Wherein Your Humble Correspondent Confronts Postmodernism In His Own Home & Continues A Leitmotif

A few weeks ago, I arrived home after a long day of battling the forces of evil, which constitutes my day job:

Me: Let's see Ms. Plaintiff. Your physician describes you as "morbidly obese." You're fifty-seven years old. Your X-rays show severe degenerative arthritis throughout your spine, which, according to your medical records was diagnosed a decade ago. You recently backed your own car into a tree causing several thousand dollars worth of damage.

Yet, you steadfastly maintain that your low back pain is caused by my client who bumped into the rear of your vehicle with such force that the sum total of "destruction" to same was a flippin' dime-sized dent to your license plate.

Ms. Plaintiff: Yes.

Ms. Plaintiff's Lawyer: I would advise my client to take Fifty Thousand Dollars.

Me: I'm sure you would.

Anyway, as I approached the Sherman Estate from the West, (I always keep the sun to my back, a la Clint Eastwood in The Outlaw Josey Wales) I could see the UPS truck was exiting the three mile cobblestone driveway bordered by five hundred year old oak trees which leads to my home from the state highway.

"Good news," I thought. "The new outfit has arrived. At least it won't be stolen, like the previous addition to the EMBLOS' wardrobe collection. The EMBLOS really needs to pay more attention to what's delivered to the front porch."

I parked the Rolls in one of the empty bays in the carriage house (I had given the driver a half day off in order to allow him to have a cervical fusion) and strolled through the topiary up the walk to the front door. On cue, it opened via the hand of one of the unseen underbutlers, and I cast my gaze upon the official children. As usual, they were standing at attention in their uniforms and commenced serenading my arrival with a medley of Austrian folk tunes.

Next to them was the EMBLOS, beautiful as always. She took my jacket and handed me my daily DIAKA Vodka and tonic, the glass of which she had pressed to her lips as she softly whispered the words, "lime juice," together with "ice," which of course imparts that hint of citrus, which I like so much without bruising the spirits.

We trundled the kids off to bed and then repaired to the Hohenzoellern Room for a light dinner of gently sauteed organes génitaux des saumons served on a bed of couscous. Then, to the veranda where the setting sun provided an aesthetic back-drop for coffee and dessert, a lovely tart of mamelons d'huîtres topped with a strawberry mousse.

At last, I judged the mood was set and inquired about the day's delivery.

"It's perfect," she said with more exuberance than I had anticipated, frankly. "According to the instruction manual, we can even monitor our heart rates."

Instruction manual? Did she mean video? No? Well, OK. But I've got three kids. I think I can take it from here, now that the package has been safely delivered. Plus, I didn't recall an electrocardiograph to be part of the package price, although at my age, one cannot be too safe, I suppose. A stethoscope would have sufficed quite nicely to complete the effect. But, hey. Who am I to quibble?

The EMBLOS smiled and spoke.

"Would you like to see it?"

"Well, duuuuh," I answered suavely.

Thereupon, I was ushered to the door of the family room and told to close my eyes.

Definitely not a problem.

Moments later, (in retrospect, a wee bit too quickly) I was allowed inside. There I beheld that which had occupied my conscious thoughts since I first saw UPS guy, towit, this.

Now, I ask you, dear readers. Is there anything in the world which represents the evils of postmodernism, better than the treadmill? I mean, you "walk" for hours and never get anywhere. Instead of being cooled by nature's breezes, a dinky fan blows the recirculated room air into your face, which air carries the scent of your own sweat. Instead of the sounds of birds or rain hitting tree tops, one has one's iPod plugged in, listening your daughter's hip-hop downloads. Instead of viewing the world from the top of a mountain after a five mile stroll, one is compelled to watch "America's Got Talent." (Although I must say, the eleven year old yodeler from Tennessee isn't half bad.)

Of course, the absolute worst is that one cannot "stop and smell the roses" while one is on a treadmill. If one does, one is flung off the rear of the darn machine into the wall, which in turn causes the EMBLOS to come running into the room to ask if one's alright, before giggling and then getting one an ice pack and other first aid.

All without the required uniform, I might add.

Oh well, I suppose I can live with the darn treadmill.

All I have to say is, the next UPS delivery better be something I want.

Cheers.

R. Sherman