Hole in My Pocket

Trying to herd my children past Salinger and Scarry, and the Jim Holt existential detective tale up next on my hit list, and the security guard nodded as we passed him at the exit, and just then my pen fell out of my pocket - but it fell out the bottom leg of my pants where I discovered (five seconds later) there was a rip in my pocket, thus the catalyst for my G2 fine point's almost-successful escape.

The guard looked at the pen spilling out by my shoe, then his eyes traveled up to where my other two pens still clung precariously to my damaged pocket:

"You carry a backup too?" 

He asked. 

I smiled back. "Yep." I patted my two pens as I picked up the third escapee. "And I carry a backup for my backup."

He laughed, because I think he thought I was extraordinarily cool for carrying not only a backup pen, like him, but a backup pen for my backup.

Always prepared.

He correctly determined I was not a pickpocketer, and saluted (sort of) as we passed. I love crossing paths with other pen-carrying kindred spirits.

We went off to ride skyscrapers and search for dragons.

Listen to Herbie Hancock today. You won't be sorry, unless you are.

Happy Freitag, all!


Deep Forest Book Read (A Series of Events That Turns Out to Not be Unfortunate, Aside from the Distractive Rustling of Rampaging Wart Hogs Fifteen Meters to the South).

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