I'm not sure when it happened. Perhaps it's always been this way and I was too busy doing whatever it is that I do and didn't notice. Regardless of when it happened, it is clear that we have officially entered the golden age of paranoia. It's true. Just look around you. Listen to the news channels. Fear and paranoia are running rampant and they're out to crawl up your ass and get you. It begins with a little speck of fear and it blossoms into full-blown paranoia. When that happens, it's all over for you, pal.
I think a lot of it goes back to the September 11, 2001 attacks and that makes a shitpot of sense to me. Prior to that horrendous morning, we were fifty feet tall and bullet-proof. In the post-Cold War world without the threat of the Russians putting a nuclear (or "nucular" if George W. Bush is reading) piledriver on us, we were damn near footloose and fancy free. We didn't take shit, we didn't give a shit, we weren't in the shit business. The really bad shit was someone else's problem. The worst thing that could happen to us was hearing some shitty Hall & Oates song on the radio and believe me, every Hall & Oates song is shitty.
That has changed. Now any little blip on the radar instantly becomes a major blop, if not a big ass fargin' dot. Maybe someone spilled some chili on the screen and a wayward bean is causing a false reading. Damned if I know. It's been a while since I've consumed chili and I couldn't tell you the last time I saw a radar screen.
The paranoia du juor is the swine flu. Everyone is petrified of the shit and maybe with good reason. Again, damned if I know.
A few folks die and a handful of others feel shitty and everyone is ready to run for the hills all decked out in haz-mat suits in fear. I hate to tell you, folks, but there's shit like ticks and snakes in those hills that are more likely to fuck your shit up. I'm thinking that more people die from car wrecks, falling from ladders, White Castle food, a drive-by in Beverly Hills and a truckload of other ways
Unfortunately for me, my semi-annual bout with sinus issues occurred right about the time the swine flu hit the media and people began clenching their ass cheeks in fear. In other words, it was a bad time to be a person with coughing fits, clogged nasal passages and a funky throat. Never mind the fact that these symptoms have been going on for ages, back when they were just called a cold (or the COMMON cold even), sinus infections, allergies, hay fever or just plain feeling like shit. It wasn't a major cause for alarm unless you coughed so hard that you sprouted a curly-Q, Arnold Ziffel-esque tail or even worse (in my mind), you coughed so hard that you shit your pants and then sprouted a curly-Q tail. That is commonly what is known as adding insult to injury.
I made the mistake of intermingling with fresh air and nature a bit on Saturday and as we all know, nothing good can come from fresh air and nature. By the time that Monday rolled around, I was a miserable bastard (more so than usual) with a nose full of snot and throat issues that made me sound sort of like Tom Waits (perhaps the upside to this downside). I walked (50% strut, 50% stagger) into the workplace and mentioned that my throat was jacked. Immediately and with no trace of hesitation, I was asked if I had the swine flu.
"Uh no, but I did have a piece of sausage for breakfast yesterday."
After the throat declaration, people avoided me like I had the plague. Hell, I haven't had a good plague in years and if I could avoid the office banter, the avoidance could be transformed into a win-win situation for me.
With this rationale, I was clearly suffering from menopause as I was having hot flashes later in the day. Then again, maybe it was just the fact that the air conditioning was off in the workplace. Nah, it couldn't be something as simple as that. Where's the fun in looking at things sensibly and rationally?
In the end (pun somewhat intended), I assure you faithful YPS!! readers that my coughing fits have not resulted in me sprouting a curly-Q tail nor have I shat my pants. However, I like to keep my options open.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Pre-pubescent packaging to the geezered-out packaging of today.
You wanted pre-pubescent, you got pre-pubescent...BOOM!
When I was a boy, music was pretty much limited to my parents' collection and the songs that I heard in elementary school music class. Neither one exactly floated my boat. In fact, music as a whole was pretty boring until I discovered Kiss. Yes, Kiss. You see, when you are an eight year old boy, any band that breathes fire, spits blood, blows shit up, and clomps around in clunky shoes like loud mimes was the absolute shit. Oh yeah, they wore wild ass makeup, too.
The first album that I bought by my choosing and wasn't a Walt Disney or some kind of kid's album was Alive II by the aforementioned loud mimes. Even before the needle found the groove, I was hooked. Ironically, it was the packaging that lured me into the lair of smut and danger.
