On Saturday the Mrs. and I took in the BC-Northeastern football game. BC steamrolled an absolutely atrocious Northeastern from the get go, so there was plenty of time for me to look around the stands (as opposed to swearing and yelling throughout a close game whenever BC makes a mistake). The first sight was pointed out by the Mrs. as she choked out the words, “look at the hair on that guy”. Over to my left was an older gentleman wearing a wife beater tee shirt. Sure, he had the huge tuft of gray hair coming out of the top of the front of the shirt, and a considerable amount on that small portion of his upper back that was exposed, but the most impressive/gross element was his “hair shoulder pads”. He had huge amounts of hair nestled on the top of each shoulder, creating the illusion that he was wearing his own special set of shoulder pads. Unfortunately, I did not have a camera with me. Let’s hope next week will be just as warm so that the shoulder pads will be uncovered and I am able to snap a few photos of him.
The other thing I noticed at the game, and which I’ve noticed on numerous occasions in the past, is the phenemenon invloving old men and baseball caps. Now this isn’t a universal rule, but more often than not, I see old guys at BC games who are wearing these ancient hats, something they bought in the 1980′s that they never threw out. They obviously don’t wear hats very often. Indeed, maybe the only time they wear a hat is at a sporting event. So what happens is that these guys have these mint condition hats that were made in 1985. They usually have a lot of mesh and a very high front, and they often have an old logo on them. Sure, they’re retro in the truest sense of the word, but not in a cool way. I guess over time old people simply stop buying many new clothes and just keep wearing the same old stuff. I think the same applies with baseball hats.
The other morning, the Mrs., as she often does, recounted what I did in my sleep the previous night. It usually involves talking in my sleep, whether it’s telling her she has to get up and she’s going to be late for work (even though it’s 2:30 a.m.) or talking mumbo jumbo, or it has something to do with farting in my sleep. Well this time, at around 3:00 a.m., she woke up and a skunk must have been outside our house. She said the smell was really strong. Soon thereafter, I apparently stuck my head under the blankets, sniffed, said, “that was a good one”, smiled, and then went on sleeping, proud of what I presumably thought was the stinkiest fart to end all farts. The Mrs.’ summation of the events: “I am married to a cave man”. Well said, my dear.