It’s 1927 in my apartment this week. The Internet is down and the TV is out. Down and out. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to read. And we all know where that leads.
I feel like a pioneer. Rough and ready. Fortunately, my Iphone is working fine, because I’m more comfortable pioneering and being rough and ready when I can check my email and watch the Yankees game on my telephone. But other than that, and the microwave, and the refrigerator, and my laptop, and the toaster oven, and my Honda, I’m really roughing it.
I’m going to start pickling and canning my vegetables to stock up for Armageddon. You have to have a plan. If this is a taste of what it’s like, maybe those militia movement hate group people have the right idea. I joke on stage that I used to be in an improv group, but I quit and joined a hate group. Those people are so much easier to get along with, and you never need a rhyme for cauliflower. But maybe they’re good long-term planners too? Bigoted and paranoid planners, but still planners.
I’m living the Good Old Days again. It’s like Al Gore never invented the Internet and Marconi never invented the TV. I know Marconi invented the radio not the TV, but like I said, I have no Internet so I can’t look at Wikipedia to find out who actually invented the TV so I’m going with Marconi. Fact checking is a modern man’s convenience.
Pretty soon I’m going to have to whittle some toys out of firewood to keep myself occupied. I’ll make that little wooden cup game, the one where you try to flip the ball on the string into the cup on top of a stick. That should keep me occupied for five minutes. How the hell did parents get away with that crap in the 1800’s? I haven’t seen Jack McCoy in so long; I have no idea what’s going on with the justice system in New York City. It could be anarchy out there right now. A day without Law & Order is a day I hoped I’d never see.
I guess there are some things to like about the good old days. When I was younger, I used to go to Grateful Dead shows. Until I stopped smoking weed and realized that 33 minutes of Space was 33 minutes of completely wasted Space. You used to be able to get away with anything at Dead shows, but I’m sure they’ve cracked down now. You could have gone skeet shooting in the parking lot and nobody would have noticed. As long as you didn’t eject your spent shotgun shells into the circle of communal people sharing the Peanut Butter and Shroom sandwiches. Me: Pull! Dead Head: Wait, man. Let’s all pull together.