Back in the day, music wasn't found on one of those damn downloads or even a compact disc. Music was typically sold and bought on a big ass slab o' vinyl enclosed in a (by today's standards) huge 12" x 12" album cover. Not only was the cover art big and bold, but you could actually read the liner notes without the aid of a jeweler's glass.
The front cover of Alive II was pretty cool but in all honesty, the real coolness was lurking inside. After peeling away the shrink-wrap, I was in no way prepared for the photograph inside the gatefold cover. This photo still blows my mind some 32 years later. It pretty music sums up the entire Kiss experience in one fiery shot. Looking at a shitpot of fire, smoke, and loud mimes striking rock and roll poses, the music almost didn't matter. Thankfully, the music was just as big and bold as the packaging itself. The sound of those guitars still triggers something in the dark recesses of my DNA and no matter how much I say that Kiss is a thing of the past for me, it's still a part of me. It's not something that I am necessarily proud of, but I'm not exactly apologetic either. It beats listening to the Captain & Tennille or the Doobie Brothers.
If the music and the overall ass-whoop of the gatefold photo wasn't enough, lovingly tucked inside the cover was a booklet filled with past and present photos of the band, a sheet of temporary tattoos (because real tattoos are damn difficult to squeeze into an album cover), and the obligatory merchandise order form as Kiss really like to pimp the swag.
The point of this crapola isn't really about Kiss (although they consistently had a lot of cool album covers and nifty inserts). It's about...the packaging. Yes, packaging. The '70's and '80's delivered many examples of supremely cool music packaging. From the el gigante rolling paper in Cheech & Chong's Big Bamboo to countless Alice Cooper covers (a calendar with an image of a hanging Alice on Killer, paper panties wrapped around the School's Out cover, the simulated wallet of Billion Dollar Babies, etc.) The LP format was geared for kick ass packaging and boy howdy, did it deliver. However, seeing some of those really fucked up album covers in the 12 x 12 sizing was quite terrifying.
Although I have grown to embrace the compact disc format, my initial reaction to the small cover was probably easily summed up in a WTF moment. This is a prime example of shrinkage without the aid of cold water. At the time, CD's came to be the only way to buy music locally since vinyl was allegedly a dead format...HA! Cassettes don't count.
Once CD's became the norm, record companies eventually began to experiment with some oddball packaging, usually in some kind of limited edition thingy that worked completist bastards like myself into a froth. These items also came with a price tag that would prompt only the most devout of fanboys and fangirls to drop coin. While these things were cool on many levels, they weren't always kosher when it came to travel. That is the magic of the traditional jewel case packaging.
With the jewel case, you could travel from here to Yang City through various forms of inclement weather and your CD booklet and the disc itself would be protected from the elements. You could easily chuck it into your purse or man-purse (see also--backpack) and other than some residual jewel case cracking, your shit was good to get up and go again. Sure, you might need a microscope to read the liner notes, but the format is convenient for upwardly mobile folks on the go, go, go.
The downside to the jewel case occurred when companies introduced the first version of clear plastic trays. Apparently clear plastic automatically makes the inner spindle prone to breaking, where the black counterpart was a bit more resilient. Sure, you can add an additional photo beneath the tray, but when the spindle is broken away to a gaping hole, your CD is in for a ride similar to that of Mr. Toad.
When the first CD's hit the shelves, they were packaged in a cardboard long-box. This form of packaging was called a long-box because it was (hit me with a drumroll there, Bun E.) a long box. This box was mainly used to cut down on thievery (pre-illegal download) since I am guessing that it was difficult to use ye olde five finger discount to snag an LP versus the smaller CD counterpart. Everything was kosher until folks commenced to pitching a bitch over the environmentally-hostile long-box as they were apparently becoming a menace to society by clogging up landfills.
In recent days, I have encountered cheap-ass eco-packaging that is somehow "better", ecologically-speaking. Basically, these discs have been stripped of their jewel case (and there are few things in life worse than having your jewel case stripped) and thrown in a cardboard cover. I'm not exactly sure what makes this more pleasing to nature as I assume that most folks aren't throwing their CD's with plastic jewel cases into the trash. If this is indeed happening, one can hope that it is an example of deranged individuals finally coming to their senses and putting their Creed and Toby Keith CD's in the trash where they belong. Although putting that shit on a bus ride into a landfill would definitely make Mother Nature more than a tad pissy.
