Mightier Than The Pen

Making The World A Bitter Place

The Crazy Hedonism of Plain Oatmeal

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It’s too bad I don’t own a fedora. If my wardrobe reflected my sensibilities, you’d see me walking around in spats.

Times change, and with them, so do people. Except that I think I’m moving in the opposite direction from society. We passed each other about fifteen years ago. Occasionally society sends me a postcard or e-mail, just to let me know how things are progressing on its end, while I continue listening to my Beethoven and wondering where all the fatty cuts of meat went.

The subtle, yet continual evolution of my personal mores became evident a number of times over the last few days, most notably when I considered the obscene amount of sleep I managed to get this past Friday night: nearly ten hours. The one word Miggtha and I agreed could be applied to the experience was “decadent.”

I must say, fifteen years ago, sleeping through the night and then some did not strike either of us as decadent – it struck me, at least, as a waste of perfectly usable night hours, hours that lent themselves quite well to a movie marathon, trips to Dunkin Donuts at random wee hours, and finding side-splitting humor in things that at any other time of day would pass unnoticed (Saturday Night Live was never really that funny; it’s just timed to coincide with the hour when most viewers’ humor detectors are starting to get frayed). But now, sleeping from 8:30 pm to 6:30 am offered such succor that no other word suffices. Times have changed. Or rather, I have.

The satisfaction that results from folding and putting away all of the laundry was lost on me a decade and a half ago, as was the bliss that settles upon the home when all the little ones are finally fast asleep. Let them stay up, the younger me would probably think, and watch the Tonight Show with me. Then we can play Doom or something. Decadent? Why would laundry have anything to do with the concept? Old fogy.

I must be an old fogy, yes. When my idea of a good time has morphed from seeking out the finest steak houses into seeking out an available evening in which to devour four Pepperidge Farm Nantuckets, I can tell things are no longer as they were. But that’s OK. I had a steady income way back then, too, so it’s a good thing it takes less to get me to wax hedonistic.

Thankfully, I have never been, nor do I ever foresee being, an exercise nut of any sort, the kind of person who seeks a high from prolonged strenuous activity. While I appreciate that some pleasures are acquired tastes, such as this blog, it remains beyond my ken why anyone in his right mind would want to acquire certain tastes. There are plenty of perfectly good pleasures out there that don’t require an initiation period during which the experience is downright awful. I can understand perfectly well why many people have no interest in dry wine. I can equally understand why many people have no interest in continuously whacking themselves on the fingers with a hammer. But it feels so good when you stop! Aren’t you interested in experiencing that?

So where was I? Right. Acquired tastes. As I was saying, despite my evolving sensibilities, I do not foresee going so far as to actively seek experiences I once found disgusting or unpleasant; merely finding the hidden pleasure in activities once thought mundane will do it for me.

Did you see how I used that semicolon? Wasn’t that cool? No one does that anymore.


Written by Thag

December 12, 2010 at 10:59 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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