9 out of 10 monkeys believe they are not behind glass

I had an interesting movie-style flashback this morning. And by “movie-style”, I mean there were fade cuts involved. Anytime that a fade cut is involved, that implies that it is almost at Oscar contention right there. My memory is directed by something Spielberg-esqe.

Anyways, I don’t know what triggered it. Scientists say that smell or tactile responses can trigger memory response, but since I was taking a shower at the time, in my bathroom, and the memory has nothing to do with either showering or the bathroom, I think said scientists are full of bupkiss.

When I was kid, a very young kid, probably only 3 or 4, I remember asking my mom what we were going to have for dinner. She told me something very distressing, something that scarred my young self beyond all recognition. Something that probably lead to my direct unfathomable hatred of the item to this very day.

We were going to be having x and Brussels sprouts. I don’t remember what x was, because as soon as I heard the words, Brussels sprouts, all other things involved with that dinner were wiped entirely clean. I hate Brussels sprouts… nay, I abhor Brussels sprouts. Abhor the filthy little things. They are green little bundles of vomit wrapped in dirt. Perhaps the earth vomited out the vile packages of encapsulated death because the earth could not stand them.

Die, Brussels sprouts, Die.

So I ran back into my room and fervently made a plan that would facilitate my escape from the gritty doom that would soon meet me face to face at the dinner table. I thought about sticking the Brussels sprouts in my pockets, or shoving them into my shirt, or opening a space/time rift and shoving them through into oblivion. (Actually that last one is a lie.) My little young mind made a brilliant decision. I would wear a hat.

A trucker hat.

Oh, I know, now that seems to be a ridiculous decision. In hindsight, probably not the best idea in the world for hiding contraband vegetable goods that I was expected to ingest. Ingest! Deep down, I don’t think I have forgiven my mom for that one yet. The nerve.

I put on the trucker hat and headed to the dinner table with a sly grin on my face. My mom always knew when I was up to something, and my dad asked me why I was wearing a hat. I told him that I wanted to, and he left it at that. My mom and dad probably knew by that point, that when a toddler insists on a fashion choice, it is in everyone’s best interest to let the toddler have their way. Oh I was so clever, I thought. I will never again have to eat the horrid Brussels sprouts. Ever.

I ate my dinner slowly, and very stealthily deposited my nasty Brussels sprouts to my lap. The plan was that I would transfer bite after bite of Brussels sprouts to my lap, then at the appointed time, when the parents were cleaning up or had their attention averted, I would take of my hat all ninja-like, deposit the sprouts into the hat, put it back on and leave the table to flush the fiends down the toilet.

That was the plan.

It didn’t work. Trucker hats have holes. My mom saw the myriad of previously assumed ingested sprouts under my hat. She told me to sit still and she left the room. She came back with her camera and asked me remove my hat. I staunchly refused the request. She asked me again. I told her no. She asked me again, trying not to laugh. I knew I had been caught. My super-smart plan that would fool everyone was obviously fooling no one. No one at all. Especially audience member prime, my mother.

I took off the hat.

Brussels sprouts (the bastards) rolled off my head and went everywhere. Table, lap, floor. I was ashamed.

Then I heard the click and the whir of the camera.

Blackmailed as well. If that isn’t the icing on the cake of humiliation, I don’t know what it is.

I have no idea what triggered the memory. But as it came to me, it finally dawned on me where I had seen the picture before. I always wondered what the story was, or where the picture came from, but there is a picture in one of my baby books of a little boy with super curly hair, wearing a trucker hat askew, smiling and lifting a fork in victory. My mind made the connection this morning between the memory of the picture, and the memory of the incident, and it all came flooding back. The picture was taken moments before my downfall. The moment of Pyhrric victory.

With sprouts under the hood. And a mother that knew better behind the camera.

Now it makes sense.

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Dear Flickr - thanks for the awesomeness! You all are one of the best online subscriptions in the world, and you keep making the experience better. Totally worth it.

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I wrote my post about registering to vote after reading up on candidates… about finding my own way to Ron Paul.

Then I started poking around on the net about Ron Paul. There are his websites (well done by the way), his campaign’s efforts all around the net (youtube, etc, also well done), and the real grassroots efforts everywhere.

Then I ran across this on Digg today.

“Google Ron Paul!” a sign said. It was somewhere on a side street in MD. I passed it as I drove home one day. Because of you [old media], I remembered that name. I wanted to see what it was about this person that made you so sure he could not be in the running. So I went home and looked up the name. I do not even have to tell you what happened then. Almost any American that does it for themselves already knows what I’m talking about.

Word. I know what he is talking about.

Surreal.