Pants and Sundials.
You know how things can go around the scale of cool, right? At some arbitrary end, there is "awesomeness," and then it goes in circles, like a colorwheel or a sundial, down past "alright," to "meh," to "no." Then, like an overpressure release valve, there are - wait, a sundial with a steam release, someone get on that - there are those things, like Plan 9 from Outer Space or the Go-Bots, that are so bad that they're awesome all over again, as though undiluted by failure.
Okay. Hold that firmly in your mind, your steam-overpressured sundial of awesomeness measuring.
I wear pants. We're required to, and I've come to like them - although you might call that cultural chauvenism. I like my pants. I like my combat boots. They're part of my daily clothing template. It has been my habit to tuck my pants into my boots (whoa, now) because either the hems of my pants would be long enough that I'd step on them, or, lately, I discovered that it seals me against the Bitter Cold, like a vacuum suit only not really. My grandmother disapproves of this, as it hearkens back to darker times, a fact not lost upon me, although our own brave sons mounted precisely the same pants-tuckery campaign.
Okay, so, pants and sundial in hand, behold:
I have begun to see this whole thing come back into style. The steam (or hot air? Oh, burn!) has been let out of the fashion industry's colorwheelsundial and the Gods of Slack(s) have decreed that tucking your pants into your boots (a process I still refer to as 'blousing') is Okay Again.
This means that, twice this month, I have found myself doing Popular Things. I'm listening to Lady Gaga and following fashion trends.
If this is the start of something, then maybe 2012 will mark the apocalypse after all.
(As I typed that, I typed "apocalypso" as if by habit, and had to force myself to backspace and Make It Right. Even then, I felt compelled to tell you it had happened. One does not let such Providence escape.)
Okay. Hold that firmly in your mind, your steam-overpressured sundial of awesomeness measuring.
I wear pants. We're required to, and I've come to like them - although you might call that cultural chauvenism. I like my pants. I like my combat boots. They're part of my daily clothing template. It has been my habit to tuck my pants into my boots (whoa, now) because either the hems of my pants would be long enough that I'd step on them, or, lately, I discovered that it seals me against the Bitter Cold, like a vacuum suit only not really. My grandmother disapproves of this, as it hearkens back to darker times, a fact not lost upon me, although our own brave sons mounted precisely the same pants-tuckery campaign.
Okay, so, pants and sundial in hand, behold:
I have begun to see this whole thing come back into style. The steam (or hot air? Oh, burn!) has been let out of the fashion industry's colorwheelsundial and the Gods of Slack(s) have decreed that tucking your pants into your boots (a process I still refer to as 'blousing') is Okay Again.
This means that, twice this month, I have found myself doing Popular Things. I'm listening to Lady Gaga and following fashion trends.
If this is the start of something, then maybe 2012 will mark the apocalypse after all.
(As I typed that, I typed "apocalypso" as if by habit, and had to force myself to backspace and Make It Right. Even then, I felt compelled to tell you it had happened. One does not let such Providence escape.)