The only expensive article of clothing I own is a blue Burberry raincoat.
Last week the left pocket tore, and I haven't yet sewn it up. I don't know if I can bring myself to, because of the very real chance that doing so might bring down the wrath of all of the Gods of the rock and roll pantheon.
In any case, being the pedant that I am (combined with an unseasonable amount of precipitation) of course I took the advantage to show every colleague in my department that my blue raincoat had torn.
I don't know who is less rock and roll, me for multiply making an allusion without putting any work into it to make it at least clever (the horror, the horror- spectre of "Scary Movie" type pretend humor), or my colleagues for not knowing the Leonard Cohen song. Probably me. I am at a rock and roll nadir. . . you can understand now why I don't dare fix the torn pocket.
This being said. Dammit, what happened? When I first heard the song (drinking jug burgundy and eating as many free hotdogs as my distended belly could hold, sitting on the floor of Mark Silcox's crap apartment that didn't even have its own bathroom as Cohen came out through his little Fischer Price record player) I just assumed that this was the kind of big boy music that being a philosopher entitled you to savor and understand. In retrospect, that was a dumb thought, but it felt revelatory at the time.
