So I was leaving work the other night, walking to the train wanna be, when all of a sudden my flip flop had a blow out.

Here’s the thing about a broken flip-flop: Once it’s broken, there is no way to continue wearing the thing. What happens is that the thong part of the flip-flop breaks and you are left with nothing holding the flat part of the flip-flop to your foot.

So now I have a problem.
I am about to head into subway-land with only one flip-flop.
I am essentially barefoot here.
In Boston.
At South Station.
On the trains.

When I got on the first train, I just kind of clutched the thong thing between my toes and sort of slid my foot along behind me like a gimp.

This was ok for short distances, but once actual walking in stride was expected from me, there were problems.

I started out with the dragging of the foot, but it slowed me down so much there was a crowd forming behind me.

Apparently, they didn’t realize that I was in the pedestrian breakdown lane with my hazards on.

I was waving them ahead.
“Go Around Me!”

This got to be too much. If I had kept up that pace I would have missed my next train, so I inspected my foot for cuts or blisters, found none and proceeded through South Station barefoot.

Though I hate shoes and complain about them an awful lot, I would have killed someone for a shoe that night.

I would hobble to wherever I was going with one flip-flopped foot and one bare foot. 

When I finally got to a place I could sit down somewhere, I would place the broken flip-flop on my foot to create the illusion that I was normal.

So I was on the commuter rail, sitting down, looking like I was wearing two flip-flops.

When my stop came I knew I was close to home and said, “Screw it” and took them both off ... mostly for speed.

I walked by a girl and heard her ask her boyfriend, “Why did that girl take her shoes off?” like I was some kind of psycho-freak or something.

Like I want to be barefoot on a train.
I didn’t stop to explain.

Let her wonder.

The flip-flop carcass was limply hanging from my hand. She couldn't have missed it. If she needed more of an explanation than that, there was really nothing satisfactory I could have provided her with.

When I got home the roommate started to talk to me but I cut him off with, “Can’t talk – gutta wash my foot.”

So, is there a moral to this story?

No. I don't think there is.

So I was walking up the road on my way to work, with a butt in my hand.

I was outside.

I wasn’t bothering anyone.

I wasn’t even really smoking it, I was just holding it.

I also was not the only smoker around.

A guy stops, stares at me and says, “Such a beautiful girl … SMOKING.” with a big smile on his face.

Is this some kind of backhanded pickup line or something? Is that supposed to be a compliment coupled with an insult that would send me running into his arms?

Is this guy actually verbally disapproving of the way I choose to live my life?

What WAS that?

Did he think I would quit right then and there and the two of us could hold hands and walk into the sunset together?

I said, “Uh. YEAH.” And kept walking, but it really pisses me off that people feel like it’s ok to walk up to a stranger and tell them that smoking is bad for them, or that they don’t approve, or that they think it is disgusting.

It's not like I was in that guy's living room! I was outside amongst several other people going about their daily routines. There were a number of other smokers out there, much, I’m sure, to this nosey person’s dismay.

First of all, Buddy, what the hell do you care whether I am ruining my lungs or not? You don’t even know me. Is my smoking some sort of deal-breaker that I was not aware of? What makes you think that I was interested in your opinion?

Secondly, it is none of your goddam business what I do. I was minding my own business. Why can’t you mind yours? I was not being rude. I was not blowing smoke at anyone. What the f*ck do YOU care?

Why do people feel like it’s ok to do that and it’s not okay to stare at a fat chick eating a Big Mac and say, “Such a pretty face … EATING.”

One is rude and the other is socially acceptable.

People apparently feel like it is perfectly reasonable to become the f*cking surgeon general every time they see someone smoking a cigarette.

“Smoking is BAD for you!”

“Yeah, no shit Einstein. Thanks for the update. Now F*uck off.”

I am not fond of nose pickers and crotch scratchers, but I would never walk up to a stranger and say, “Such a cute guy … DIGGING.”

The way I see it, just because I don’t like certain social behaviors, doesn’t mean that I am right – and just because I, personally, would not do some things doesn’t mean that I have any right to walk up to someone and insult them about it.

It’s their life, not mine.

You wanna smoke? Then smoke.
You’d rather drink yourself to death? Knock em back.
You like the crack? Light that pipe.
Marijuana is your deal? Toke the doob.
Ass scratching turns you on? Scratch at it.
Love to eat? Gorge all day.

It’s none of my goddam business.
Unless you are making a public spectacle of yourself, I probably won’t even notice. I don’t know you and, quite frankly, I don’t really care what you do with your own body.

What compels people to be that rude?
Is it that they don't smoke, they don't like smoke and they don't think other people should smoke?

Well, that's bullshit.

I don't eat red meat, I don't like red meat, but I don't really care if other people eat it. I'm not going to cause a scene. I probably won't mention it at all.

If offered the meat, I graciously decline the offer.

