Today it occurred to me that our co-op student was born after I graduated from Virginia Tech. AFTER. When his mother came to pick him up, his mother and I waxed poetic on shows we used to watch that her son had never had the privilege of seeing and the importance of the cultural references of which he shall forever be ignorant. How Mrs. Cleaver used to vacuum the house or make dinner while wearing high heels and and a pearl necklace. “Who is Mrs. Cleaver? Eddie who?” “The Sweathogs? Rhoda? Mary Tyler Who?” “Oh ya, I’ve seen M*A*S*H..my mother MAKES me watch it.” “There was a war in Korea? A show about a sheriff in North Carolina? Where is that? Did he twitter?” My god, I’ve hit 40 and I’m still not ready.
I doubt Frank Buckles, the last surviving American World War I veteran who just died this week at 110, would have much sympathy. “At least you’ve never been shot at while taking a shit,” he’d probably tell me. Speaker Boehner won’t even allow him a proper funeral. He’s more interested in shutting down the government.
A laptop was returned to me for the 2nd time today. In for a “reflow”; in essence, melting the motherboard just enough so that it’s broken traces re-merge. I handed it off to someone who proceeded to deliver it to a guy in Toronto who said he “fixed it” twice. No less than 3 hours after it handing back to the customer, I get a phone call saying it failed again. Don’t ever buy an HP Pavilion laptop, people. Don’t ever get it reflowed. It’s like any one of Elizabeth Taylor’s marriages: Maybe it works at first, but sooner or later it’ll get a bitch-on and have a meltdown. Like a chicken wing to her throat, I’m about to angrily return this laptop to this guy. Give me my @%@n money.
I’ve gone back to being vegetarian this week. Call it spring training for softball; I can’t play at this weight and I want to live this life without ever being carried off on a stretcher (from a softball field).
For four days in a row on my way to work this week I’ve heard the Def Leppard song “Rocket” on the “Hair Metal” channel on XM satellite radio. Given that my journey to work is 1 mile travelling at 35 mph, that is pretty sad.
“Who sang ‘Rocket’? What is hair metal? Was that part of that ‘grunge’ thing?” “No, Mr. Kotter had nothing to do with it.” “Was Aunt Bee hot?” “Your sarcasm is weak.” “Ayyyyeee I’m the Fonz.” “Oh ya, well I am Cornholio!”
I hate 40.