A friend of mine called to tell me last night that his car had been broken into. A car that is parked around the side of a house and down a sloping driveway, hardly visible from the street. And what did the thief run away with into the frigid Long Island night? Not the car stereo. Not the snow shovel. Not even the raggedy-ass sleeping bag and half-empty bottle of laundry detergent in the trunk. Oh no.
They took a small blue gym bag which was resting, all blue and gym-baggy and vulnerable, on the back seat. And its contents. Or nearly all its contents. As the victim reported: “I found the underwear on the front seat. But they took my track shorts and t-shirt and shoes. And my hairgel.” [Thoughtful pause.] “I’m feeling somehow both violated and inconvenienced.”
What else can we listen to but this?
(I mean, if you have to pick music that goes with almost having your underpants stolen, what else is there but Rossini?)