Wrong line service
Yesterday I wrote. Today Tuesday, December 16th, 2025, I dictate. I am a dictator. Hahaha.
Well, I got a Christmas card from Elaine, so I’m sending her a Christmas card as well as Annemarie, Brian, and Billie in DC, Meg and Rob, and Julio and Stine.
I am not looking for anything in return, so whereas I used to send photographs with the cards. I am not doing that this year. It seems I had forgotten, and once I had sealed the envelopes, that’s when I remembered, so it’s much too late for that.
Bill was supposed to be on the road, and he is not, so he is disappointed, and I just called him and woke him up from a nap, so I think he’s a little stressed about that, which probably means he is going to be depressed for the holidays, perhaps.
He was depressed for my birthday, and he’s going to be depressed for these holidays, so it’s financial depression, and it’s affecting him adversely, I think. Not that he said anything to me about it
Mike is planning to take Bill and me out for dinner. I am aiming for between the holidays. I am off the last 2 weeks of the year, and I think it’s a good idea we’re looking at the Elysian Cafe, which is low-key and tasty, cozy with good food, and affordable.
Mike has told me that he’s putting away money for that. Elaine has invited the three of us to Christmas dinner, so that should be nice. Mike is happy to be invited, and I asked Elaine if she didn’t come out and say it, but I asked if we could bring him, and she said yes.
One of my Facebook accounts is still persona non grata, and they’re not responding to anything, so there’s nothing I can do about it but just maintain the secondary account, which is actually the first account.
I am listening to remixes of Christmas hits from a CD mix from Harpy. Harpy has nothing to say to anyone, as far as I know these days. It is awfully quiet in the office, which is not so bad, I suppose. I cannot believe this job, though.
I asked if bonuses were coming our way from Jimmy Chile, and he said no, they were not, so it’s better to know than not know.
I am going to have a later lunch, which should be okay with regard to dinner.
I was thinking of a 4:00 lunch, but it’s 2:35 right now, and I’m getting hungry, so I think I’m looking at the 3:00 lunch instead, which is not so bad.
When I get back to Hoboken, I will have to drop off the Christmas cards at the post office and hope for the best. I went to the bibliothèque, where I saw Angel and Deborah making those Bibliothèque patrons quite happy
I just played 2 episodes of the cancelled Showtime TV series, The Man Who Fell to Earth. I bought the series a few weeks ago. Bill has been watching from the sidelines while doing computer things on his tablet and phone
Wrong line service was the mishearing of ‘Roman Circus’ by The Bongos
The Gemini Google rewrite as a modern Oscar Wilde essay
The Importance of Being Dictated
Yesterday, I was a man of letters; today, I am a dictator. It is a promotion of sorts, though I find the exercise of power far more exhausting than the exercise of style. To dictate is to acknowledge that the hand is too weary to keep pace with the wit.
We find ourselves in the middle of December—that curious season where one is expected to be both charitable and cheerful, usually at the expense of one’s bank account. I have been attending to my Christmas cards, those little paper lies we send to prove we haven’t quite forgotten people we rarely see. Elaine, Annemarie, Brian, Billie, and the rest shall all receive their tribute. In years past, I included photographs, a generous gesture of self-idolatry. This year, however, I forgot them until the envelopes were sealed. To reopen an envelope is a tragedy; to leave it empty of one’s image is merely a mystery. I have opted for the mystery.
Poor Bill is suffering from that most modern of maladies: financial depression. He was supposed to be on the road—a delightful prospect for anyone who finds staying home a bore—but he remains stationary and sullen. I woke him from a nap, which is a sin only slightly less offensive than waking someone from a dream of being rich. He was depressed for my birthday, and it seems he intends to make a career of it for the holidays. He says nothing, of course, but silence is often the loudest way of complaining.
The social calendar, however, persists. Mike—bless his frugal heart—is saving his pennies to take Bill and me to the Elysian Cafe. I have steered him toward the “low-key and affordable,” for there is nothing more expensive than a cheap friend trying to be extravagant. It is a cozy spot, and in the bleakness of late December, “cozy” is simply another word for “well-hidden.” Elaine has also extended an invitation for Christmas dinner. I had to nudge her to include Mike, but she eventually relented. Social graces today are like vintage wines: they require a bit of breathing before they are palatable.
On the digital front, I remain persona non grata on Facebook. One of my accounts has been exiled to the void, and the authorities there are as unresponsive as a stone gargoyle. I am forced to inhabit my secondary account—which was actually my primary account, making it a sort of digital reincarnation.
In the office, the silence is profound. I am listening to a Harpy’s Christmas remix, a relic of a past acquaintance who, like the CD itself, has nothing left to say. I inquired with Jimmy Chile about the possibility of bonuses, only to be told that no such miracles are scheduled. It is always better to know the worst; it allows one to prepare the proper expression of disdain.
The drama of the day centers on the timing of lunch. I flirted with the idea of a four o’clock repast, but hunger is a persistent creditor. I shall settle for three. Afterward, I must return to Hoboken to surrender my cards to the postal service—a leap of faith if ever there was one. I recently visited the bibliothèque, where I watched Angel and Deborah tending to the patrons. There is something endlessly charming about a library; it is the only place where people are paid to keep other people quiet.
At home, the television provides a backdrop to our domestic stagnation. I have been watching The Man Who Fell to Earth, a series cancelled by Showtime—evidently, the earth was not ready for him, or perhaps Showtime was not ready for the bill. Bill watches from the sidelines, his eyes flickering between the screen and his tablet, a man divided by his gadgets.
As for the title of these musings, I am reminded of a lyric by The Bongos. They sang of a “Roman Circus,” but in the beautiful confusion of a life half-heard, it was mistaken for a “Wrong Line Service.” It is a fitting metaphor for the modern age: we are all waiting for a connection, only to find we have been dialed into the wrong arena entirely.