Ravings of a Textual Deviant

Fate chooses our relatives, we choose our friends. —Jacques Delille

As one of my pals says (and knows all too well), there’s a difference between having relatives in Kentucky and having Kentucky relatives.

Having relatives in Kentucky isn’t much different than having relatives in, say, Illinois, aside from the specifics of navigation and weather.

Kentucky relatives, however, are a kettle of fish of a different color. For example, (my pal says) one could be on the way to attend a grandparent’s funeral service, and hear one’s parent casually wondering 1) whether or not his crazy sister will show up, and 2) whether or not she will shoot him on the spot if she does attend…or whether she will wait until after the service.

Spouse’s parents live in Kentucky, and are lovely people. And I’m not just saying that because Spouse’s Mom recently discovered my blog. (Hi, Spouse’s Mom!)

Some of the extended family, however, are definitely Kentucky relatives.

To borrow a phrase from my new sister-in-law (who is from Illinois), there are some who are a whole can of crazy.

To the best of my knowledge, there have not been any “accidental” homocides yet, but I also suspect it has as much to do with the presence of too many unrelated witnesses, the complications inherent in out-of-state gun permits, and a disinclination to get blood on one’s nice clothing than anything else.

Words, however, have been exchanged…and the exchange rate is not favorable.

By the time the current situation is dealt with, I expect we’ll have gone through a six-pack of crazy, if not an entire case.

I ask the Reading Public, who the %#$@ gets drunk, stoned, and hopped up on sugar to go to the opera?

Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.

Spouse and I have season tickets to the Indianapolis Opera, and our seats are in close proximity to another couple who also appear to have season tickets. Or at least, we’ve seen them there several times.

In fact, the first time I saw them, my immediate thought was “who brings a prostitute to the opera?” She was wearing one of those dresses that is mostly fringe, beads, and sequins—a dress in which you are one false move from being an inadvertant centerfold (without the stpale in your navel). And she made plenty of moves, let me tell you. I started looking for an invisible pole.

Since then, her attire has gotten somewhat more sedate, and last night’s fashion violation was merely wearing white shoes after Labor Day. Of course, it was also quite cold and wretchedly windy out, and I don’t think that even a thermal thong would’ve helped much.

Anyway, when the Odd Couple took their seats last night at Hansel and Gretel (which was excellent, BTW, and I highly recommend going to Sunday afternoon’s performance if you can), the smell of various substances was strong enough to make me gag. Ms. Odd immediately dug into her coat pocket and started unwrapping hard candy and shoving it in her mouth as fast as she could manage. She did this throughout the entire first act, and into the second…after having gone out at intermission with Mr. Odd to top off their various intoxicant levels.

So unfortunately, I already know the answer to “who the %#$@ gets drunk, stoned, and hopped up on sugar to go to the opera?”, because they sit right next to me.