I like it when it’s quiet like this, don’t you? No one here but you and me, the winds of change blowing softly through the cubicles (because in my fantasies, we work together), the smell of burnt toast wafting in from the lunchroom…
It’s Friday, glorious, golden-haloed Friday, where anything is possible and everything is affordable.
Isn’t it nice here, in this moment?
But what does the iPod have to say about it? For the iPod sees much, tells some. O Mighty iPod! Earbuds stuffed ever-so-delicately into my ears, music shuffled and observed with both concern and bemusement, what does the weekend hold for us?
Conventional Wisdom by Built to Spill
Waiting for the Great Leap Forward by Billy Bragg
Too Fake by Hockey
The Hanging Garden by The Cure
Born to Wander by Rare Earth
Set Fire to the Rain by Adele
Anti-D by The Wombats
And there you have it. This weekend? The iPod suggests that, despite the advance in years, there is still much to learn—and no one’s saying that you can’t dance while doing it.
So do we have time for some quick silliness?
Because T’s concerned about his socks.
You remember T, don’t you? The man who left the exciting, variable climes of Minneapolis for the unimaginative shores of southern Florida? A man who has successfully fended off a clothing revolt? A man who sees beautiful women everywhere he goes?
We take you to that call, already in progress.
“… so I just see them as undisciplined, you know what I mean?”
I jerk from my revelry. I had been staring at the window washer outside of the 48th floor, torn between not wanting to distract him and wanting to run to the window, mouthing “How cold are you right now? Are you scared? What do they pay you an hour, anyway?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Who’s undisciplined now?”
He sighs. “Have you been listening?”
“Of course,” I lie. “Something about discipline.”
He sighs again. “My socks. We're talking about my socks.”
A quick expulsion of air from T’s end. “Excuse me? Did you just pfffft me? “
There's a slight pause while we consider my lack of manners.
“It’s my fault,” he says, sadly. I imagine him to be shaking his head. “I’ve failed to convey to you the importance – nay, the gravity – of the sedition behind the undisciplined sock.”
“Have you been in the thesaurus again?”
“No. Nope. Not at all. On no account. By no means.”
“All right,” I say. “Tell me about your socks.”
The telephone line crackles with the space between Minnesota and Florida.
“Socks,” he says. “We’ve discussed their standing insofar as the body is concerned, have we not?”
I nod. “Many times.”
“The spinners, the slouchers, the heels that refuse to be identified: there is no place for these socks in our lives.”
“Nooo,” I intone.
“And so when I found myself in possession of a number of them, I had to ask myself, well, what’s it all about?”
There is silence.
“And what?” he responds. “And nothing.”
“Well, maybe something.”
He sighs. What he is about to say pains him.
“The more you pay for a sock, the better it is.” He sighs again. “Remember those Gold Toes I had?”
“Man,” he says. “Now those were some socks.”
He sighs again. The phone crackles across a thousand miles.
“Yep,” he says wistfully. “Those were some socks.”
Happy Friday, everyone. Don't forget to come back tomorrow!
About Christopher Robin
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