The Technocrat Traphouse

There’s a ball pit in here for the children. It’s a sort of Neverland. 

“Look, mommy, this one’s blue!”

I met with my old school acquaintance the other day, Mr. Napa Valley. Oh yeah? That wine tastes nutty, Mr. Napa Valley? Woah, man, that’s crazy and guess what? You’re nutty, and that’s called projecting. I remember you back in culinary school. Tasting wine over and over again — a luxury few other attendees could afford and no others did. All while the rest of us were using our little spending money filling out a spice rack, refining palates. It was that darned uncle of yours, wasn’t it? With his boastfully prized lattice wine rack. I never found it funny and neither did you, but that was the only way you could be taken seriously.

Little boy Chuck was back in second grade when he told his deskmate, “I know how to plant bean sprouts. Plants have chlorophyll!” and was confused as to why she didn’t laugh. Isn’t it hilarious? Chuck worked really hard on the delivery too, there during math hour. Sheesh, get a sense of humor. No respect. It took precision to choose that fact, Chuck picked hard! Whatever. He went back to drumming his fingers on the desk. I need to think on how to make that joke land. I deserve it. Chuck leaves his mindset at the door so he can creep around others. Running cross country back in high school; high aerobic sport felt suspect. Some peers were insanely self-righteous about their performance, exclusionary. Congratulations that you have the time to expend, the energy to expend, the calories to expend, the money to expend on your shoes wasting away every few months, it’s expensive. The sport’s as antisocial as you like it. Beautiful. You don’t need a killer instinct, just no self-loathing. Once you’ve decided to spend yourself, it’s blatantly genetic to compete well. This isn’t like basketball where you can be raised shooting hoops for fun with your free time and gain that natural touch through hard work and passion. It’s just single-minded running, something no sane child spends playtime doing. So, no, I don’t feel socially dominated, sorry ,bud.

The commendable Jared Heratio Collings sat in the seat adjacent with his grey beard. The old famed speed calculator was a distinguished guest at any conference. His innate skills had been utilized many a time by many a mathematician; he’d left a certain mark. The keynote speaker stood next to him with a young pulsating obstinance, hunched over the lectern. He spoke clearly, directly and impassioned about the need to do away with the backwards illogical geometric formalism of old, calling for a new radical formalism — more logical, more encompassing. The distinguished sir sat there with a furrowed brow, nodding in stark agreement. Few in the audience knew the truth that the distinguished sir styled his moustache and monocle after his idol, the father of those geometrics of old.

It was all funny but not for the reason you thought.

I love him so much. I’m happy to be his confidant. His technique strikes me. He can push it down my throat because that’s what friends are for. We’re intimate like that. I hate it sometimes, but it’s him. No posturing, no boast. An unfortunate metric, but he’s genuinely great. He deserves self-worth. So do any of us. He’s not playing games. Sometimes, it’s inspiration, sometimes bitterness. God, do I hate him sometimes, but he cares about me. I care about him deeply.

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