I’m finishing up a cold. You know that felling where you have to clear your throat all the time, or are overcome by a coughing fit, but you don’t have any other outward symptoms to claim sympathy. I can’t use it as an excuse to avoid cleaning the bathroom anymore although I get that little zing of satisfaction over my shiny chrome and porcelain.
The G-man might also say I’m a wee bit out of sorts, and since he’s the only target around, well, he gets the brunt of of peevishness. So I’m giving a “shout-out” to all the mates out there who turn a deaf ear and a blind eye to their loved one’s (rare) bout of crankiness.
I’m also peeved about some current events: the “blame the hoodie” argument ranking as #1. The Trayvon Martin case surfaces serious issues, and I’d say the shallow argument that wearing a hooded sweatshirt could have prevented this tragedy is just that. I live near a high school and have seen more children than I can count walking through the neighborhood in their hoodies. And I’ve seen plenty of punks looking to make trouble in my day as well. Their choice of sweatshirt is the least defining characteristic of either group. So this weekend I’m going to wear my bubbe hoodie as often as I can. And I’m going to try very hard to adjust my prickly attitude — because I don’t want to provoke anybody who may be suspicious of my hoodie-wearing intentions.