Watch Out for Big Trucks

That time you drove through Indiana, past where James Dean was born. A day later your Saturn got run off the interstate by some truck hauling antique cars. Maybe it was two days later. This was a long time ago and the memories play tricks, the mind fades. It was eight years ago, not that long ago to the universe but plenty long for humans.

Imagine yourself in line to buy tickets for this performance of family fun and baseball action. What might you talk about while waiting? Nietzsche? Schopenhauer? The weather?

“Look, the sky is so blue today. What a beautiful day for baseball.”

“Yes, so beautiful. It gives me the will to live, but let us speak no more of Schopenhauer.”

And mercifully you would soon be at the front of the line handing your money to the attendant, thus killing this contrived discussion. Ah, but you'll still have nine innings to sit together and contemplate the human condition, perhaps making wry observations on the finite nature of things.

Or if that fails, maybe you'll catch a foul ball. Wouldn't that be grand?

Then there is the middle part where everyone gets up to sing.

“I can't sing.”

“Nonsense! If you can talk, you can sing.”

“I can't talk.”

How does one argue with such logic? But argue you must, even if it means being thrown out by some invisible umpire that oversees all.

“You're talking right now.”

The trap you've set is inescapable. She spoke to say she couldn't talk, thus negating her own assertion. Therefore she can sing. Too bad the song has ended.

But the sky is still blue and there are many more philosophers to read. Just watch out for big trucks, especially in the southwest corner of Missouri.