While I was reluctant to hop on the compact disc bandwagon in the 80's, I have become quite the fan of the jewel case over the years as they make storage and stacking of music peachy keen. In my mind, nothing good can come from these eco-packages except for bent covers and packaging in decline.
That takes us to the concept of downloading music. I can see some positives to it and if that's all it takes to float someone's musical boat, then I say more power to them. I just prefer the idea of a physical product with actual cover art, liner notes, and other assorted eye candy when I plop down my moulah rather than some mythological file that lives on the magical Never, Never Land of a computer or MP3 player of choice. It's packaging that sucks because it doesn't actually have any packaging at all. Yes, even non-existent packaging can suck.
Since this has been about a shit-storm of musical packaging, it would be swell if the YPS!! patrons would throw out some examples of their own favorite musical packaging, album/CD covers. I will do my best not to ridicule anyone's submissions. As a recovering Kiss fan, I obviously have no room to make fun of anyone's musical taste...except for Creed and Toby Keith fans.
Hit me!
When I was a boy, music was pretty much limited to my parents' collection and the songs that I heard in elementary school music class. Neither one exactly floated my boat. In fact, music as a whole was pretty boring until I discovered Kiss. Yes, Kiss. You see, when you are an eight year old boy, any band that breathes fire, spits blood, blows shit up, and clomps around in clunky shoes like loud mimes was the absolute shit. Oh yeah, they wore wild ass makeup, too.
The first album that I bought by my choosing and wasn't a Walt Disney or some kind of kid's album was Alive II by the aforementioned loud mimes. Even before the needle found the groove, I was hooked. Ironically, it was the packaging that lured me into the lair of smut and danger.
Back in the day, music wasn't found on one of those damn downloads or even a compact disc. Music was typically sold and bought on a big ass slab o' vinyl enclosed in a (by today's standards) huge 12" x 12" album cover. Not only was the cover art big and bold, but you could actually read the liner notes without the aid of a jeweler's glass.
The front cover of Alive II was pretty cool but in all honesty, the real coolness was lurking inside. After peeling away the shrink-wrap, I was in no way prepared for the photograph inside the gatefold cover. This photo still blows my mind some 32 years later. It pretty music sums up the entire Kiss experience in one fiery shot. Looking at a shitpot of fire, smoke, and loud mimes striking rock and roll poses, the music almost didn't matter. Thankfully, the music was just as big and bold as the packaging itself. The sound of those guitars still triggers something in the dark recesses of my DNA and no matter how much I say that Kiss is a thing of the past for me, it's still a part of me. It's not something that I am necessarily proud of, but I'm not exactly apologetic either. It beats listening to the Captain & Tennille or the Doobie Brothers.
If the music and the overall ass-whoop of the gatefold photo wasn't enough, lovingly tucked inside the cover was a booklet filled with past and present photos of the band, a sheet of temporary tattoos (because real tattoos are damn difficult to squeeze into an album cover), and the obligatory merchandise order form as Kiss really like to pimp the swag.
The point of this crapola isn't really about Kiss (although they consistently had a lot of cool album covers and nifty inserts). It's about...the packaging. Yes, packaging. The '70's and '80's delivered many examples of supremely cool music packaging. From the el gigante rolling paper in Cheech & Chong's Big Bamboo to countless Alice Cooper covers (a calendar with an image of a hanging Alice on Killer, paper panties wrapped around the School's Out cover, the simulated wallet of Billion Dollar Babies, etc.) The LP format was geared for kick ass packaging and boy howdy, did it deliver. However, seeing some of those really fucked up album covers in the 12 x 12 sizing was quite terrifying.
Although I have grown to embrace the compact disc format, my initial reaction to the small cover was probably easily summed up in a WTF moment. This is a prime example of shrinkage without the aid of cold water. At the time, CD's came to be the only way to buy music locally since vinyl was allegedly a dead format...HA! Cassettes don't count.
Once CD's became the norm, record companies eventually began to experiment with some oddball packaging, usually in some kind of limited edition thingy that worked completist bastards like myself into a froth. These items also came with a price tag that would prompt only the most devout of fanboys and fangirls to drop coin. While these things were cool on many levels, they weren't always kosher when it came to travel. That is the magic of the traditional jewel case packaging.
