When we were little, we didn’t have “Things.” Nothing much was a Thing. We just did stuff. We rode bicycles like madmen, and skied too fast, played hockey in the street, and every once in a while we’d go down to the sand pit where some guy sold fill dirt and gravel, and we’d slide down the hill on a castoff piece of plywood. When we got home, our elbows and shins looked like we’d had fourteen low-speed motorcycle crashes, but it was a blast.
Please note: It was a blast. It was not a Thing. Beware the Thing. Before you know it you’re wearing spangled spandex with advertising all over it. It ain’t dignified.
Do Yourself A Favor; Skip The First Minute And A Half
I’ve been to the opera. It was the shizzle. We sat right up front, close enough to see everyone in the orchestra sawing away in the pit. If you’ve never been, it’s pretty loud. Loud as a big band orchestra, or a rock band in a high school gym if they have hand-me-down amplifiers. All the actors are wearing these awesome costumes, and they make these big, sweeping gestures while they sing. When four of five of them start singing at the same time, it’s like a freight train coming. Awesome.
My honey wore this red dress. Low-cut, but elegant. She looked like a thousand second dates distilled into one sexy package. All the women were dressed like that. The men wore jackets and ties at a minimum. They held the doors for their dates.
There were dozens of highly accomplished musicians, and a hearty handful of singers, and who knows how many other people behind the curtain making the whole thing run. We sat in rapt attention and watched with a kind of awe as one of the most familiar and important pieces of music ever written blasted over our heads into a gilded theater filled with hundreds.
And with all that, the little printed program we were handed when we walked in was one percent as pretentious and self-aggrandizing as the opening credits for a YouTube video of a guy riding a bicycle around a park.
A Solution In Search Of A Problem: How Can I Turbocharge My Barbeque?
Who among us has not wondered aloud how we might turbocharge our barbeque? Let he who has not overfired the grill cast the first briquet. We’ve all tried swapping out a propane tank for a hardpiped natural gas line to get a few more BTUs out of Old Betsy. Then we got a larger diameter copper pipe and drilled out the nozzles. But something was always missing, besides our eyebrows.
Turbocharging. Brilliant.
Yes, Virginia, There Was A Time Before “Oh Noes, Someone Might Get Hurt”
Back in 1982, “Group B” rules were introduced for rally car races. Group A was basically a stock car, with lots of limits on power and modifications. Group B was a Katie-Bar-The-Door, let it rip, hold my drink and watch this blast.
The spectators got into the spirit of Group B. Why let the drivers have all the fun? They wandered all over the racecourses like lemmings and took photographs while the mirrors of the cars scratched their belt buckles and the tires ran over their feet. It was glorious. But like all wonderful things, some Debbie Downers got all upset about all the dead and injured people littering the racecourses, and whined about it. Before 1987 rolled around, Group B races were cancelled, and Group A rules were all there were.
Stupid dead people’s families are always ruining everything for everyone. It’s getting so I can’t even buy lawn darts at a yard sale anymore.