Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Post-traumatic dress disorder

Roll 'em
This is all I'll have to say about the 2007 Red Sox, I promise. A friend of a friend attended the "Rolling Rally" and took some excellent photos, which you can see here, here, here, here and here.

O the horraw, the horraw...
I'm sure I was almost asked to leave work the other day due to excessive muffled snorts of laughter when I saw this blog post concerning 1970s fashions. In the same spirit as my all-time favorite, the 1970s Weight Watchers recipes. I found a Weight Watchers cookbook from a slightly later era at my mother-in-law's house and I keep meaning to scan and post some of the more egregious items.

Where are Roy Scheider and Richard Dreyfuss when you need them?
I feel unaccountably irritated when I see a shark biker. This is what I call those urban bicyclists who are simply unable to come to a complete stop and put one foot on the ground while waiting at a red light. No, they have to circle slowly in the vicinity of their corner because presumably otherwise they have to keep oxygenated water moving past their gills at all times. Either that or they have Duct-taped their cute little biker shoes right into the little baskets on the pedals, so they can't take their feet out to balance the bike while stationery and they would tip over with a satisfying crash. Now that I'd like to see. That and one of the bikers going up like an Indian funeral pyre doused with gasoline when his skin-tight, logo-slathered acetate biker fashion caught fire from the cigarette lighter of a passing pedestrian.

Right beverage, right occasion, wrong room
I once went to a wedding with some friends and drove to the reception but got lost. However, I finally found a reception-like place, parked and went in. Yes, there were the dressed-up guests, there was the festive decor and there was the table of gifts. I put my present on it and immediately helped myself to a gin and tonic, then looked around for someone to chat with. Except I didn't recognize anyone from the church. It finally dawned on me that I was at the wrong wedding reception. Oops. So I did the only thing I could: I tossed down the rest of my drink, sashayed casually over to the gift table to retrieve my present and left with that dignity I could muster. I finally found the correct venue, which I could tell right away because there was a keg rather than Tanqueray.

Next up: driving the wrong car.

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