Aging punks

Ok, he wasn't exactly old - that nebulous 'college age', perhaps early twenties rather than late teens. Dark hair, requisitely long, perhaps darkened past brown to black, and a blatantly artificial red streak to top it all off.

Or perhaps goth - the modern morph of 80's punk - the black knee boots, leather crop and black jacket screamed dark and broody. The pin stripes on the black pants were an interesting touch though for the life of me, I can't quite figure the purpose of the two elastic straps crossing behind from thigh to knee.

And I asked myself as I catalogued all this, 'Where will he be in 5 years? 10?' What will happen when he confronts the real world? Will he fight the 'establishment', attempt to goth up the workplace or will he plunge merrily into suburbia, never to be counter culture again?

Random thoughts on the way to the Sexual Harassment Prevention lecture.

I should have sat farther up, really, it's hard to people watch when all the people are behind me. Cute guy behind my left shoulder, wedding ring, darnit. Brunette with long hair, almost to her thigh - I love the way long hair flows, it's so beautiful. The presenter needs a haircut - it's grown out and rather uneven on the bottom.

Lots of interesting background on sex discrimination law, including: the relevant passage is from Title 7 of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Yeah, that law. It was all about race discrimination and 6 months of debate preceded the passing of that law. At the last minute, Strom Thurmond added sex to the language, on the theory that prohibiting sex discrimination was too silly to even contemplate passing. Congress apparently agreed that it was silly, but the bill passed anyway.

Never thought I'd say this, but thank you, Strom Thurmond. <snort>

Continuing a thought

More on the Qui-Gon/Giles thread:
(When last we left our intrepid heroes, they had just been served... tea.)

The scent of the tea, fresh and strong, hit Giles in a rolling wave, followed quickly by the sweet odors of cream and freshly baked scones. He poured carefully, liquid the color of aged teak, into which the cream blossomed in a white cloud. He wrapped his hand around the cup and leaned back in the chair.

When it was finally cool enough, he drank, consuming the beverage as he was consuming the view, letting the sheer tea-ness of the place sink into his pores. Remarkably, it was only vaguely reminiscent of England, green, but the misty grey of his homeland was transformed to a glittering emerald and gold in the summer sun.

It was a quiet delight to sit there, sipping his tea in the serene company of this Qui-Gon. The moment stretched, as perfect moments do, to fill the time as it passed in a blink. Their tea and scones were gone, crumbs and dark shreds of leaves the only mark of their repast. Qui-Gon picked up both trays and replaced them on the dumbwaiter. Giles sat there for a moment, captured by the spare sweep of the man's robes, the graceful economic movement.

He looked up when Qui-Gon paused in front of him.

(And no - I don't write much at once. 5 pages is like an uber-marathon.)