Two-Headed Boy: The Who And The Why?

Business seems to be booming at The Clothing Store. All gripes aside about my purgatory of plaid, we steamrolled through the holiday season with record numbers and are on a hot streak ever since.

Just like in good sports clichés, team chemistry is the key to success. That’s the same in a department store, and my managers have called in a few “team meetings” to improve camaraderie. The first was a meeting titled “Let’s get Commercial!”

The opening exercise was passing around a roll of toilet paper and plucking off a few leaves, telling a personal fun fact for each square. Then we were broken into teams, challenged to be the fastest group to re-organize their section of the store. I could hardly get a word in as my veteran teammates flew on autopilot. A rookie’s word gets no respect.

Additional bonding came as a pizza party this past Sunday night at an arcade. I felt it might be nice to socialize with my coworkers, but it was like a group of high school cliques. Before I knew it, I was alone playing skee-ball by myself. It wasn’t mandatory, but the only football going on was the Pro Bowl so I decided to attend.

It won’t happen this weekend – can’t miss Super Sunday. There’s something for everyone in the marathon Super Bowl telecast – football, commercials involving dancing bears, talking babies and beer, beer, beer. Sometimes all three at once!

Thanks to YouTube, I now have pretty good impressions of Colts and Saint fans.

If I had to pick a side, I’d probably geaux with New Orleans – the prospect of that Dread locked “Shoe” guy crying himself to sleep in his mom’s basement is way too enticing.

I have no illusion about the halftime show. MTV produced a slew of pyro-and-boy-band-heavy extravaganzas at the turn of the millennium. But Justin and Janet had their “wardrobe malfunction” and the NFL relieved MTV of its duties and they’ve been playing it safe ever since.

Prince was an unlikely choice, considering the standard parade of classic-rock fare, but he paid off.  They went though the Stones and the Boss but this year’s choice – The Who – is a total step backwards. The most captivating parts of The Who — Keith Moon and John Entwistle — are long gone, replaced by Zak Starkey, Ringo’s son, on drums, and an ever rotating cast of characters on bass.

I’ve seen recent “Who” performances where the camera only shows the part of the stage occupied by Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend, almost ignoring the fact that rock’s most dynamic rhythm section is now gone. The Big Show shouldn’t be given to a cover band. I go by the “half rule.” If you only have half your original members, might as well call it a day.

Time to pump in some new blood and show that the show isn’t just a boy’s club. My vote is for Beyonce, who proved at her recent Grammy performance that she can rock with the best of them.

You’re probably left asking, what fun fact did I say with toilet paper in hand at The Clothing Store?

“I am Two-Headed Boy and you are all the subject of a subversive social experiment on TheThirdCity.com!”

Well, I was thinking that. I actually told an anecdote about how I have an inherent fear of stickers because an overzealous grocery store clerk put one on my forehead while I was just a tot. My low profile is vital — and thankfully still intact.

by Two-Headed Boy