With the jewel case, you could travel from here to Yang City through various forms of inclement weather and your CD booklet and the disc itself would be protected from the elements. You could easily chuck it into your purse or man-purse (see also--backpack) and other than some residual jewel case cracking, your shit was good to get up and go again. Sure, you might need a microscope to read the liner notes, but the format is convenient for upwardly mobile folks on the go, go, go.
The downside to the jewel case occurred when companies introduced the first version of clear plastic trays. Apparently clear plastic automatically makes the inner spindle prone to breaking, where the black counterpart was a bit more resilient. Sure, you can add an additional photo beneath the tray, but when the spindle is broken away to a gaping hole, your CD is in for a ride similar to that of Mr. Toad.
When the first CD's hit the shelves, they were packaged in a cardboard long-box. This form of packaging was called a long-box because it was (hit me with a drumroll there, Bun E.) a long box. This box was mainly used to cut down on thievery (pre-illegal download) since I am guessing that it was difficult to use ye olde five finger discount to snag an LP versus the smaller CD counterpart. Everything was kosher until folks commenced to pitching a bitch over the environmentally-hostile long-box as they were apparently becoming a menace to society by clogging up landfills.
In recent days, I have encountered cheap-ass eco-packaging that is somehow "better", ecologically-speaking. Basically, these discs have been stripped of their jewel case (and there are few things in life worse than having your jewel case stripped) and thrown in a cardboard cover. I'm not exactly sure what makes this more pleasing to nature as I assume that most folks aren't throwing their CD's with plastic jewel cases into the trash. If this is indeed happening, one can hope that it is an example of deranged individuals finally coming to their senses and putting their Creed and Toby Keith CD's in the trash where they belong. Although putting that shit on a bus ride into a landfill would definitely make Mother Nature more than a tad pissy.
While I was reluctant to hop on the compact disc bandwagon in the 80's, I have become quite the fan of the jewel case over the years as they make storage and stacking of music peachy keen. In my mind, nothing good can come from these eco-packages except for bent covers and packaging in decline.
That takes us to the concept of downloading music. I can see some positives to it and if that's all it takes to float someone's musical boat, then I say more power to them. I just prefer the idea of a physical product with actual cover art, liner notes, and other assorted eye candy when I plop down my moulah rather than some mythological file that lives on the magical Never, Never Land of a computer or MP3 player of choice. It's packaging that sucks because it doesn't actually have any packaging at all. Yes, even non-existent packaging can suck.
Since this has been about a shit-storm of musical packaging, it would be swell if the YPS!! patrons would throw out some examples of their own favorite musical packaging, album/CD covers. I will do my best not to ridicule anyone's submissions. As a recovering Kiss fan, I obviously have no room to make fun of anyone's musical taste...except for Creed and Toby Keith fans.
Hit me!
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Voice Recognition and Stuffed Nasal Passages
And yes, every time I read the word "passages" I hear that annoying line from that old annoying song "TIME passages...." And yes, that's another sign I'm getting old. When you realize a song reference is obscure just based simply on its age alone, yer ass is old. (I actually went up there and edited in "old" before the "annoying song" part with a sigh.)
Anyway, back to voice mail, and stuffed nasal (TIME!) passages.
I have a cold. Plus, just like anyone else, when I speak for the first time of the day, my voice lacks that certain clarity. Until I get the throat sleepies out of the way, I ain't no Sebastian Bach. Now, like a slave, let's get back to the grind.
This morning I thought I'd call Mom and let her know that since I have a cold, I was going to stay home and cancel our weekly movie date. I knew she probably didn't want this cold any more than I do. Being that I'm a nerd, I decided to use the voice recognition on my cell phone. To me, voice recognition is a fun little invention that's like a new employee. You can give an instruction and be amazed at the occasionally odd results you get in return.
So, I pressed the little button with the microphone on it and listened to the sultry and sassy little Virtual Vixen voice say, "Please say a command." and then got the BEEP to let me know the system was waiting for my verbal command. As I mentioned in the crud above, neither I nor my voice were fully awake and as I began to speak like Gary Busey in an all night yodeling contest with Grace Jones I also began to cough.
Into the phone, thusly I spoke: "Call. Mom. Dad COUGHHACKCOUGH!! Welllll, shit."
Apparently my nekkid Virtual Vixen (yeah, she's nekkid inside my cell phone) didn't approve of my foul language and indicated this by telling me, "WARNING: Contact not recognized, please try again."
