The Dining Dead

"Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity." ~Simon Weil

This quote hit me particularly hard today.

M and I went out to breakfast yesterday and had a grand old time. But as I looked around the diner, I noticed that a lot of people looked absolutely miserable: Young. Old. Couples. Parents with kids.

"What is going on?" I wondered. "Did they rescind the Lombardi trophy, or something?"

After some more observation, I noticed that at least one member of each miserable group was glued to their goddam shitty cellphone - the "dining dead."

A little girl pushed the placemat she had been doodling upon toward her father to show him her masterpiece. The only response she got for her efforts was a silent top of dad's head as he bent over the phone.

A couple in their 70s dressed to the nines sat across from each other in tight quarters. What should have been an intimate morning of "How was your sleep? Are you enjoying your eggs?" turned, instead, to a vignette of some poor dude staring at the top of his partner's head. I could see her phone screen and she wasn't even doing anything in particular. She was just flitting from app to app looking for her next hit. He looked dejected.

It made me so sad. Even when M and I don't have anything new to say at the moment, it's nice to just sit, eat, observe and think..

People, please pay attention to those around you - especially during special occasions like dining out. (I'm not suggesting you be attentive 100% of the time to 100% of those around you. That's impossible and will take you to the next stop to Crazy Town.)

Otherwise, you're just empty shells consuming food while sitting across from each other, or people sitting in a living room wasting time and life as a mute separate unit. And I'd bet that at least one person in your party is sick of looking at the top of your head and is wondering "Why the hell did I leave my house/room for THIS?" And if you happen to be hanging out with me, I guarantee you I'm thinking it.

Time Keepers

My dad was always the one to adjust the clocks at the beginning and end of Daylight Savings Time, and I always envied his task.

Even though I DETEST springing ahead, the whole ritual of altering time caught my imagination as a youngster. Plus, I was often enamored with shenanigans that occur in the dead of night. (I'm looking at you, Santa Claus.)

Back in the day, I imagined that dad performed his time magic precisely at 2:00 AM…because I'm a rule follower. I envisioned him huddled in the dark living room, eyes alert and glued to the big wrought-iron 70s sun clock, waiting for the exact moment. And of course, I figured that he was able to change all the clocks in the whole house AT ONCE.

There had to, I assumed, be some sort of...creature or being...involved in this annual practice: A Father Time-type figure who manifested, and with a wizened voice, proclaimed "ahead!" or "back!" at the precise moment, and then vanished. Or maybe little time devils sprang forth from each clocked device and ran amok with cloven hooves and round clock-face eyes until dad made the necessary adjustments, after which they were sucked back to the correct time plane in which they belonged.

And now it's my turn as official timekeeper of our household! And although I'm not going to give any secrets away about what occurs during this timely ritual – after all, we, the take-charge folk of the house who assume this task are a sacred brotherhood - it's every bit as whimsical as I imagined it to be.

Except for those timepieces that require me to climb up on a chair, require an unnecessary amount of button pushes, or is the friggen car radio…because who can figure that out? Then I'm like, "Screw dis."