I am not really in the mood to compose one of my rambling diatribes, so I suppose I will stick to just creating three smaller ones. So what if that adds up to one long passage. I care not, so there.
There are billboards around here for the last month or so that make no sense to me. I have passed them over a hundred times, and it just confounds me more each time. It is for a local radio station that plays “workday music”, which really means they play music that is somehow able to keep most women from going postal yet manages to sterilise the poor men that have to work in the typical female-dominated office environment. Anyway, the billboard has the station call letters, its catchphrase, and then a picture of a high heel shoe followed by a gas hose. It then proclaims “Pick Your Pump!” Ok, I get the play on words that they are both pumps and that the gas pump is a poignant reference given our current oil prices. But, why would you have to choose one over the other, and how is this at all related to a radio station? The only thing I can think of is that they are saying you could walk instead of drive, but then you assuredly wouldn’t be using a
high heel. Or, they could instead be appealing to foot fetishists, as the image of the two pumps as shown is quite phallic in nature. Yeah, that is what I am going with.
Speaking of music, we have long been under the spell of the music industry. They tell us what to listen to, and the lemming-run radio stations thus make it popular. Anyway, the most distressing part is that many of the absolute worst songs of late continue to get stuck in my head. This is particularly true of songs sung by female vocalists. My brain is partial to such ones. They get stuck in there, like bubble gum in my hair, and I recite them incessantly – the whole time muttering under my breath how much the song and lyrics are stupid. Some examples? Katy Perry’s “I Kissed A Girl” (umm – didn’t Jill Soluble cover the same concept say about 15 years ago?), Miley Cyrus’ “See You Again” (does she really have a best friend named Leslie, or does that just work because it rhymes?), and Scarlett Johansson’s “Falling Down.” The new Coldplay song also lingers in my grey matter, and while Chris Martin is a dude, he has an androgynous name and sings
effeminately, so he can get lumped in too.
I went to the mall for lunch one day this week. We hit up the ole Chinese Buffet. This one is a lot classier than most, i.e. you can actually touch the table without risking losing a 2″ x 3″ swatch of arm skin, but they are missing the calling card of Chinese buffets. Yes, I am talking about the soft serve ice cream maker. It does not matter how much sodium I have crammed into my body, or how bloated I feel, I need a little bit of ice cream to wash it down. But, on the dessert bar this time they had bowl after bowl of a white creamy substance, and it was on ice. Sweet! So I finished my meal, grabbed one, took a big spoonful (consistency was appropriate) and it was some sort of pudding. Ugh. I was so set on ice cream that I thus had to walk into the mall to the Dairy Queen to fill my sweet tooth. As I entered the mall, two gentlemen walked past us and one repeated the following line twice “Ain’t nobody like a crackhead.” And his voice
inflection obviously meant like in the form of “be fond of” not “similar to.” And he looked like a (former) crackhead. Yeah, the ice cream tasted even better after hearing that.