Tuesday SOC (Stream of Consciousness)

Riding the bus into work today I discovered that neither of the books I am reading were in my backpack.  Very bad.  Fortunately, and inexplicably, my iPod was – and even more amazing, it still had a charge.  So I started to listen to Rolling Stones, and right about the time “Mothers Little Helper” came on I noticed a Subaru with a  huge “Yale” window decal on the back window, along with a few lesser schools clustered around the periphery.  What I want to know is what happened to all the Volvos?  During my years in school, a broken down Volvo station wagon was the pseudo-intellectual vehicle of choice.  Now, apparently Subarus are no longer the exclusive domain of lesbians – although, I suppose they could still be owned by lesbians who went to an Ivy League school, or at least visited one of their bookstores.  None of the lesbians I know tend to be that pretentious, though… so the whole thing is still a mystery in my head.  I’m really bothered when I can’t pidgeon-hole people.

I dismount the bus and proceed on foot to the tune of “Satisfaction.”  I used to be in a band that played that song, but we played the Devo version.  It was far more forgiving, and the bass part was so easy that I could even blurt out lyrics on occasion without throwing the entire band out of whack.  

Close to work I spot an individual with extraordinarily springy feet.  I mean his head must move a good 8 to 10 inches vertically with each step.  Normally I could forgive this, but his hands are pinned at his sides as he walks.  This, I can’t overlook.  Our man is only here temporarily.  He’ll be the first in line for the Mothership when it arrives.  I’ll be left behind, but at least I’ll be normal – or at worst, anonymous.  My reaction to the whole scenario was exacerbated by the fact that I was listening to “Start Me up,” I’ll admit.

I stop by the cafe on the way in and buy a bowl of oatmeal.  At my age this is necessary food as it keeps my increasingly renegade bodily functions somewhat in check.  Of course Rolling Stones + Oatmeal = somebody over 50, but younger than the Rolling Stones themselves.  I imagine those guys are well past being helped by Oatmeal… but my God, with the exception of Brian Jones, they’re all alive.  Keith Richard looked like a corpse at age 21, and his deterioration has been linear all these years… yet he’s still stomping around on stage.  I wonder if he gets his diaper checked when he switches guitars.

Got home from work and my three year old posed a question to my wife and I:  

“Guys, why don’t big people like you have boogers?”

My wife has always accused me of social recklessness when nasal mining – i.e., she believes I suffer from a paucity of subtlety when engaging in this behavior.  Happily my daughter’s observation confirms what I have maintained all along – namely,  I am actually a skilled low-observable practitioner of the art.  My wife might very well claim that I would likely have been married at age 22 instead of 43 had I never picked my nose, but that’s poppycock.  

My wife made me a list for the grocery store after the kids went down.  I lost it and found it 3, count ’em 3 times, before finally leaving without it.  Still, I did my best and awarded myself the customary “beef” stick at the checkout line.  My model of choice is about 18 inches long, and is called “The Original X Stick.”  What’s not to like about that name?  True, the ingredients look more like what might compose a suede watchband, but this isn’t the food of nit-pickers.  You need to be comfortable with the fact that your life has been measurably shortened when you feel that first salvo of fat impact the back of your throat.  Such are the thrills of an unaccompanied man on the loose at the grocery store.

Okay, time to crash.

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