I certainly don't go up to people in restaurants and insult their way of life because they are eating a steak.

It's their body and their taste buds, and if that steak pleases them - all the power to them!
Who am I to disagree with what other people ingest?

Again, It's none of my business.

Enough already with the anti-smokers! Doesn’t anyone remember the 70’s? There were pieces of furniture that were stand-up matching ashtrays, for Christ sake.

Go to Europe and pull that Butt-Nazi crap on some Irishman. When you wake up 5 days later pissing into a bag and vomiting up your own teeth, maybe you’ll realize why people have such contempt for pushy, know-it-all, nosey Americans.

This is not my story, but it is one that needs to be told.

When I left my classes today I called J to see what was shakin’.

Instead of answering in the conventional way, with a ‘hello’, ‘hi’, ‘wassup’ or the ever-popular ‘Sup’, she yelled my name in a loud and panicky way as a greeting.

 I knew that something must be wrong.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Oh God.” She replies in a forlorn cry of desperation, “I need to be held.”

The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Me:    “What happened?”

J:       “Oh God.”

Me:    “What happened?”

J:       “I was eating a sandwich … and there was a Band Aid in it!!”

Me:    “Oh My God. Are you okay?”

J:       “I don’t think so. It was in my mouth! I was chewing on it!”

Me:    “Where did you get this sandwich?”

J:       “d’Angelos”

Me:    “I f*ckin hate that place. I don’t think anyone should ever eat there EVER. Did you call them? You should call them.”

J:       “I called them. I told the guy there was a band-aid in my sandwich. He didn’t know what to say. He told me he would give me a coupon for three free sandwiches.”

Ok. Now, I ask you: If you had just bitten into a sandwich and encountered a mouth full of band-aid, would you want to go ordering another one?

What kind of consolation prize is that?

What would they do to her next? Put a condom in the thing?

First of all, why was the kid with the hand wound NOT wearing gloves? Isn’t that mandatory for all kitchen workers?

The people who work in the cafeteria at my work don’t even prepare the food, they only serve it and they wear gloves. You’d think Mr. Assistant Manager at the local d’Angelos would try to enforce that basic rule around the kitchen.

Secondly, I shudder to think of what kind of person would make a sandwich without gloves on, lose a band-aid and think nothing of wrapping up the sandwich and sending it out for delivery. This person should not only NOT be working in food preparation, but should not be working anywhere that he or she might have to take on any responsibility for anything at all.

I suggest homelessness.

I suggest collecting change at the subway in a 12 year-old Dunkin Donuts cup.

That’s what this person is destined for.

Oh, this is going to change us. I know it is. Eating out will never be the same. I will never again trust a sandwich made by anyone but me … and I will even be leery of my own sandwich making capabilities.

Poor J.

This is a life-altering event.

I could hear her boss in the background while I was on the phone with her. He was saying, “Are you still talking about that? Get over it.”

I said, “Tell him it’ll take at least 6 months.”

Well, let me start off by saying that there seems to be an exorbitant amount of midgets on campus this semester, which is always entertaining for all.

As the infamous Rocko from WAAF used to say daily, “No matter which way you cut it; Midgets equal funny.”

Well, midgets aside, the first couple of days of classes were about the same as always.

It’s always pretty tough for me to adjust to actually getting up in the morning and having to be somewhere at some point before noon, then parking my car in that nightmare of a parking lot, then running around from building to building, then going into Boston on several trains, then working until 10p.m, then taking several trains home again.

It takes me a couple of weeks to get used to it, so I’m kind of running on empty right now.

So on the first day of school I had a class at 10am. When it was over at 11:00, I glanced at my schedule, saw the room number for my next class and moseyed on over there.

As I was sitting there I was looking around the room thinking to myself, ‘Wow. All these people look like Freshman … and what’s that book they all have?’

But, stupidly, I just sat there.

The professor comes in, calls names and, for some reason, skips right over mine.

So now I’m really starting to wonder what the hell is going on.

He passes out the syllabus that says American National Government on the top and I realize that I am in the wrong class.

I gather my stuff and get up to leave … because, I mean, really what’s the point in staying?

As I am leaving the professor stares at me so I say, “I’m in the wrong class.”

Instead of just letting it go, he’s got to try to make me look and feel stupid for some reason. I don’t understand what the hell that compulsion is about.

Look dude, YOU are the professor. It is a given that you are probably smarter than me, and that I am supposed to believe that you are smarter than me … (though in reality, he probably isn’t – he probably just has more garbage stuffed in his head than I do because he’s older) … so why do you get off on making me look more foolish than I really am?

Does it make you feel special?

Does it make you feel powerful?

He says, “I didn’t call your name then, did I?” all smarmy - like.

I say, “No. That’s when I got an inkling.”

He says (all loud so the whole class can stare at me), “Well!  It was nice having you here.” All sarcastic - like.

