Listening to Blue-Eyed Soul by Wilco

Someone was trying to explain to me that there is a mathematical algorithm to the shuffle feature on iPods. I find this to be extremely disappointing. You see - I am of the opinion that when you are walking along, genially listening to your iPod, each random song that comes on fulfills some greater deterministic ideal that God has set in motion for you. This is not to say that I am a determinist - far from it. I just like to think that there is something helping to guide my subconscious thoughts through my iPod. Wow - that's kind of freaky. Now I have a little musical robot telling me to do things. Not sure how I feel about that.
I went to a friend's birthday party last night. Now it is Saturday night and I am lying in my bed, listening to Keith Jarrett, and wishing I was eight years old again.
I was talking about Toys 'R Us the other day. I remember being so young and wanting so many toys. I could just wander the aisles again and again. re-hashing which GI Joe was the best, which He-Man would fit perfectly in my Castle Greyskull layout. the characters were so important to me. I remember reading all of the backs of the packages, tracing shiny plastic parts through the transparent casing with my finger. Imagining what each transformation would render for whatever toy I chose. My Mother would be very specific about letting me have only one toy. That was, perhaps, the greatest source of consternation. Having to hold two toys in each hand and decide between the two. In hindsight I can only imagine that she would buy them to make sure that I kept my little mouth shut on the 4 and a half hour ride to Rhode Island to see my Grandparents.
You know what is funny? I remember having this grey plastic He Man figure with extendable limbs and neck. His name was (drum roll please ) Extendo. I was riding in the wayback of our light blue Taurus station wagon. Lying on my back. Streetlights going by outside - it was late and dark. They would whiz by. And the back of the car smelled of so many things. There was a deep oil smell, a new plastic smell. And that weird carpeting back there would scratch your face and make it itch. Still, that wouldn;t stop me from falling asleep. In the middle seats I would always wake up with a big sweaty seat belt mark on my face. Awkwardly climb out of the car. Sleepily amble up my Grandmother's steps. Her house always smelled like soup. This wonderful vegetable soup that she would make from scratch. Actually - she still does. And I would be shuffled off towards some bed with a dim night light nearby, shirt pulled over my head, pjs put on, and quietly tucked into bed. Someone probably gingerly placing some strange plastic man under my arm or setting him nearby to stand guard.