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Explore the current collection.

Misspelled
I thought that misspelled
Was mispelt
I know I'm misstaken
But that is how I felt
Desirable Side Effect
She got her shot
Then he got hizzen
Then they got aches
And heads a’dizzen

Twas side effects, they said
But not as bad as being dead

So I got mine
And my brain is whizzin'

Am I in pain?
You might be quizzin'

No, it’s like
From death I’ve risen

My side effect
Is optimism!
Sock News
I am told that a favorite conversational gambit during phone sex is to ask what your paramour is wearing. Personally, I have an unlisted number, but I can imagine that the answer (delivered in a warm, suggestive voice) involves some sort of lightweight underwear. Or a pair of highly impractical PJs. Or perhaps the odd hat.

One article of clothing that would likely never be mentioned, I’ll wager, are socks. Now, we are not talking about stockings here. Stockings are an entirely different matter. So, not garter belts or exotic, shimmering materials or transparency of any kind. One might think that socks, hanging out as they do around the pedal extremities’ erogenous zone, might have some of the hot magic rub off. But no. There is nothing remotely sexual about these humble foot snoods.

At least not to most folks. There are probably some sock fetishists out there who get steamed up over a pair of damp argyles, but those birds are surely rare. Let’s be clear: I am certainly not one.

This is not to say, however, that socks cannot spark joy. I own one pair in particular that still gives me pleasure after years (yes, years!) of use. Indeed, it is a sign of the strength of our relationship that I have blogged about them before, here.

That was over two years ago, and my attachment has only deepened since then. Now, each time I remove them from the washer, they are more diaphanous, more translucent, more vulnerable. That ragged delicacy only makes me cherish them more.

And yes, if you must know, I am wearing them right now.

IN OTHER NEWS: Today I consigned two socks to the dustbin. They were whole and fully serviceable, but both had resided in my sock drawer, unmatched, for months. So, finally, I officially called off the search for their lost partners. Sadly, there is never a possibility for proper closure in these situations. If the body of the missing sock is found, it simply rejoins its partner.

I assume that both were females. A male sock whose mate goes missing will often disappear within days. A widow, however, typically persists long after her partner is gone. I briefly considered joining the two to form a single pair, but immediately thought better of it. Such an act would not only disrespect both hose and their lost mates, it would subject me to ridicule should I be noticed wearing two differently colored socks.

Both of them had served well, but without much distinction. Even so, they were granted a moment of solemn silence before joining the used band aids and spent floss in my waste basket.

DRAWER UPDATE: I should confess here, for the record, that I am still supporting five pairs of socks that I never wear. In spite of their bad fit, or bad color, or bad personalities, I permit them to use up space and psychic energy. My only reason for keeping them is that they do have partners. I sense that this attitude constitutes some form of despicable clothing prejudice, but since I can’t think of what it is, I’ll just have to shrug and move on. My apologies to any garment that may have been offended.
Hurry Up and Wait
So I’m driving along today and moving steadily toward my destination across town. I’m in no hurry, but I am keeping up with traffic and going with the flow. The flow today, in my view, is not fast, but it’s fast enough.

Then I see a car in my rear view mirror. He is not going with the flow. He’s dodging in and out of lanes, seizing even the tiniest chances to lurch forward in the pack. As he goes by me, my suspicions are confirmed. He is a young man, possibly in his early 20s. He is intensely focussed on the road and filled with urgency — the urgency of youth.

Now, it’s possible that he is in the middle of a genuine emergency. Perhaps he’s rushing some life-saving medicine to his grandmother’s bedside. Or racing to stop his girlfriend from joining a convent. Or his winning lottery ticket is about to expire. I guess, though, that he is surging forward like that only because he is young. And he wants to get ahead of everyone. And thereby, in some way, to win. Win what, exactly, I am not sure. But I was there once myself, so I get it.

I am not quite ready to put myself in the category of “elderly gentleman” (much less “codger”), but I cannot say that I am a young man. I am certainly well past the age when roadway competitions against imaginary adversaries hold any meaning for me. As I have said, I was happy today simply to find the current in a river of traffic and ride it peacefully to my intended goal.

Even as I watch the young man move spasmodically forward, however, I am struck by the irony of this tableaux. The young man, who has all the time in the world, is in a desperate, though irrelevant hurry. Unless granny really is on the brink, there is no genuine need for him to rush. Whatever fractions of seconds he trims off his travel time will not be worth this expenditure of energy.

And I, the older man — someone who might arguably have a perfectly good reason to move as quickly as possible — am pleased just to be moving at all.

I do not begrudge him whatever victory he might claim over me and my fellow drivers. I may have once, but no more. Not that I don’t like winning, of course. And not that I wouldn’t mind having a little extra time to get where I’m going. But I’ll pass on all that intense urgency. That stuff is for the young, because they have the time to waste.
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Trump supporters are people who know what they believe.
~ JC, Bonny Doon