Dear Diary:

    So the other night my daughter's roomie, Marc, and I are chatting on ICQ about women's panties.

    Hmmmm, maybe I should clarify this a bit, wouldn't want folks to get the wrong idea, eh.

    It started about David Bowie. (Anyone who knows Marc knows that as far as he's concerned it *all* starts with David Bowie. The word worship does not adequately convey what Marc feels about Bowie, but we won't go there today.)

Tom Jones, a guy who can release a song called Sex Bomb when he's older than God.  Gotta love that.    So I mentioned how odd I find it that some of the folks whose music I listened to when I was in high school and university are still on the playlist of my daughter's generation. I mean, there's Bowie, Cher ... and Marc reminded me about Tom Jones, although he's probably more kitsch than anything else now ...

    That's how we got to panties.

    See, I read in a New Yorker profile about ol' Tom that now his concerts have become multi-generational thingies, moms my age go with their daughters. Everyone still throws panties on-stage at him, it's part of the Tom Jones concert ritual.

    Except now women bring brand new panties they've bought for the occasion and toss them on stage, often with the price tags still attached.

    Marc and I are both fascinated by this. Neither of us knows what it means, but we both feel if we can figure it out we'll have stumbled into a major cultural insight.

    Too bad they don't make decoder rings for this kind of thing. Remember those?

    Where *are* the Cracker Jack™ people when you need them?


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