Harmoniconverse

So, tonight I decided that I couldn't bear to see people glaring at me in my newly-bashed Sophie. Yes, alas, Sophie is officially cursed-- this marks her fourth collision, and the second major one, since I first bought her less than a year ago. More like I'm officially driving the equivalent of drunk due to lack of sleep, in accordance with the latest 60 Minutes sleep deprivation study that I caught a few weeks ago. Gilbert may have been falling apart, but at least his brakes always worked in time when I lost focus momentarily.

Anyway, as I was saying... Deciding I needed another Diet Coke refill for the rotting of the gut, I took a walk to the Carl's on the corner. As I shuffled back up the street to hit the grading again at home, I was admiring the look of the Converse on my feet, having pulled them out of the bottom of my closet where I relegate them when I'm teaching, not wanting my kids to think I'm trying too hard to be cool in hipster Chucks (though I think the Chuck resurgence has passed. In case it hasn't, though, I insist on calling them Converse as I did when I originally wore them in the 90s, because I am convinced we never called them Chucks until emo kids started bringing them back a decade later. In so doing, I open myself up to attack for being a dork...and welcome it.)

As I was making my way up the last block before the house, I looked up at the sound of a bluesy harmonica, only to see a man on a bicycle coming toward me. I pretended to be unphased so he'd continue. As he passed me and I turned my back to him to make my way up the driveway, he must have pulled his harmonica out because I heard him start belting a blues song at the top of his lungs, though I couldn't quite catch the words as he careened out of sight and also out of audio range.

See? Even Orange County suburbs got a little soul...