Sunday as I was driving home from my parents' palatial suburban estate, I spotted a guy on a pedestrian freeway overpass wearing what appeared to be a Boy Scout uniform. He had hung U.S. flags all along the fencing, and, as I passed below at 65 mph, he clicked his heels together and stood in salute to all the fine SUVs, tractor-trailers and economy cars before him. Nothing stirs the heart more than the sight of suburban freeway traffic, I suppose.
Speaking of over-the-top displays of patriotism, Sunday was Last Night of the Proms (it will be on the BBC's radio player* for the rest of the week; best part starts at 20:29:00). I have trouble explaining exactly why it's one of my favorite things on this earth, but it is.
My love for Proms comes, I suspect, from the same part of me that enjoys dressing up in a kilt and walking around shouting "Huzzah!" at people. It's my growing philosophy that attempting to be cool isn't worth the investment. You can spend your whole life hanging out in coffee shops and keeping tabs of the newest and most obscure bands and wearing all the right clothes and possessing all the newest and most fancy things, and you will still die. So, why not take stupid joy in embarrassing and cheesy things? Conveniently, I develop this philosophy as I am getting too old and too poor to be cool, anyway.
I know it makes me sound like this guy to say this, but why is it so hard to find proper tea in the United States? Every once in a while, I foolishly attempt to buy a cup of tea at one of Minneapolis-St. Paul's 800 bajillion coffee shops and it always ends in tears. If you ask for tea, they always want to offer you some sort of bastard concoction with a strange name and more ingredients than you would normally consume in an entire day -- mango chai lemon honey orange ginger apple cinnamon peaceful morning tea.
Tea, you bastards! I want tea! The stuff they mention no less than 20 times in every East Enders episode; the stuff we dumped into Boston Harbor; surely it cannot be that hard to produce an adequate cup of simple black tea.
A nation breathes a sigh of relief at the news that one man's groin is doing better.
Holy cow -- it's almost Talk Like a Pirate Day. I'll try to make a better attempt of it this year than last year.
Sunday my friend and I were joking that in accordance with America's lost sense of irony, we will henceforth refer to the New Orleans Saints as "America's Team." We thought we were being funny -- apparently we weren't.
My wife was criticizing me this weekend over the fact that I do not list any female authors among my favorites in my wee profile (which has not been updated in quite some time**). After thinking about it for a while, I was forced to admit to myself that I couldn't think of any female author that I like. I'm not sure I've even read that many books by female authors beyond "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing" by Judy Blume. Admittedly, I'm not a particularly avid reader, but that's pretty sad, isn't it? Equally, you'll note that my favorite authors are all white Westerners. By my narrow reading standards, Jack Kerouac is the odd man out.
*'Chwaraeydd radio' in Welsh
**Which reminds me that I intend to find a new template or doctor the current one because I think this blog is looking pretty stale. I may or may not get around to doing this in October.