This morning's weather was humid, but cooler than usual. And since Xan and I were awake, I decided we should go for a nice long walk in Sligo Creek Park. (Also, Ange had had a particularly bad evening, so this would get us out of her hair so that she could sleep more. Little did I realize that by continuing my walk, I was actually preventing Xan from getting a proper nap -- and therefore contributing to the problem. Oops. I have since read the solemn text known as Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child and have thus converted. But I digress...)
Since there must be an ordinance somewhere against me walking out of the house without some semblance of clothing on, I decided in a moment of whimsy to wear my Alpha This eta pledge shirt. Perhaps this was because I wanted to see how the prim and proper Takoma Park jogger/dogwalker/etc. would react to what to the naked eye would appear to be a slightly-less-than-middle-age frat-boy (baseball cap included) with a baby stroller. Perhaps this was because it was a bright red shirt which, in addition to showing up brightly in the gray morning air, would also match Xan's bright red onesie he was wearing. (Aside: A red shirt? And my house was known for its Star Trek obsession? Did we have a suicidal death wish or what??!!) Perhaps I'm just a 33-year-old guy thinkin' I'm still 19.
Anyway, here's my gripe with my older sibs, now that I'm big enough to believe I can complain. (Kristy, I'm sure you'll weigh in here on my whining.) The problem with my jock shirt is that the number on it doesn't match the meaning of the name printed on it.
An explanation for the unintiated (literally): my shirt on the front has the greek letters, but on the back reads "BOB FOSSE" and then the number 6. Why? you may ask. Well, my name has a couple pretty cool stories attached to it, in my opinion. Thanks to the whimsy of our (probably drunk) pledge chairs, each person in my entire pledge class (which was relatively large that semester) got a name that had the name "Bob" in it (ex. Bobcat, Bobstreperous, Bob Smith of the Cure, etc.). During one house meeting, our pledge chairs yelled at us "Pledge Sound Off!!" and, having never had to do that before, we all looked at one another and spontaneously yelled, "One!" to much laughter. After this, we had to all yell "One!" at virtually all house meetings -- and at one of these (perhaps inspired by some imbibing), I got up and continued with the Chorus Line tune: "-singular sensation, every little step she takes!" This was naturally complete with a make-shift one-man kickline around the room. Hence: Bob Fosse, Broadway and Hollywood choreographer, dancer and director.
As such, I have always believed that the number on my shirt should have been "1." Why "6"? Well, as it turned out, three of us who lived in the same room all pledged that quarter: my roommate Rich Yeung ("Bob Smith") and Caroline Kanegson, who I think meant to just visit with Rich for a few days and ended up living on our common room floor (earning her the name "Bobonthefloor," if I remember correctly). And we all lived in 6 Hinman.
I wouldn't be so bugged about having the number "6" on the shirt if a picture survived of the three of us standing together with our backs to the camera displaying the number "666." I personally think that Rich and Caroline should come to the next reunion with their shirts so we can create this picture for my own personal benefit. Come on, whadaya say??
And do I need help or what? Poor Xan, he has a complete wacko for a dad. Oh well.