Random Thoughts: The A to Z Blog of the Overactive Mind

  There's a moment - the precision of which eludes me - when my brain stops trying to remember it belongs to a responsible adult human being and transforms into an organ belonging to an unsupervised improv troupe. It might be the coffee. It might be the fact it's usually 5am when I start these posts. It might be my duodenum trying to be a triodenum, who knows? Maybe that's just the hour when logic loosens its tie, reality checks its guns with the hostess, and my imagination starts inviting guests that would be unwelcome in anybody else's noodle. It's definitely the time when cryptids start making perfect sense and Dave becomes suspiciously involved in everything. I don't mean that Dave. I mean DAVE . The universal fall guy. The man who wasn't even real but was somehow responsible. The invisible dude we blame when admitting fault would generate paperwork. The need to apologize. Require personal growth. Clean other people's bathrooms. You know, that kind...

  I didn't have many girlfriends growing up. In fact, I didn't have any... unless you count fictional characters, dreams, and possibly that mannequin at Sears I accidentally made eye contact with. But that's literally another post. It wasn't that I was unattractive. Let me tell you, I had Geek Chic up the metaphorical and literal wazoo. Quite possibly the lateral one, too, thanks to a couple of school bullies who I choose to believe were just jealous. Or on steroids and couldn't manage the aggression.  And it wasn't that I couldn't dance, recite poetry or do anything else that social situations required in getting to know someone. My problem was in the little things, like making eye contact and saying things without sounding like an orangutan trying to explain that he was constipated. Ughggh! It definitely wasn't a lack of interest. Like any young man entering the clumsy, always hungry and adorable only to grandma stage of life, I had a healthy curiosit...

  Yes, this is another "there was a time" post. There Was a Time... ...tragically recent if you ask anyone over 30, when being bald meant one of three things: You were old. You were stressed. Your hair follicles had called it quits early and filed for permanent retirement. With no benefits. At the same time, nerds were relegated to basements, classrooms, lockers, libraries, and the occasional comic book store that smelled vaguely of nacho cheese and the Old Spice aftershave they'd snuck off their father's dresser to impress "the ladies." They never met "a lady." Plural form? Fuhget-about-it. But somewhere along the way, the universe either got enlightened or a little bit confused. Because now, bald is beautiful. Nerds rule. And, let's face it, the world hasn't been the same since. The Bald and the Beautiful... Once, bald men were compared to cue balls, bowling pins, roll-on deodorants with arms, babies bottoms, polished glass, and prematur...

  Because the Internet Was Still Using Training Wheels - a.k.a. "Books." Before - long before - social media and the sinister Mr. Al Gorithm decided for us which cat videos mattered the most, there was a simpler, louder and decidedly flammabl-er(?) time: the 1980's. A decade powered by synthesizers, questionable fashion choices, and hair so shellacked you could use it to cut through drywall in a pinch. It was also the decade that birthed a very specific form of social networking. It didn't require Wi-Fi, a vast army of followers, and didn't even know what public shame was. And it's chief architects? Valley Girls and Frat Boys.  Two tribes, dos vibes. But one unified goal: look totally rad and pretend you don't care who who's watching (even though you, like, totally did.) This wasn't 'networking' as we know it now. This was networking through proximity, copping a 'tude, and just  the right amount of aerosol to melt a medium-sized iceber...