By Craig P. Dixon, southcoast247.com correspondent Social Commentary 74
September 6, 2006
Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to this week’s Craig Cares.
Craig’s not here today. I, Dr. Lawrence Centers, Craig’s best friend and
biographer, will be taking over for the overworked author this week.
These past few months, I’ve shadowed Craig’s daily Martha’s Vineyard rituals
and gathered them together with a simple overused adage that we all know
very, very well: “Work hard. Play harder.” He’s constantly busting his ass,
serving people, when in my lowly opinion these people should be serving him.
Craig’s a King and we’re all servants. Someday, we’ll owe a great debt of
gratitude to the man for what he’ll put on paper, for the great works
forming in this man’s mind shall be ruminated for centuries to come by
scholars and fools alike.
Which brings me to my point. The adage, “Work hard. Play harder,” is
inherently flawed. In actuality, it should read: “Don’t work. Play.”
For why is it that individuals like Craig, with all their latent talent and
intellect, waste so much time working, when they should be outside playing,
gaining more in life experiences and from seeing the world than they’d ever
gain toiling in a cubicle or pouring booze for the thirsty masses. It
doesn’t make any sense.
Until you look at Craig’s car. Or his shiny laptop (I’m pounding the
keyboard right now). Or that Ipod he’s thinking of buying. Everyone works in
order to spend, spend, spend.
The other day, I was sitting at the bar, drinking on Craig’s tab, when an
elderly gentleman to my right started a conversation with me.
“How about those Sox?” He asked.
“I wouldn’t know.” I answered. “I don’t follow sports. Not worth my time.”
This grew great ire in the old man, who immediately tore into me, saying,
“Any self-respecting Massachusetts citizen should be a Sox fan.”
I replied, “Well, that must be the problem. I’m not self-respecting.”
The man was dumbfounded. It took him a minute to compose himself. Then he
answered. “Why, in all my 75 years, and hell, 50 years in the work force,
I’ve never heard such a thing. You must be soft in the head, boy.”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Wait. You’re telling me you worked 50 years?”
“Yes. 50 years and proud of it.”
“Retired this year?”
“Last.”
“And you’re getting your traveling in now?” I smiled.
The old man had that look of, “Where’s he going with this?” in his eyes.
“Yes,” he replied.
“I’m sorry about my earlier comment. In comparison, you’re the one who
doesn’t respect himself. Here you are, at 75, the best of your life way
behind you, and just now you’re off to see the world. You spent the better
part of your life working for the benefit of others: And I don’t mean
supporting a family or anything like that. You could’ve supported them much
more simplistically. You worked to support your boss and his boss and his
boss and their kids, and your sweat provided them their shiny new Cadillac’s
and plush white mansions. You busted your hump in a corrupt, awful
consumerist system where, face it, you’re born to work and waste your life
away for 50 years and all they give you for the sacrifice is a meager
pension and shitty watch.’
‘And here you are: A shell of the man you were in youth, seeing the world,
while I haven’t worked a day in my life and have seen most everything worth
seeing in this or any other country you will only imagine, as you’ll never
get a chance to see them before you die.’
‘Now, in retrospect: Who lacks self-respect?”
We sat in silence awhile, sipping our beers. If the old man were 25 years
younger he probably would’ve punched me, but the fight had gone out of him
long ago. The idea of working your entire life and realizing that soon
you’ll die, and everything you worked so hard for will stay here while you
go to the worms, must’ve weighed upon him heavily.
Perhaps he’d thought of it before. I really didn’t care.
Craig’s not here today. I, Dr. Lawrence Centers, Craig’s best friend and
biographer, will be taking over for the overworked author this week.
