Strange things happen at art exhibits. Shoulder to shoulder with regular old strangers. It's here that I remember about bumping, about the paranoia of being bumped. Those of us entering are led to the first painting in the first room. The mood could be described as antsy. I can see the painting ahead. I've been bumped. Or I bumped. It's hard to say.
Read MoreMatt Hobin
a humorous take on important things
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The very first thing I did today upon awakening once again into this beautiful world was to make a wish, from the bottomless and deepest depths of my heart, that our bathroom toilet would begin yet another flabbergasting flooding disaster. When it comes to bathroom flooding, this is not my first rodeo. More like the seventh.
Let me preface everything by saying that I lost my mind during a sequence of several major snowstorms, which are still arriving, quite comically, one after the next.
And so the story begins with me — an urban street parking New Englander. The big storm hits and news teams are giddy. Grocery stores are overrun. Milk sales are up. There are, miraculously, still people rushing to buy snow shovels.
One moment all is right in the world. I'm driving down the highway like any other day, finished with work, focused on the road ahead like a thousand times before. Responsibilities and troubles are on hold as I listen to the tunes on the radio.
And then, there it is. A disturbance. A noise. A noisy disturbance. Birthed from a whole slew of events and car part transactions with the road that I never knew a thing about.
As a 32-year-old man, I’ve come to learn that finding good pants never gets any easier. It is by nature a process designed to produce incredible moments of frustration. I know now that it’s not simply about finding a great pair of pants, but rather, the process, or journey, in which those pants are ultimately found and enjoyed. It is a quest.