September 21: Party Was in Progress, Albino Moose, Socially Awkward

Billy invited Trout to his eighteenth wedding anniversary which was only two days hence.  Now the party was in progress.

Trout was Billy's dining room, gobbling canapes.  He was talking with a mouthful of Philadelphia cream cheese and salmon roe to an optometrist's wife.  Everybody at the party was associated with optometry in some way, except Trout.  And he alone was without glasses.  He was making a great hit.  Everybody was thrilled to have a real author at the party, even though they had never read his books.

Trout was talking to Maggie White, who had given up being a dental assistant to become a homemaker for an optometrist.  She was very pretty.  The last book she had read was Ivanhoe.  

Billy Pilgrim stood nearby, listening.  He was palpating something in his pocket.  It was a present he was about to give his wife, a white satin box containing a star sapphire cocktail ring.  The ring was worth eight hundred dollars.

Trout is a celebrity at Billy's party.  He's surrounded by optometrists who are probably guzzling gin and whispering about lens powers and astigmatisms.  It's a small, insulated group of people.  To them, Kilgore Trout is like an albino moose.  Something so rare that he practically glows like marble.  Think Bela Lugosi at the office Christmas party.  And, of course, Trout is loving it.

I have never been great at events that involve a lot of small talk.  I find myself quickly running out of intelligent or witty things to say, and then I fall back on stalking the hors d'oeuvres table, sneaking handfuls of pretzels or plates of strawberries.  When forced, I can be social.  Even charming.  However, I prefer gatherings of close friends or family.  Preferably with an open bar.

Since I was selected as Poet Laureate, I have been flexing my social skills quite a bit, and I think I've sort of turned into Kilgore Trout.  People seem excited to meet and talk with me at poetry events.  That's something new.  Most of the time, if I attended a poetry reading or book signing, I would sit as far back in the room as possible, preferably near an exit.  Now, I find myself front and center a great deal of the time.

I'm not sure that I like this turn of events, but I will admit to being more than a little flattered.  It's like I've won a local beauty contest, and now everyone wants me to show up in my princess gown at ribbon-cutting ceremonies.  I'm still waiting to be grand marshal of a parade. But, after I attend these shindigs, I go home and sort of collapse. 

Tonight, I'm attending an open mic at the Joy Center in Ishpeming.  I'm not sure how many people are going to be there.  I'm not even sure what I'm going to say or read.  I love the Joy Center and the person who owns it.  Helen.  We went to graduate school together.  Since becoming Poet Laureate, I have reconnected with her, and it has been wonderful.

So, I will show up tonight.  Maybe I'll be an albino  moose.  Or maybe I'll stay in the kitchen, eating dark chocolate and cheese.

Saint Marty is thankful for his good friend, Helen.

March 7: Nuts, Meeting, Human Sympathy

But what did Scrooge care?  It was the very thing he liked.  To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge.

I have no idea what that "nuts" comment means.  Let me get that out of the way.  However, this morning, I'm really feeling the first part of this little passage quite strongly.  I understand the compulsion to shy away from crowds of people.  I'm not much of a small talker.  The kind of banter that goes on between people who know each other superficially strikes me as a big waste of time.  I know what you're thinking right now:  "He must be a blast at dinner parties!"

Let me correct your misconception.  I didn't say I was bad at small talk and superficial banter.  I said I hated being in situations that require me to participate in it.  I can bullshit with the best of 'em.  Hey, I was an English major.  There's a fair amount of bullshitting that goes along with that degree.  I can make the most dull and dreadful people think I really care about what they're saying.  It's one of my many talents.  That doesn't mean I enjoy doing it.

The reason I'm on this little rant so early is that I have to attend a meeting later this morning that basically will require me to do everything that I've just discussed.  Make small talk.  Be charming.  Pretend I care.  I much prefer to stay in my own little box, with the shades drawn, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance.  Just like Scrooge.  However, this meeting is necessary, and I have to appear to be a team player.  Therefore, I will be one of the Stepford employees today.  Stand when they tell me to stand.  Sit when they tell me to sit.  Applaud when they tell me to applaud.  And make small talk.  Lots of it.

And the knowing ones call that "nuts" to Saint Marty.  (What the hell does that mean?)

I wish...