I miss wit.
I mean it. Oscar Wilde wasn’t the only thing that died on that day. Wit died with him. There are a few of us trying to keep the old boy alive, but there’s only so much we can do. As bullshit like “Jackass” enthralls our youth, their verbal skills weaken to the point that all they communicate in terms that would make George Orwell’s Newspeak sound sophisticated.
Tonight, I got off work at 6:30, drove halfway home before I realized I had to sign papers on the new place (seven days and counting, ladies). So, I drove back up through 405 traffic to Santa Monica, signed the papers, then looked at the clock.
8:30. No dinner with the guys for me. What to do? I don’t want to go home…
Conversation. Sweet, beautiful, wonderful, enthralling, mesmerizing conversation.
As cool as my buddies are — and you know who you all are — the one thing I miss most from my marriage is this: talking to a woman of wit.
Thank you, Angel.