Thursday, November 29, 2007
I hate vending machines. You have no choice as to what is offered and no complaint if what you picked does not come out. And then you have an even chance of not receiving your money back. I have always hated these box like clerks who stand there woodenly, silent, with a false brightness and cheery demeanor. They tempt us with visions of Palm Trees and bottles with droplets dripping seductively, giving the impression that once we have punched in the $1.25, 12ozs of thirst busting pleasure will envelope our taste buds. But what pops out? A warm coke that got dented on the way out and then explodes in your face. There's your thirst busting pleasure fella. Right there in your face. Enjoy!
Pockets and how I use them popped into my cranial void the other day. I was emptying my pockets at the end of the day. I took an inventory of what I pulled out.
~$2.23 in change.
~$7 in crumpled ones.
~3 reminder slips that failed to remind.
~My pocket watch & combo survival compass/thermometer w/ LED Flashlight as it's fob.
~A lonely paperclip.
~An oddly shaped rock I found awhile ago and oddly, still resides in my pocket.
~Throw in a passle of keys, most of which are not needed but I carry them anyway.
~Finally, tossed in, a spoke wrench I forgot to leave at the shop.
An intimidating pile when viewed as one lump. But distribute it among the many pockets I have and the load just disappears. Damn, I love my pockets.
A simple and functional add on to our clothes, pockets allow us to seperate, collate, and integrate all those small items we just have to have along for our daily grunts. That cool rock, pocket watch and knife in the right pocket. Change, folding money and keys in the left. The various slips of paper accumulated throughout the day in any pocket that is handy. A man can carry all his daily needs conveniently stashed but instantly available as needed. Taken for granted until the hole in one of them allows my favorite knife to escape to look for a new owner. I never seem to appreciate their worth until they fail me.
Now a purse on the other hand makes no sense to me. All the stuff jumbled up together in one pile. To find anything, 10 things have to be moved, removed, or shoved out of the way. I grew up watching my mother constantly elbow deep in her purse. When she had to dig deep, everything came out and was scattered as she frantically looked for that which was as of yet unfound. A pocket on the other hand, limits the search to a much smaller area. And often, the sought item can be located by braille through the outer layer. "Ah, there's that knife. What was I thinking? Put it in the wrong pocket". 15 seconds of panic verse 3 or 4 minutes of purse antics.
Pockets rule, purses drool.