Over 30 years ago when I was but a young teenager, my good friend Steve imparted a poignant nugget of science upon me that to this day, I continue to believe to be pretty darned true.
I’m sure I’ve probably been heard around the domain here dropping that same tidbit of science on Wifey, the kids, and even the dogs. Even though I still have occasional contact with Steve, I don’t know if he remembers the flash of brilliance he shared with me all of those years ago.
So now, as I endeavor to catch up on my writing as I guzzle a cherry-lime flavored beverage out of a Dickey’s 32 ounce tumbler adorned with a strange indentation reticent of a dog’s canine, I feel that it’s necessary to grace the worldwide web with the knowledge that I picked up all of those years ago.
At this point, I’m listening to various songs in my iTunes library and have updated the shuffle pattern to include some songs on the playlist I haven’t heard in awhile. Lord only knows why I have some of this crap in my library. Some of it got there back in the day when the kids used to use my library to host their music. Other songs have landed there because no matter how ridiculously uncool it is to listen to them, sometimes you just have to throw caution and your man junk to the wind, expose your lady parts, and feed the aural assaults on good taste and geometry into your skull.
Crunchy Granola Suite
Halo/Walking on Sunshine
I Write the Songs
Stronger (What doesn’t kill you)
Big picture, it helps to listen to crap like this every once in awhile in order to help expunge the record from my mind. The alternative is that the song in question goes through my mind over and over until I hum it out loud and get ridiculed by the occasional visitor to my cubicle who hasn’t quite realized that I just ripped something silent but deadly under the ole desk.
All things being equal, I’d rather get pain for my active metabolism versus humming the less than dulcet tones of a song normally performed by this week’s flash in the pan.
Well look at that.
I went off on a tangent again.
Let’s get back to the brilliance my buddy Steve once shared with me.
I think we were about 12 or 13 at the time. One summer day, we were just shooting the bull and looking through his father’s Playboy collection. Steve then took advantage of a pause in our assessments of the hard work the photographers and editors had put into those magazines and shared his recent insights.
“You know……..” Steven opened with a slight pause to make sure that he (versus the magazine) had my full undivided attention.
I begrudgingly looked up from the artistic fleshfest entitled “Miss June” to meet his eye. “What?”
“People are immune to their own farts.”
Steve and I just stared at each other. No response was needed on my part, and no clarification was needed on his. We just sat there in silence and stared at each other. After a minute or so, we both simultaneously broke our gaze and returned to offering up excitable critiques of the lovely young ladies who adorned the pages of those magazines.