The Vortex

This entry tells you all you need to know about The Vortex. Yep, it's twelve years later and I'm still in The Vortex. It whirls around me like a tornado of crazy chance.

The Vortex
(April 02, 2000, Diaryland)
 
Hub named it "the vortex" once he realized it was real. Pretty accurate moniker for the fact that coincidences of the most unlikely nature seem to ebb and swirl around me like concentric rings you get when you throw a pebble into a lake. Despite this and numerous other weirdnesses about me, he's stuck around for 7 years, poor man.

We've tested the vortex, and found that, for the most part, it's a measurable phenomenon. I think we first measured it when, driving back on a Sunday from my parents' house in Connecticut, we somehow fell into a discussion about the Trojan Horse and got around to wondering, what if it wasn't a horse? What if they'd built a Trojan Cow? Endless cow puns followed ("udderly ridiculous!" etc) and the topic played itself out until we were sick of each other. Not ten minutes later I espied, peering through the glare of the road and in glaring disbelief, what appeared to be an enormous cow in the roadway ahead. Gradually we overtook the behemoth and it was indeed a cow-- some evil, smiling plastic or fiberglass construction that required a huge trailer truck to haul it past our lives, leaving us gaping in stupid wonderment.

I think it was Hub's idea."Let's just pick a way-out there thing, something that has never touched our lives." I agreed. "How about, I dunno-- COLOSTOMY BAG."

The next Wednesday, we were listening to Opie and Anthony, a pair of nutjob DJ's on WAAF who've since been fired over a practical joke that went too far. They're in New York now where, apparently, the local government can take a joke. But I digress (sorry-- I do that). Since it was Wednesday, it was "Whip 'em Out Wednesday," meaning we women were supposed to unleash our lovely rosebuds for anyone who had a "W.O.W." bumpersticker. Opie and Anthony had added Whip 'em Out Wednesday to their week along with "Friday Fake-O," a bit in which women called the station and vocalized a fake orgasm. Anthony said that maybe it was too much, two days out of five with planned themes, "What's next, colostomy bag Tuesday?"

Happens all the time.

Why bring it up now? It's just that I haven't thought about that Australian agent of my pre-teen era, Rick Springfield, in years. Two days ago I entered his name in ebay for no good reason. I won Working Class Dog, the album that launched a thousand puberties. Well, tonight I went to Sky Bar to see the Boy Joys and Waltham, and as Waltham starts their set I'm thinking, "This is just like Rick Springfield. How can it be like Rick Springfield? I mean this song is JUST like a Rick Springfield song." Just then Ad leans over and says, "Whaddaya think? Rick Springfield?"

Why'm I surprised anymore.