Unplanned Obsolescence

Hi Darling Ones,

I’ve told one joke and one excruciatingly long story recently that, well, mark me as a lady of a certain age who only speaks to other people of a certain age.

The other day a friend texted me a picture that took roughly one entire fortnight to arrive.

“The little bird inside the camera must have died,” I joked. Because in the Flintstoney days there was a bird inside the camera who chiseled the picture into, slate? Bedrock? A stone? The technology in The Flintstones was hilarious, but not very clear.

“There are fewer and fewer people around who will get that joke,” I said. I’m still debating if the slow disappearance of The Flintstones from the pop culture is going to be my villain origin story or if getting Flintstones fluency part of the common core curriculum is going to be the platform I launch my political career on. I got a lot to think about.

Incidentally, I was telling that same friend a few days later about my irrational hatred of people who partake in Renaissance Festivals in any way, share, or form. Performer, vendor, visitor, I dislike them all with a white hot heat I usually reserve for Gwen Stefani and marshmallows.

For the record, the RenFesters were the worst and would roll into the gas station I worked at in costume and try to speak Olde English while buying a pack of Camel Lights and a bottle of Mountain Dew. Barf. And they’d clog up the local Perkins with their loud-talking dramatic asses proclaiming about being “a professional actor.” The only thing worse than a 23-year-old former journalism/political science major turned gas station attendant is a 22-year-old current drama major/Renaissance Festival performer. Just kidding, drama majors past, present, and future are the worst. Why do you have to be so loud and dramatic all the time? I beg you, please stop turning everything into a performance. I love you, but y’all are a lot for us introverts.

One time, as a 30-something grown up I ended up at a party filled with former drama majors and forensics competitors and I’m still emotionally scarred by the situation. As someone who does not have a great quantity of chill or coolness, I can say without a doubt I was the chillest, coolest motherfucker in the joint. That’s saying a lot.

Anyway, as I was in the midst of my irrational tirade about RenFesters I started complaining about people who would come into the gas station for directions and then argue with me about it. Like dude, and it was always a man, I live and also am not lost. Why are you arguing with me?

I stopped in the middle of it and said, “I guess people don’t go into gas stations and ask for directions anymore.” Because, why would they? But in the early 90s people stopped in the gas station all the time asking how to get to Valleyfair, the RenFest, the casino, Canterbury Park. It was a side-effect of living in a tourist trap town.

Thank you Mapquest and GPS for saving all the gas station attendants who came after me.

Anyway, I’m old and obsolete. The end.

Love,
Jodi

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