Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
Wednesday, April 28, 2010 Combing My Memory
Okay, so let me tell you about my own comb story, even though you never reminded me like I asked you. You people really aren't holding up your end here.
As I've said before, I've been aware for a long time that I'm not a trendsetter, or even a trend-follower, but more of a trend-ender. If I'm into something, it's probably already over. The one exception in my life was a period in high school when I was wearing flannel shirts all the time, years before anyone else. They were my dad's, and they were big and warm, and it was Minnesota, so it made enough sense to me that being dubbed "Flannel Man" was a small price to pay. Then when flannel shirts blew up in the early nineties, to the point where even freaking Prince wore one in a video, I kind of wished I still knew people from my high school so I could rub their faces in it. Which they would have appreciated, because there are worse things to have your face rubbed in than flannel.
But that was the exception that proved the rule, and it came after one of the formative experiences of my life. A few years before then, I looked around my junior high school and realized that all the guys had the handles of big old Crazy Combs™ sticking out of the back pockets of their Levis or Lees. I realized I'd better get one of those. Granted, I had been successfully resisting the perm craze that was raging through our school like Ebola, but I thought it best to make at least some concession to fashion.
So I got me one of those Crazy Combs. I felt a little self-conscious the first day I wore it, but I'd already realized that it wasn't so much a thing to be used as a fashion accessory. (like wallet chains in recent years. Are wallet chains still a thing? I'm not sure. I'll get one and then they won't be, and that'll be my answer). God knows I never saw anyone else using theirs, even though circumstances cried out for it. And by "circumstances," I mean "the Eighties."
Everything went fine until one period late in the afternoon. For some reason, I was either the first or the last person in my Social Studies class that day, so the room was nearly empty. I got up from my chair and felt something go twang against my butt-cheek, and a split-second later was aware of some projectile whickering dangerously across the room.
What had happened was this: My Crazy Comb (and that phrase is one of the most embarrassing I've ever typed) has been protruding through the wide gap between the back and the seat of my chair. When I got up, the handle got hooked under the bottom edge of the seat, and the comb catapulted out of my pocket to fly free. If it had been a knife, or even a slightly sharper comb, it would have killed anyone else who'd been there.
But there were three good things about this. One, I got a blog entry out of it a quarter-century later. Two, nobody was there to witness it, a rare blessing in a place and time that was a minefield of embarrassments, especially for me. Three, I started to realize I'm never going to be a bleeding-edge kind of guy, and my Crazy Comb days were over before they even made it into the plural. And I've been a little wiser and warier about trendy crap ever since.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go see what my Tamagotchi wants. posted by M. Giant 7:00 AM 2 comments
My comb had a picture of Ziggy on it. What was on yours?
I'm really sorry I forgot to remind you to tell us the comb story. But I'm really glad you remembered anyway.