The Sign Said, "XXX," But They Were Talking About Rootbeer
Well, before we all turn into meat-sicles from self-induced nuclear winter, let me get this off my chest: If your life is starting to look like Nails' song "88 lines about 44 women" (or men, or both - we're egalitarian 'round here) it might be time to grow up.
While we can all be on it, we can't all be Grade A class, number one in our divisions. So, necessarily, we have to find a way to shut up and be happy in our existences of quiet desperation. Or so we think.
A good friend of mine posed the problematic juxtaposition of finding herself in charge of helping some very troubled youth to conform to societal norms while at the same time fostering some sense of healthy self. Individual conformity. Horatio Alger for the Sexual Predator Set.
Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead Moment: Are we really all in each other's presence - in our worlds of soup - armed only with forks ...?
Just to clear up the last entry: I've never been a b-boy standing in a b-boy stance. But I always thought it might have been cool to try it. The times I've tried in front of the mirror made me laugh. Which is good, because I'm the biggest dork who lives inside my own skin. The rest of them are pretty cool - but me? Nah.
