Lately I’ve been afraid to ask questions to anybody. It seems like whenever I do, I’m in for a personal reading of War and Peace along with the answer.
I wonder why people can’t just give me nice, short, curt, to-the-point answers? Why does everything have to be so sophisticated that it involves french poodles, the oil economy of Libya, and your own personal rant how the art scene has completely lost its way over the past quarter century?
Every time I ask a question, I am usually met with an incredibly long response that almost always ends with something that has nothing to do with what I was asking. Maybe if I took a sudden inquiry into a topic like nuclear fission or quantum mechanics this would be appropriate but if I ask something as simple as “Where is the bathroom?” I expect a little less than a personal narrative why you’ve been afraid of public restrooms since you turned fourteen. Come on man, I really gotta pee.
Even political questions that I ask, it’s understandable that the response may contain a tangent or two. But fifteen minutes and eight eye shrugs later, I am no closer to comprehending the answer than if I had asked my intelligible 84 year old grandmother.
Perhaps people love to hear the sound of their own voice or maybe everyone has some secret verbal agenda that they want to lament to me at any given opportunity. Whatever the explanation is, I just want it to be a short one.
Imagine if everyone never gave straight answers to anything anyone ever asked. How would we get directions? You wouldn’t know whether to take that left or right past those three abandoned lots, a spooky hobo, and across from God knows what bridge on the other side of town. Forget about asking for help to find something. Lost a sock? If you want assistance expect a long rant why we shouldn’t have occupied Afghanistan during the 70’s. Wondering who that politician on T.V. is rallying up such an applause? The only way that mystery will be solved is if you endure a social commentary about the inadequacy of eastern seaboard tourism.
I’ve been inspired to provide my own answers. That way I won’t have to sit through A History of the Bohemian Experience No One Cares About.