In Praise Of Laziness

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Work is what sets us apart. You are what you do. People ask, "What line of work did you say you're in?" and if you say, "I am a brain surgeon" to someone who washes dishes professionally, he backs up, bowing. But a man who spends five weeks lounging in his pajamas is a plain old bum like the ones at the bus depot. There are not varieties of bumhood, some more creative or distinguished than others. Indolence is, like all religious experiences, totally self-effacing.

You efface the self you've worked hard to assemble over the years and you feel a new you emerge, a nicer you, calmer, cooler, easier-going. The you you really are and not the guy you constructed at the U and from Gary Cooper movies and tailored to the needs of Hubbard, Buttrick, Bickford & Barnes and re-tuned in therapy with Dr. Koren. Now you become the you you were afraid the world would find out about. Goombah, homeboy, cowpoke or hobo. Or, in my case, a limericist. But the sun shines on me still, and like any other poet I am gathering rosebuds while I may, for the glory of flowers too soon is past and summer hath too short a lease and here it is, already gone, alas, alas.