At that point I wondered what my little nake nake Virtual Vixen must have interpreted all that coughing sound as, followed by "well, shit." So, after I called Mom and relayed my thoughts about the day, I did a little test.
I hit the microphone button on the phone and said, "Call. COUGHHACKCOUGH" and the little cell phone skinny dippin' Virtual Vixen asked, "Did you say TwitPic?" I said, "No."
"Did you say, Book Broker?" (which is a darn fine little place in Evansville, IN)
"No."
"Did you say, Gcast.com?"
"No."
Then she asked me to try my command again so I said, "Call. Time Pass...ages." You know, just like in the song. She came back with "Did you say Creme Coffee Shop?"
I said "No" because I think I've already had too much for the day.
So, there you go folks, a short trip around the tiny brain that is....Mr. Bloggerific Himself.
As a bonus, I'd just like to say that Old El Paso packaging sucks!! The company doesn't care about you or your culinary needs, if they did, they'd put their tortillas in a damn resealable bag instead of that cheap plastic they use. Not only can you NOT close it up easily to keep their product fresh, the plastic is so brittle it breaks when you try to fold it over on itself in a lame attempt to keep in moisture. So, to you Old El Paso ....Your Packaging....SUCKS!!
Anyway, back to voice mail, and stuffed nasal (TIME!) passages.
I have a cold. Plus, just like anyone else, when I speak for the first time of the day, my voice lacks that certain clarity. Until I get the throat sleepies out of the way, I ain't no Sebastian Bach. Now, like a slave, let's get back to the grind.
This morning I thought I'd call Mom and let her know that since I have a cold, I was going to stay home and cancel our weekly movie date. I knew she probably didn't want this cold any more than I do. Being that I'm a nerd, I decided to use the voice recognition on my cell phone. To me, voice recognition is a fun little invention that's like a new employee. You can give an instruction and be amazed at the occasionally odd results you get in return.
So, I pressed the little button with the microphone on it and listened to the sultry and sassy little Virtual Vixen voice say, "Please say a command." and then got the BEEP to let me know the system was waiting for my verbal command. As I mentioned in the crud above, neither I nor my voice were fully awake and as I began to speak like Gary Busey in an all night yodeling contest with Grace Jones I also began to cough.
Into the phone, thusly I spoke: "Call. Mom. Dad COUGHHACKCOUGH!! Welllll, shit."
Apparently my nekkid Virtual Vixen (yeah, she's nekkid inside my cell phone) didn't approve of my foul language and indicated this by telling me, "WARNING: Contact not recognized, please try again."
At that point I wondered what my little nake nake Virtual Vixen must have interpreted all that coughing sound as, followed by "well, shit." So, after I called Mom and relayed my thoughts about the day, I did a little test.
I hit the microphone button on the phone and said, "Call. COUGHHACKCOUGH" and the little cell phone skinny dippin' Virtual Vixen asked, "Did you say TwitPic?" I said, "No."
"Did you say, Book Broker?" (which is a darn fine little place in Evansville, IN)
"No."
"Did you say, Gcast.com?"
"No."
Then she asked me to try my command again so I said, "Call. Time Pass...ages." You know, just like in the song. She came back with "Did you say Creme Coffee Shop?"
I said "No" because I think I've already had too much for the day.
So, there you go folks, a short trip around the tiny brain that is....Mr. Bloggerific Himself.
As a bonus, I'd just like to say that Old El Paso packaging sucks!! The company doesn't care about you or your culinary needs, if they did, they'd put their tortillas in a damn resealable bag instead of that cheap plastic they use. Not only can you NOT close it up easily to keep their product fresh, the plastic is so brittle it breaks when you try to fold it over on itself in a lame attempt to keep in moisture. So, to you Old El Paso ....Your Packaging....SUCKS!!
Friday, April 10, 2009
Thursday, April 02, 2009
as beautiful as a foot
Awwww shit. It must be that time of year again.
It's no secret that I often bitch and gripe about winter, but the dead season does offer one perk that I tend to overlook while I am at war with the cold, snow, ice and the gayness that is winter.
What the hell is that perk, you ask?
Prior to my divine revelation this morning, I used to say that the only thing that I like about winter is that there are no bugs. Now, I can say the two things I like about winter is that there are no bugs and people don't wear flip-flops in winter. Well, reasonably sane and fashion-equipped people don't. Reasonably sane and fashion-equipped folks flat-out refuse to wear them at any time.
