Stoopidity

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Occasionally, I must admit that my morning commute sometimes entails listening to radio programs with the tag lines of "Fresh Soft Rock." As if it isn't bad enough that my latter twenties will be spent cutting out coupons for baby butt paste at B.J.'s. Now I have to admit to you that I listen and sometimes sing along to Journey WITH NO SENSE OF IRONY. Who am I? Clinton pre-election? Goodness.

Now that this information is out for the universe to grapple with and find a way to forgive, I will note that whilst I was listening to Fresh Soft Rock this morning (and no, my pants were not tapered nor was I wearing duck shoes from L.L. Bean), the radio host introduced James Blunt's smash hit "Beautiful" as "the top wedding song of 2007."

Uh...Baking powder? One of the top songs? Played at weddings in the last year? WITH NO SENSE OF IRONY?

I just didn't want to believe it, fond readers. I love me a good Brit Pop artist as much as the next bloke, let's be honest. But the people who chose to put that song in their wedding reception playlists -- do they have a modicum of a brain? Because, fair sentimental brides, let's review. "Beautiful" may be how you want to feel on your special day. And nothing makes me so hot and bothered as being crooned to by a Brit boy, please understand. But "Beautiful" is a song about a guy who is rather high, gawking at a girl on the subway, who is rather taken. It is furthermore about this high guy who knows nothing about this girl besides the fact that she is spoken for, but who swears he'll continue to lust after the image of her, which to him bore the similitude of an angel. Which is, like, totally in keeping with the spirit of a ceremony that commemorates the joining of two hearts in a commitment to practice unconditional love until every last unicorn loses its horn and flies away...

But there you have it. Write a song called "Beautiful" and use the word "angel" in it, and you have the top wedding song of the year.

Dented Pumpkin

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Maybe it's because my brain is a dented pumpkin these days, especially at 10 p.m. Maybe it's because I can't see very well over the hood of my car. But yesterday evening I ran my car right over a sizable median in the parking garage. I wouldn't call it a speed bump. It was way wider, and it was clearly in place to do more than just curb my speed. I couldn't roll back over it in reverse, nor could I continue to pull my back wheels over it in forward. I looked around and saw other parking garage patrons looking completely confused and totally not interested in helping me in my predicament. My hands started to shake and I envisioned all of the Japanese tourists who would now be coming to Harvard Square and flashing their digital cameras and popping the peace sign in front of my car, the car that the dented pumpkin brain got to straddle the parking garage median. I got out of the car and said a silent prayer that God would send me a Clarence kind of Angel in the form of a parking attendant. I proceeded upstairs and met my man with wings.

I babbled something about this terrible thing that had occurred in parking spot #100, but clearly all he could see was Jaba the Hut with hair, so he followed me back to my car, put the keys in the ignition, and rolled the car right over the median like it was as easy as sneezing.

He got out of the car and, forgive a pun, but there was a pregnant pause, followed by his eyebrows raising and my eyebrows raising and my voice becoming very high THANK YOU SO MUCH YOU'RE A PROFESSIONAL SERIOUSLY THANK YOU SO MUCH. Something became clear to me that he expected a tip and something became clear to him that I had $.42 in my wallet and then something became mutually clear that I would not make out with him in exchange for him getting my car out of a rut.

2007. What a year for the green bus and me. I've crapped in it, peed in it, and now I nearly had to give up sexual favors to get it out of great parking garage peril.