And the award...

...for longest glued hair weave to a city street in St. Louis goes to... the weave on Kingshighway between Mcree and Manchester, that I have passed every day since I started this semester in August. Seriously, why won't it go away? I mean, I see these all over the city, so much that my husband and I invented a slug-bug punching game a long time ago, called "Weave in the Street." I'm getting tired of my son nailing me in the arm. It's been there for a couple months now and a seasonal change even. The wind has been a blowin', and the rain has been a fallin', and it's still a-clingin'. It's admirable, and sadly, one of the few things in my little world that I've come to rely on. Won't someone please adopt it and find it a good home? Faces may fade in and out, but that clump of nasty, cruddy, artificial hair will eternally be there. That weave is more resilient than a lot people I know. I guess, here's to finding stability, where ever it may show up.
     My Pysch professor may be the hippest man walking the planet. We were discussing intelligence, and an example he used was how dancing is generally not viewed as intelligent. He then went on to disprove this statement, by giving an example of what was suppose to be Gene Kelly's "Singin' In The Rain." However, he called it Gene Simmon's "Dancing In the Rain." This is a disturbingly hilarious thought and vision. Wouldn't his kabuki-style make-up run and stream down his face in a torrential downpour? Would it rain blood in the KISS version of this musical? Poor Debbie Reynolds trying to dance around giant boots like that without getting her feet pulverized. Maybe there is something to what he said, as Gene Kelly was known far and wide for being quite a tyrant. Perhaps that is his inner Gene, after all?
     History brought on an almost unspeakable, disturbing vision, that I will probably never be able to shake. Our professor played a video about Henry Ford, a fascinating, yet prudish, anti-Semite. The fun facts I took away from this was that he purposely designed the back seat of the Model T to be uncomfortably small to discourage "Lovers Laning." However, the Model T was a full seven feet tall, and it became a joke that it was the kind of car you make love standing up in. Pretty progressive for the 1920s! I will say from my own experience, there is not much progess in the past 90-diggity years to improve this catastrophic design flaw. Car sex is no easy undertaking, at least the ones I've been in. I think when Detroit, or Chengdu now rather, rectifies this, Fords will go rocketing off the line once again.
     Anyhow, back to the unspeakable horror I witnessed in class. My fellow classmate, who weighs EVERY ounce of 280 lbs.+, arrived late as usual while the movie was playing. She sa-lllooowwwly sauntered in, listening to her cell phone messages, carrying her nine noisy bags, three of which were loaded with pork rinds and the like, and stopped at the desk to pick up a study guide, right in the line of fire of the projection screen. This filibuster of her 150 lbs of butt in 130 lbs butt-capacity pants, briefly became our new movie screen, as she wrestled with her bags and phone to retrieve a paper. The timing really could not have been better, as a line of a dozen or so Model T's headed west around the immense circumference of her gelatinous hindquarters, briefly disappearing and then reappearing once they made it through the continental divide of her "double bubble." Man, that certainly gives PILES of new meaning to the title of "The Grapes of Wrath." Oh my, what those poor people must have lived through...