I Talk Too Fucking Much

I talk too fucking much. It's a condition I inherited from my father, which flairs up whenever I decide to drink in the company of seemingly interesting people. 

This point smashed into me again like a wave at high tide last evening. I was at an informal gathering for a colleague who recently retired. Karen is a sweet, affable, older woman who has more energy than a lot of 25-year olds I know. In addition to those of us who worked with her, the party included some of her former colleagues and her "friend" Robert (because apparently old people don't have lovers). 

He, too, was a sweet older man who had many questions and curiosities about my life, which I felt obliged to answer. 

Robert: Where did you grow up? 

Me: I'm New York City born and raised. 

Robert: Did you get to travel, too, as an auditor? 

Me: No, but I traveled quite when I worked for our company's international group. 

It went on like this for a good 15 minutes. At one point Robert asked me about being the father of three kids. I told him I liked it, but that it has it's daily challenges. "My kids are normal" I told him. "They fight with each other about stupid (shit). They talk back to me and (the wife). But it's all good. It is." As I studied the incredulous look on Robert's face, I asked him "Well, what's the alternative? A bunch of obedient kids who question nothing and can't think for themselves? I have no intention of raising stupid kids." 

Then Karen chimed up. "So, what's it like to have a 15-year old daughter?" "It's like digging an irrigation ditch," I replied. "You dig it canal to get the water to your crops in the hopes that they'll grow." Somehow or other Robert and I got onto a discussion about the history of the world and, as I was trying to impress him with the knowledge I gleaned from Spencer Wells' "The Journey of Man", he had another Wells in mind - H.G.'s "History of the World". It was as true a "what the fuck" moment as one can be, but there I was plowing through the Spencer Wells' ideas about how we're all descendants from the same homo-sapiens who crawled out of the African savannas to conquer the world. 

You see, there I go again. Who the fuck cares, right? 

Mind you this is all going on while scantily-clad, young waitresses with a minimum of C-cup sized breasts were bending at the waist to serve way-too-overpriced drinks. The only thing missing from our table was a stainless steel pole and an offer to perform lap dances. Get this. For $250, you can enjoy a (normally $15) bottle of Captain Morgan rum. For a cool, $325, a chilled bottle of Ketel One. 

Well, by this point, Robert had simply had it with me and pointed to one of Karen's former colleagues and said interrupted me as I was making the connection to Wells' work with another biologist/sociologist/geologist cum historian Jared Diamond (Guns, Germs and Steel... Collapse). 

"Oh, look who's here" he said. He then got up and walked away. I was stunned. I got pissed. I can't say I didn't deserve it. 

As I neared the bottom of my second $9 glass of some awful Stella Artois beer later, Robert came back to me. "You were saying?" I had to admire the politeness in his hubris, because his point was well taken. 

"It's okay, man. I've already said it." 

I thought about calling my dad at that point and blaming him for this fiasco. But he couldn't help making me the person I am. The windbag chromosomes came with the sperm delivery that created me.

There is a flip side to this. The way I see it, with all this accumulated (read useless) knowledge I've amassed that is so irrelevant to daily living. my kids will never, ever have to buy a term paper on the Internet. "Just ask Dad," they'll say. "He'll write it for you." 

And, please don't call me the Cliff Clavin of the blogsphere. I know of which I speak. I read it in a fucking book. I just don't know when to stop talking about it and give someone else a chance to blow off some hot air. Say it with me..."Hey Spartacus! Shut the fuck up!"