For those of you who are still there, I am officially ending my summer hiatus. It’s time to write again. I’ve been busy so……..that’s bullshit. Busy-ness had nothing to do with it. I just didn’t have anything to say, not that I usually do. I got so burned out on politics and change and giving a shit that I just didn’t want to be another of the three billion people on the internet who blog daily about all of that. There was a day when a person would bristle if you asked them if they blogged, but now the word is in the lexicon and it’s a badge of honor. Six billion lips at once, all speaking through keyboards and word processor files, projecting their fervent half-informed opinions into what we call cyberspace. Is anyone listening?

So, now I will speak of something that is much dearer to my heart than Barack Obama, Blue Dogs, or rich fat white guys (even though I’m two out of three on that one). I would like to speak about irony. Ironic  statements are those which mean virtually the opposite of their contents. It’s a great device because conventional wisdom and speech get turned upside-down. You say the conventional thing, which is usually conveyed with sincere emotion, but you say only the words, in a deadpan monotone, or perhaps a trace of mock enthusiasm. It is the language of urban America. It is the soul mate of sarcasm, which is included in its intent, and when you come from a large American city, ironic sarcasm is the language of choice. It is designed to be both clever and funny, and it is both. The fact that it’s funny stems from the element of surprise, when a character’s words belie what you know is his true point of view.

I’m from a big city, and as a result, I am a wise-ass. Fellow urbanites, friends and family understand. Half of them are wise-asses, too. The other half are so accustomed to hearing ironic sarcasm that they expect it. Six years ago, I moved to a small town, population 800, in the Western United States. I learned something quickly. Irony does not exist out here, except among the urban transplants. People actually say exactly what they mean. It is shockingly novel. I have been misconstrued and misunderstood, and witnessed eye rolls and jaw drops. I have offended without even trying. I have been accused of arrogance. All for being a wise-ass. Every once in a while, I find myself in the company of people who speak the language (usually from back East), and we spend the whole evening wallowing in our hilarious insincerity.

Out here, people speak slowly, because they’re not in any hurry, ever. They speak quietly because they’re not competing with car alarms, traffic noise and millions of other jaws flapping at the same time. They say what they mean directly because they have absolutley no reason to even risk offending someone. People aren’t in competition for their space and their “propers”. There’s room for everyone who’s here because there’s noone here. So when you drop a sarcastic, ironic comment, they assume you are aiming it at them rather than at the general inanity of convention and conformity. Quizzical looks and offended sensibilities are sure to follow. I’ve had to retrain myself in restraint to at least some degree just to get by. I have become a Stepford Wife so I can be nice. It’s all very pleasant, but not very funny. So when I get back to the city on visits, I feel like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, I am again free to rag at will without concern or consequence. I can soak in the sweet sounds of Chicagoans as they wise-ass each other, just to remind themselves that nobody’s a bigshot.

I don’t really have a point to  make, except perhaps that the more of us you put in one place, the nastier we get. It’s okay, though, if you can dish it out and take it, too. I can, but I seem to be among those who do neither well. So from now on, I’m going to make a serious effort to speak plainly and purposefully, to measure my words and their potential impact before they leave the gate. Sure. No really, I am. Cross my heart.