Once in a while I have one of those experiences that reminds me of how odd a life I lead. Tonight, after working with my RCIC group, I went to the friary TV room to hang out with the brethren. I usually bring a book in case the choice of program doesn't do it for me.
Well tonight was one of those nights. Since I can't even imagine being interested in Dancing with the Stars, I had brought the Meno to read for fun. I can still participate in banter and conversation, but I don't have to be bored to tears. Then, all of a sudden, I am rudely torn from my enjoyment of Plato's conceits when I hear a watered-down version of one of the great riffs of Randy Rhoads, and look up to see two ghoulish characters spinning around to it. What are you trying to do to my rock and roll memory?