This video starts innocently enough, and then asks soul-searching questions from throughout the ages, such as if you like to hang your clothes–or fold them. But then, just when you are pondering the practical application of having a television and refrigerator in your closet, one of the great cliff-hangers of cinema happens, leaving you wondering desperately, “WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?!”

What do you think? Is a clean closet a warning sign of a messy life, too sordid to be revealed? Is there a dark underbelly to this story? Is there more than meets the eye?!!!!

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Painful, this story, but I have to share it with you. When I was about 16, I went horseback riding in Central Park in New York City.

“Your horse was in the movie, Hair!” the stable hand told me as she handed me the horse and pointed toward all of New York City at my feet.

My friends and I walked our horses several city blocks—a very odd experience, if ever there was one—and then they promptly left me in the dust as they tore off on the park’s bridal path. My horse, movie star that he was, raced after them, with me clutching on for dear life. You see, my riding experience up until them had consisted entirely of trail rides where you were lucky if you got a little trot in at the end when the horse spotted the barn.

On the train ride back to my home on Long Island, my ego crushed and frankly questioning whether or not I should even call these people friends, I decided that I could only do one thing about this. I had to sign up for horseback riding lessons.

So, for the next few years, every penny I earned as a cashier at the supermarket went either to riding lessons, the cheapest riding gear available, or gas for my jalopy to get me back and forth to the stable. I even worked one summer mucking stalls in exchange for lessons.

I rode English semi-competently (or so I thought) and competed in numerous horse shows, for masochistic reasons that still escape me. You see, at horse shows, when a group of riders are finished competing, you all line up there with your horses and wait for them to call the winner. The judges announce first place first, and that proud rider accepts his or her pretty blue ribbon and then moves as one unit, horse and rider, out of the ring. This goes on, second place, then third place. But they don’t stop at third place. Imagine waiting to get picked for kickball, the shame and horror of watching the dwindling remainders and realizing you’re one of them, still waiting. Well, I was usually there waiting, sitting on my rented horse like an idiot with a crowd of people watching me, until finally, finally, I would be awarded the very last ribbon, the brown one.

So, no, this photo is not of me. This photo is from Talisman Farm in Las Vegas, and my guess is this rider has never gotten a brown ribbon. Then again, she may never have ridden a horse from Hair, so there you go.