I said just as loud, (cuz f*ck THAT guy), “It was a pleasure to be here!” and I walked out.

Turns out that I actually do have a class in that room, but not until 12:20.

Which was a complete surprise to me.

I had no idea that I had a 45 minute break between classes because when I chose classes for this semester I did it extremely quickly and half-heartedly.

I didn’t really care what I took as long as I got 9 credits out of it.

I also didn’t want to have to work too hard.

Last year they told me I was graduating in May.

Yeah – Last May.

Then they said , “Oops. You owe us 9 credits. Our bad.”

So, since all of my requirements for both the college and my major are already fulfilled, all I have to do is sit through 3 classes that I don’t want or need and they will finally let me graduate.

(and there was much rejoicing --- yay.)

Well, I took one English class because I am like an addict with that stuff and the other two classes are a walk in the park.

Now that I know when and where I actually have these classes, this should be one nice and leisurely semester.

I’m taking a photography course this semester. Just beginner stuff, but I still think it’s going to be really fun and cool. I get to flex my creative muscles --- which is always something I enjoy.

All in all It was a pretty good week – aside from being cross-eyed tired – I am pretty happy with the way things went … except for that smart-ass professor.

So I’m at South Station today and as I’m walking through the place my progress was impeded by this man with a clip board who told me that I care about saving the whales.

As I stepped right, he stepped right, as I stepped left, he stepped left.

We did a little dance for a minute until I realized that I was not at the prom and decided to stand still and listen to him for a moment. If, for nothing else, to just stop dancing.

He was older, maybe close to 60. He had long gray hair, which probably looks a bit better in what I’m sure is its natural state – a ponytail. It was, however, hanging loose and free all wiry and crazy looking.

He was clean, though, and not offensive in odor, so I stood there for a few minutes.
He had a nice little table set up for himself with all of his paraphernalia designed to get me to donate money and sign petitions. He was talking about how I was concerned about the whales that were being hit by boats off the coast of Massachusetts.

Which is, admittedly, quite a little misfortune for the whales.
But he just talked too fast, like he was trying really hard to convince me, but not giving me any facts at all. Like he was talking to a moron who is easily moved by pictures of whales that are all messed up and destroyed and, well … you know … dead.

Yes, I was moved, but since he was not telling me anything rational, I was not going to sign his petition and give him money until I figured out what he and his people were trying to do about it.

He kept telling me what they were doing is “grass roots”.
He said that word four times in our brief conversation.
Every time he said it he would give me the knuckles.
You know … when someone puts their knuckles up to you and you are supposed to touch their knuckles with your knuckles like you are in some sort of secret brotherhood or something.

And, although the term really means a movement by the people to change the society they live in, presumably for the better, I always mentally connect this term with excessive pot smoking.

I asked him if he had a web site and he said, “We have everything.”
I actually had to coax the name of the web site out of him, which I found a bit odd. There is nothing wrong with doing a little research before handing out donations. What if, for example, I did not agree with this particular “Grass Roots” movement. Maybe I thought there was a better way to try to keep the whales from becoming entangled in fishing nets.

Are people so impulsive that they give over their cash and sign their name and address on a piece of paper just because they saw some really sad pictures?

Besides, I thought we already saved the whales.
Hasn’t the plea to save the whales been circulating since whenever it was that man decided to try to save things they hadn’t hesitated to destroy only days before?

I think whales may have been the first subjects of that phony mass-altruism movement.

These creatures have been around since the age of the dinosaur. I’m sure that man, in all his stupid self-centered glory, could be the ones who destroy these giants, but I think it is doubtful. I think that whales are so much smarter than we give them credit for anyway. Men are so near sighted and superior to think that these creatures couldn’t survive without us.

I’m all for helping the whales to get untangled from fishing line, but I think it’s something that should be left to people with the know how.

Can you imagine me on a boat trying to disentangle a whale???

Yes, this is probably a great cause. I tip my proverbial hat to people who can look at a bad situation and truly want to help. People who faithfully take time out of their lives to dedicate to some kind of worthy cause.

Good for you.
Really.

That is just not what I’m here for, though.

As for the long haired grass roots guy – when I went to the web site, it said nothing about the grand schemes this nut was telling me about. The website talked about some great people who helped assist the whales to get untangled and the ongoing problem. They are implementing a program to help the whales out and so on and so forth.

Mr. Grass Roots was talking about ‘forcing the government’ to do this and that and babbling all this nonsense at me that was in some way designed to get me to hand over some cash to him and sign my name.

I'm sorry, though. I just can't justify taking food off of my own table to be all Grass Rootsy for this particular cause. Call me selfish or insensitive or what have you, but it is what it is.

At least I mentioned the web site on my blog.

Maybe someone should have tried to save Steve Irwin from his own stupidity.

 (Yeah - with the thumbs up? Not so much.)

 (can you see the dolphins?)