should I say, my friends bourbon and Pink Floyd.
Centinel 10:00 PM #