The Post About How Cool We Thought We Were

It’s not a far stretch, Dear Reader, from mice to moose.
Why would one care about the stretch, you ask, from mice to moose?
That is a very good question, we say, one of those so very good questions that it does not have a ready answer.
But let us just say, one cares because one does, because it is the right thing to do. Especially if Santa is watching.

Here’s where our explorations have lead us so far: the plural of moose, best that we can ascertain, is moose, so unlike its fraternal brother, the mouse, the moose has no qualms with how to multiply its name, unless we want to bring mousse into the subject, be it chocolate or hair, which upon reflection we decidedly do not. Want to do.

Because, of course, the plural of mousse is…..mousse.

And but then there’s the whole hair issue. Or lack thereof. For some of us here in the PB&JRoom.
And but then, there’s the whole 80’snish of mousse. Yes, when we had the Pony haircut and flipped our hair to the tunes of Alphaville and Human League and Ultravox and Japan on Modern Monday Night at N’Cahoots, well then, yes, we used mousse. Extensively. Like we had stock in the company. Like the brightness of the dayglo cans made the foamy crap inside more effective. (It did not, but you, Dear Reader, were probably smart enough even then to already know that: some of us, alas, were not). Like pounding the gel and the dippity-doo all over the head was not “hold” enough which is why mousse was spattered on top of gel and dippity-doo or brylcream. This, incidentally, produces – as if you do not already know – a shellacking effect on the hair and surrounding perimeters which might include but is not exclusive to the ears, the earrings, the shoulders, the puffy padded shoulders on the shirt, the eyebrows, the hair of anyone unfortunate enough to stand too near you whilst you high-steppingly sauntered and swayed nee boogied under your immovable doo. This shellack, unfortunately, did not wash out with simple shampoo and brillo-pads. One had to get out the industrial strength paint stripper to fully remove the concoction. Which removal you did, right before you reapplied the entire mess for the next big night out.

This is not meant to address the various extremities of the young wannabe in the 80’s but there’s this: does anyone quite get how hard it is to hold an “above it all but I want your attention so please ask me repeatedly what’s wrong so I can say ‘nothing’ or ‘you don’t get it, you just don’t get it’ repeatedly while I stand against the wall trying desperately to effect a James Dean pose” while one is wearing a white poofy shouldered waist jacket that even respecting matadors would pass on in the discount aisle, with one’s hair slowly gluing itself to the wall one has chosen as a prop for one’s leg-up too cool stance? Anyone??

Sometimes it simply snogs our brain.