Saturday, 9 April 2011

Retro to Go II

A hole in a T-shirt can give street cred where all that was before was a geek seeking non-nerd statehood, but with a do-not-pass-go card that makes three brass monkeys dumber than one primate on the path to evolution.

Am I rambling so to cut a long story short, we all evolve and he ~ the teenager ~ needs my t-shirt to accelerate his adulthood because my t-shirt is cool and is an instant pass to the cool kids. Or so he says in an ineloquent mix of ums, dohs, wannas, heys, as he makes a short story long, as he exercises my rapidly ageing brain cells, the teen translator is near bust.

My T-shirt is faded by time and a star moodily stares out, a star that has survived to be iconic to a new generation. The iconic look has not dated, unlike the cotton it sits on. So to exaggerate for poetic effect I am asked like Pharoah letting my people go, I let my T-shirt go. I make the sacrifice of an inheritance worth more than the cotton picking moment it was bought.

But and double but a holed t-shirt is cool. A holed sock is cotton picking not. My sock of which I have unnecessarily close relationship based on it fits quite nicely thank you very much. My sock is holed like a torpedo called a big toe ~the teenager big toe. My sock is so uncool it traverses the metaphor, it breaks the metaphor, I could get a bloody cold big toe.

So today like many other days, I am facing the executive grilling looking superficially office smart cool, as smart as pink tie on pink shirt can look cool without blushing to give the full pink on pink on pink full effect. Today not like other days, I know I am one shoe removal away from being an embarassment to the VIP Business lounge at an airport. I have a teenager not only stealing my socks, but damaging them. Ho hum. Hobbit boy needs to learn to darn. Darn it.

This is sock abuse. Sock abuse is what this parent needs like a hole in the head, with the notable exceptions of mouth, nostrils and a couple of ear drums. The latter holes being fairly valuable holes in the head, methinks. I have a university education and all that.

This is not on.

And to double whammy my "not on"- us. A T-shirt is returned. I say T-shirt. A T-shirt carefully loved over a decade, gently nursed through fading years, here now it is somewhat ripped, a little cigarette burned perhaps. An icon has a hole in the head that is not where a nostril should be.

It now in fact not a t-shirt, but a oil cloth for the car, today I feel a full body adult tantrum coming on and by damn I deserve it. I may take Mr Scissors to more than a toenail.

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