Wednesday, January 28, 2009
I walk by these restaurants, Stromboli and Indian Something, daily. I file their "signage" (an obnoxious, made up word that I detest, along with "pagination") under the "Reasons to Live" category in my brain. They occupy a prominent position in this category, nestled alongside marsupials and funny vaguely Latino accents- Ay Papi! It seems like I always catch a glimpse of these guys when I am on some self- inflicted lunch break murder mission, like pleading my case to the public librarian to weasel my way out of library fines, for example.
And there you are, brow furrowed, some hobo telling you to smile, trail mix spilled into the crevices of your clothes and hand bag, the unbearable lightness of being so burdensome upon your Protestant work ethic, feeling sorry for yourself, and BAM! There's a fish holding an umbrella imparting the message of empathy and love for one's neighbor. And then you think, "Oh shit, this fish knows more than I do, open your ears sucka."
And then you remember a story you heard the other day about how they used to send kids into coal mines in the 1800s NAKED because they were more likely to spontaneously combust if clothed (It's true! I know, I can't believe it either, and it's been haunting me ever since the story touched my ears, and now I'm passing it off to you. Even George Orwell was duly horrified: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jeffrey-feldman/coal-mining-as-seen-by-ge_b_60957.html)
Oh, and your daily existential crisis is not all that bad, you live in a world where you are not some wretched of the earth naked child coal miner and you have little fishies encouraging you to become your dream, and to carry a parasol, both of which are totally underrepresented these days.