Tuesday, September 24, 2013

An Everyday Boob off the Street Goes to See a Play about Alzheimer’s

I should have known better than to go see that play about Alzheimer’s. Because ever since then, every time I turn around, I see symptoms. Like for the life of me, I can’t remember the last name of that quarterback in Seattle. Russell………… Something. Russell Martin? Yeah that’s it! No wait! Russell Martin is that catcher in Pittsburgh! That quarterback in Seattle is named Russell…………. Dammit!

I wrestle with myself like that all the time since I saw that play. The protagonist was younger than I am but she was starting to forget stuff left and right. She went jogging and forgot her way home. She tried to cook a turkey and forgot to turn the oven on. And now I can’t remember that quarterback’s last name, which is a sure sign my mind is losing its elasticity. The next thing you know, I’ll be looking all over for my sandals and I’ll find them in the freezer. But then I tell myself to get a grip. I remind myself that I can instantly recite the full name of that Russell from Pittsburgh every time I call upon myself to do so,  can’t I? That trumps forgetting some stupid quarterback’s name. So my mind is still way sharp. And it’s all just sports trivia anyway, just useless brain clutter. It’s better off forgotten.

I should be above all this. I’m not an everyday boob off the street who can’t be around cripples without getting super depressed because they’re always worried they’ll become one of us. If they’re exposed to an autistic person, every time something weird happens after that they say to themselves, “Oh shit! I’m becoming autistic!” So they avoid cripples like we’re radioactive.

But I should be able to withstand a relentless barrage of depressing stories about cripples and keep coming back for more. Maybe I’m getting too old to watch depressing cripple stories in my free time. I’m not like some of my hard-core lefty friends, bless their souls, who spend their two-week vacations with the rebels in the mountains of Swaziland. It's called Lefty Club Med.

So I don’t think I’ll go see another play about Alzheimer’s unless it’s a comedy.  There could easily be a comedy about Alzheimer’s. It might even be a hit. The title would be An Everyday Boob off the Street Goes to See a Play about Alzheimer’s. It’s a play within a play. Our protagonist is an everyday boob off the street. In Act I Scene I, he watches a play about Alzheimer’s. And throughout the rest of the play, whenever he’s the least bit confused or forgetful, he’s convinced it’s Alzheimer’s. I’d go see that play. It’s a fun way to learn about Alzheimer’s.

Wait a minute! Wilson! That’s the quarterback’s name!  Russell Wilson! Wilson Wilson Wilson Wilson Wilson Wilson Wilson!

See, I remembered! Wilson! So fuck you, Alzhemer’s!

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