Six degrees of separation

By Sean Pearson

I always wanted to be in ballet.
OK. That’s not exactly true. In fact, my mother once tried to make me take lessons. She did it under the guise of teaching me something more refined than football, cops and robbers and catching crawfish in the ditch across the street. (By the way, in case you are ever stranded in southern Louisiana in one of those Survivor shows or something, you should know that bologna works very well for catching crawfish. Of course, with the size crawfish you can catch using lunchmeat, you’d be better off just eating the bologna. Still, you never know when this kind of information might come in handy.)
In actuality, I think my mother attempted to get me to take ballet lessons because she was tired of taking me to get stitches, casts and other hospital souvenirs. (Did you know that if you jump from a tree when you are four years old, it’s not really a good idea to try to stop yourself with your hands? Another piece of trivia you may find helpful at some point. Use it as you wish.)
It’s really OK. I’m not ashamed to admit it any more.
My name is Sean and I’m a klutz.
However, I do think there should be a better word to describe this affliction from which I suffer. Klutz seems to have such a negative connotation. Then again, a quick glance through the thesaurus yields such wonderful words as clod, oaf, lummox and stumblebum. I think I’ll stick with klutz.
I digress.
The truth is, it happens every year about this same time. I don’t necessarily start getting those visions of swing-dancing sugar plums or mamboing mice in my head. However, I inevitably begin hearing rumors of rats and soldiers doing battle over some chick in her pajamas.
Ah, ‘tis the season for Nutcracker.
Every year I watch, and every year I am envious of those who can actually walk across the stage without falling. Of course, I’m also envious of the guy who gets to work the buzzer at the basketball games, but that’s a different story.
Oh, what the heck. Whoever said digressing was a bad thing anyway? If you package it cleverly enough it just looks like spontaneity. Did I mention I’m spontaneous? Either that, or I have ADD.
What were we talking about?
Did you realize that there are only six degrees of separation between Homer and Kevin Bacon? Keep up with me here:
Kevin Bacon was in the movie, “The Air Up There,” about a basketball team in Africa.
Rwanda is a country in Africa.
There is a movie called Hotel Rwanda.
The hotel is a close cousin of the motel.
Motel 6 commercials are narrated by Tom Bodett.
Tom Bodett lived in Homer.
Go ahead, check it out. I’ll wait.
See what I mean? Is that cool or what? If nothing else, it’s a great way to break the ice at those horribly boring Christmas parties you’re sure to get invited to this year. And it works with just about anything or anyone. Apparently Kevin Bacon really is the center of the universe.
I wonder if he ever got to work the buzzer at a basketball game?

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Posted by on Dec 1st, 2010 and filed under Spiew. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. Both comments and pings are currently closed.

1 Response for “Six degrees of separation”

  1. Rhonda says:

    I was visiting a friend in Anchor Pt last year this time. Through facebook and an old high school friend I met a lady that now lives in Tenn but is from Anchor Point. I also met a young man up there working on a rig and believe it or not… I ran into him a few weeks ago at a gas station in my hometown of Eufaula, Oklahoma.

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