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Despite the fact that I do not own any rubber clothing (well, none that fits me, anyway), I did it again.

Yesterday (in this context, ‘yesterday’ means ‘sometime in the unspecified-but-probably-comparatively-recent past) being Monday, there was hockey. Additionally, it being winter it was at the arena nine kilometres away from home. (The summer venue is about three kilometres farther) so the trip there was moderately long. Even more additionally, since it was late afternoon there was traffic — enough to change ‘moderately long’ into ‘annoyingly long’ so I spent a significant amount of the journey just sitting. And steaming (I am not a patient person). And reflecting. On Stuff. (On the traffic, for one thing — before they closed it, we played at an arena so close to where people live and work that there wasn’t any to speak of. Oh well, the progress of civilization and all that. Damn those mathematicians and their confounded insight. (Might that explain the azaleas? There might be the glimmerings of a theory there. Maybe. Have to think about it.))


I was in traffic, not moving much. And reflecting. And (over?)thinking. But mostly I was listening to music.

Specifically, I was listening to a twenty (one) year old album by the Australian Prince of Darkness that just might be the bloodiest thing ever recorded. (It’s really good, by the way.) As the light near the supermarket went red, so did the floor at O’Malley’s. As I sat and waited for the light to change, the barroom floor got messier and messier as the bullet-riddled bodies piled ever higher.

(Whoever said contemporary music was boring?)

A few blocks north the bloodbath reached its grisly climax; at almost that exact moment I happened to notice the bumper sticker on the car ahead of me. It said

I have a perfect body but it’s in the trunk. And it’s starting to smell.

To illustrate the iron grip I have on reality, the first thing that went through my mind was

Gee, I bet they’d like this song. Heck, probably the whole album.

But that didn’t last long. I moved on to

It shouldn’t smell, it’s comfortably below freezing out there. And who heats their trunk?

Before long, that, too was replaced.

Tsk. They’re lying. That’s a minivan, it doesn’t even have a trunk.

Not for nothing have I been told that I have a keen eye for detail.


The Author

Rose Glace is the pseudonym of nobody important.

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