Monday, September 24, 2012

115. Expectations

C.W. was giving me a hard time, not for anything in particular, just on general principles. It had something to do with his latest review by the Falloonian Elders. He was pedantic, which explained his professorial get-up, complete with thick horn-rimmed glasses, bow-tie, and a tweed sports coats with patches on the elbows.
“They aren’t satisfied with my choice of an Earthling counterpart,” he said.

“Choose another, then,” I said.

“It’s not quite that easy,” he said. “You see, a person’s path to enlightenment is formed by the realism-expectation didactic.”

“Whatever,” I said. “So what is their major complaint?”

He thought. “They feel,” he stopped. “How did they put it ...?”

“That I am too good for this world?”

“No, they seem to think that you are, as they put it, a parchestantic shy of a firnicastachian.”

That hurt, but I tried not to let it show.

“For example,” he said. “You don’t even know how to send text messages on your cell phone.”

“Somehow I survive.”

“Your picture has never been in the society section of your newspaper. I know. I have researched the matter.”

“Guilty,” I said.

“I find no evidence that you fly fish, play golf or tennis, or even make periodic pilgrimages to Savannah, Georgia.”


“It wouldn’t hurt you to try and fit the mold.” He brandished a stack of travel brochures.

“I’m not going to Branson, Missouri.”

He quickly removed the topmost brochure. “Nobody is asking you to.”

“Where then?”

“Well,” he said, glancing down. “There is Disneyland.”

“Why don’t you take those brochures and …” I began before he interrupted me.

“Now don’t become hostile in the face of honest criticism.”

“Besides,” I said, calming a bit. “I am going to a cultural event, next week in fact, and I am taking you and the entire family.”

“Oh boy,” he said, resorting to the childlike C.W. that charms our hearts so. “Where?”
Oh boy! Nothing beats the King Biscuit Blues Festival.
Here is B.B. King from a couple of years ago.
Big Dope is so good to me. - C.W.

“The King Biscuit Blues Festival in Helena-West Helena, Arkansas.”

He brightened for a second before re-assuming his serious demeanor. “Uh,” he said. “Don’t you see?” He paused, choosing his words slowly. “Isn’t that a bit earthy? The Elders expect something more, well, socially prominent for our social forays.”

I smiled. Some mischievous cosmic force had delivered him into my hands. “Okay,” I said. “We won’t go.”

Alarm spread across his face. “Oh no,” he said. “I think we should.” He collected his thoughts and grimaced perceptibly, “We can always attend a wine-tasting when we return.”          

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