Listen up, flip-floppers, and let ol' Bone let you in on a little secret.
I don't give a flying figtree of a fuck how allegedly comfortable and/or cool you think this apparel spawned from the ass crack of Satan may be, there ain't no one out there that wants to see your nasty-ass little piggies. They just don't. Of course, this does exclude those foot fetish fuckers. If a foot does it for you over engorged genitalia, then you got some issues, champ (or champessa).
This whole point was driven home yet again just yesterday as I wandered into the workplace break room to offer some brilliant (?) insight or maybe I was just lost. Regardless, it really doesn't matter. What matters is that I was pretty much stopped in my tracks when I noticed a co-worker with her bare feet up in a chair while reading the newspaper. While trying to share whatever tidbit of information I had or act like I really wasn't lost and simultaneously trying to stifle my gag reflex, I was amazed that people could actually eat with this kind of crime scene lurking across the table from them.
I'm not really out to smother someone's good time, but shit, use some common sense here, people. If you absolutely must wear those lame ass shoes or expose your hooves, then you've got to do a little (or a lot, as the case may be) maintenance. I don't mean just slapping a little Sears indoor/outdoor paint on your toenails and easing on down the road. You've got to get them sandblasted, exfoliated, spackled or whatever it takes to make that shit presentable to society as a whole.
Flip-flops and sandals are a lot like spandex--incredibly tacky and most people should think twice and then think again before wearing the shit. More often than not, it's just better to wear sensible shoes than sashay around in public with ventilated shoes showing off your fucked up toenails of various shapes, sizes, and discolorations.
If you want to go all naked-foot in your own home, then by all means, make yourself happy and get your unshoed, podiacal rocks off. Just remember that horses have hooves and a cultured equine keeps them trimmed and wears shoes.
If this shit keeps up, I think I may have to declare war and walk around with the drawers at half-mast. That will give them something to talk about around the lunch table.
It's no secret that I often bitch and gripe about winter, but the dead season does offer one perk that I tend to overlook while I am at war with the cold, snow, ice and the gayness that is winter.
What the hell is that perk, you ask?
Prior to my divine revelation this morning, I used to say that the only thing that I like about winter is that there are no bugs. Now, I can say the two things I like about winter is that there are no bugs and people don't wear flip-flops in winter. Well, reasonably sane and fashion-equipped people don't. Reasonably sane and fashion-equipped folks flat-out refuse to wear them at any time.
Listen up, flip-floppers, and let ol' Bone let you in on a little secret.
I don't give a flying figtree of a fuck how allegedly comfortable and/or cool you think this apparel spawned from the ass crack of Satan may be, there ain't no one out there that wants to see your nasty-ass little piggies. They just don't. Of course, this does exclude those foot fetish fuckers. If a foot does it for you over engorged genitalia, then you got some issues, champ (or champessa).
This whole point was driven home yet again just yesterday as I wandered into the workplace break room to offer some brilliant (?) insight or maybe I was just lost. Regardless, it really doesn't matter. What matters is that I was pretty much stopped in my tracks when I noticed a co-worker with her bare feet up in a chair while reading the newspaper. While trying to share whatever tidbit of information I had or act like I really wasn't lost and simultaneously trying to stifle my gag reflex, I was amazed that people could actually eat with this kind of crime scene lurking across the table from them.
I'm not really out to smother someone's good time, but shit, use some common sense here, people. If you absolutely must wear those lame ass shoes or expose your hooves, then you've got to do a little (or a lot, as the case may be) maintenance. I don't mean just slapping a little Sears indoor/outdoor paint on your toenails and easing on down the road. You've got to get them sandblasted, exfoliated, spackled or whatever it takes to make that shit presentable to society as a whole.
Flip-flops and sandals are a lot like spandex--incredibly tacky and most people should think twice and then think again before wearing the shit. More often than not, it's just better to wear sensible shoes than sashay around in public with ventilated shoes showing off your fucked up toenails of various shapes, sizes, and discolorations.
If you want to go all naked-foot in your own home, then by all means, make yourself happy and get your unshoed, podiacal rocks off. Just remember that horses have hooves and a cultured equine keeps them trimmed and wears shoes.
If this shit keeps up, I think I may have to declare war and walk around with the drawers at half-mast. That will give them something to talk about around the lunch table.
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