I went to a party on Saturday night, and I wore my new hat because it was cold outside.

This particular hat is brown, with a pom-pom on top. I'd bought it at an American Apparel store. When I first tried it on, I asked the shopgirl, "do you really think I can carry off a pom-pom?" She leaned toward me and said, "Oh yeah. It looks really good on you," and then, according to American Apparel's near-pedophiliac corporate policy, bit her lower lip in a manner implying that if I were to buy the hat, she and all her friends would have sex with me whenever I wanted for the rest of my life.

So, the pom-pom. I had it on at the party. At one point, I found myself under a heating lamp, talking with a bunch of people who work at a law office that defends people who've been arrested on marijuana charges. One of them, a woman young enough to be Elijah's babysitter, said to me,

"I like your beanie."

"My what?" I said.

"Your beanie."

"I'm not wearing a beanie."

"Yes you are."

"No, a beanie is a circular hat that has a propeller on top."

My friend Jerod stopped me.

"Dude, wait. I thought the same thing. But sometime in the last ten years while we were off getting stoned somewhere, they started calling ski caps beanies."

"No," I said.

"It's true."

"You know, I'm only 36. And I've been wearing these kinds of hats for years. You'd think I would have heard about this."

"It's a beanie," the woman said.

Obviously, I've now reached an age where basic changes in slang are no longer reaching me. A little later, I found myself talking with a couple who were in their early 30s.

"I like your beanie," the guy said to me.

"Again with the fucking beanie," I said, much to their confusion.

And a little later still, I found myself in a conversation with a charming actress from Chicago.

"I like your hat," she said.

"Thank you," I said. "Everyone keeps calling it a beanie."

"No," she said. "A beanie is that round hat that Jughead from Archie Comics wears. The one with the little propeller on it."

"That's what I said!"

She was now my best friend.

Later, I headed for the door.

"It was nice to meet you," my young adversary said, politely.

"It's been a dilly of a hootennany," I said. "But now I've got to drag a hoof."

She looked at me strangely. But I'd made the decision. If I was going to be linguistically out-of-date, then I was really going to be out-of-date. Twenty-three skiddoo to all, and to all a good night.

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