Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Thing is, I can't tell a story for the life of me. I get that from my mom (who will surely rise from the grave if I call her mom again). Here's my mother telling a story:

Maternal Weasel: "Hey, something interesting happened Tuesday."

Weasel: "Uh-huh?"

Maternal Weasel: "Yes, I know it was Tuesday because I was wearing those brown leather shoes with the flat heel..."

Weasel: "Um, Mother...does that have anything to do with what the interesting thing that happened?"

Maternal Weasel: "Yes! It does! It's important! Anyhow, I left the car in front of the feed store. I don't think they're ever going to open up again. They've been closed since Spring, the old man is still sick and I don't think Billy has any interest in running a store."

Weasel: "Motherrrrrr."

Maternal Weasel: "Look, I'm just setting the stage. That's how you tell a story. So anyhow I bump into Davis coming out of the drug store. Everybody knew all along he was queer, but even in a little country town like this, most people don't care what you do as long as you don't do it in the street and scare the horses. The moment his mother died..."

Weasel: "Is this a story about Davis?"

Maternal Weasel: "Are you going to let me tell this story or not?"

I'd squeak once or twice more, but eventually there was nothing for it but to set the phone on the desk and let her replay Tuesday in its entirety, gradually unspooling the whole of the day, uncompressed and lossless, minute by minute.

When I try to tell a story, it comes out exactly the same. I can't leave out anything, no matter how small, dull or stupid. Maybe I'm trying to capture an event so exactly and completely that it can never get away from me, or anyone else, again. Or maybe I want you to relive the whole experience along with me. Maybe it's like an interrogation and I'm trying to prove something really happened by throwing in so much detail you can't possibly doubt it. That all sounds right.

Christ, but it's boring.

 

There was another uncle on my mother's side who supposedly burned his nethers quite seriously lighting his own farts. That's always they way they told the story: "his own" farts. As though firmly establishing his ownership of the farts somehow mitigates the shame of a fart-related injury. I understand that the ignition of flatus is a reasonably safe rainy day activity, unless you catch your pants on fire — which requires an unusually sustained and heroic blast. And that's the only reason I mention it, as I gather every male of the species since the discovery of fire has at some point set flame to fart. I believe there's a Boy Scout Merit Badge for it.

And...? >>
<< I'm out!