There are some things it is good to know about (math); there are some things that, even if you don't want to know about, still, it's a good idea to learn (taxes); there are even some things that you really wish you didn't have to know about (being diagnosed with leprosy), but it's still, ultimately, good to know; and then there's shit like this.
Tara and I could have very happily continued on with the rest of our lives without this particular bit of information. Well, okay, not like we didn't know; we are here, after all, and we've heard a thing or two around the school-yard; still, we were just innocently organizing tools in the cellar tonight when Tara suddenly let out a scream of horror and anguish. I came running and saw OMG NO:
That's right; they were squirrelled away in a toolbox in the cellar. Not the drawer of the nightstand in what was my parents' bedroom, or hidden in a sock drawer, or in a shoebox in the back of a closet, but in a toolbox in the cellar. With the, um, tools. So okay I guess that's a theme. Except I really don't want to know.
(Is it just me or does the dude on the box look like Micky Dolenz with a moustache?
You know, I don't actually know what Micky Dolenz was up to in the 70s. I can tell you what Mike Nesmith was doing (various country bands and divorcing four wives) or what Peter Tork was doing (mostly a haze of drugs), but not Micky. And I've never cared about Davy, so, y'know. It actually could be Micky. And that's all just a tangent, oh the happy happy Monkees so I don't have to think about...)
Because of course then we opened it up, because we're stupid, and saw that two of them were not there:
No no no la la la la la you can't make me.
Gah. In the cellar.
Somehow, though, it seems appropriate.