Okay no blog last night, let me explain.
The Tyranny of Pigs, and the Meaning of Life

I got home and as soon as I walk in the front door the pig whistling starts. They seem to be led by the brown and white one, Buddy Jr. (Buddy Jr. is a female and she’s…. conflicted). I make it to the kitchen, they keep whistling, I turn around to get them the greens they have become accustomed to. The wife says, “Oh no, don't do that. They were outside all afternoon they shouldn't be hungry.” They keep whistling for a few minutes.

The Superwife makes Hungry Jack casserole. Ms. Pikachu is ecstatic. If you're not familiar- Hungry Jack Casserole starts with a layer of baked beans and hamburger mixed with barbecue sauce and onions. Then it’s covered by biscuits and topped off with a layer of cheese.

All Ms. Pikachu could say was "It's just a big pile of gas material. I am going to fart all night." I told her she would fart alone. Not much to say, but it was all I could think of.

Trainboy got caught up in the excitement too. "I'm going to fart too!" Dreams of tooting like a steam engine’s whistle I imagine. “Toot! Toot! I love that sound!

After we stuffed ourselves with the stuff stars are made of the Holywife informed me some group of spiritual people were gathering at some spiritual retreat and they were going to walk a spiritual symbol in prayer. Uh huh, yeah, whatever. When do we leave?

The kids did not want to go. It was just the two of us. We went to the prayer thing, when we got there nearly everybody was already gone. Imagine that, we were late. It was on a large acreage within city limits- a nice piece of ground, it’s only a matter of time before they sell out and it's all put under concrete. That would be a conversion to a shrine to the Almighty Dollar. But you knew that.

Anyway, we headed out on the nature trail and communed with nature. The communing consisted of a deer that ran away, various wild flowers, and mosquitoes. The mosquitoes did not run away. Mother nature can be a bit bloodthirsty, even while you're trying to center yourself and achieve oneness with the oneness.

The event was to walk through a labyrinth. Think of a circle about 30 feet across with one entrance into the circle. Inside the circle is a maze with only one route that will use the entire circle.

The trail was marked by a single line of bricks and was only one brick high- easy to follow, tempting to cheat. Careless travelers had stepped on some of them, bumping them over or misaligning them. Can't have that; have to put them back where they belong. We will leave it better than we found it. As I do the wife gets out ahead of me.

The wife stops and asks, "Didn't you say that bending over makes your eyesight worse? Why are you doing that?" I tell her I am not bending over, I'm squatting, so my head stays up. It needs to be done, and I'm doing it. I continue to walk the path and it isn't long before she bends over to straighten a brick. Ah, love.

The seeker of truth turns and turns, sometimes in the direction you want to go, sometimes not. Sometimes you get sand in your shoes. When you get to the center, why you've reached it. Then you turn around and go out the way you came, spiritually thankful there's no door to hit you on the butt on your way out. Hmmm, a deep thought, this is what we came for.

There is a bell to ring. It can be rung at the start or end of the journey. Supposedly it reverberates with the oneness. Maybe so. But it seems to me that if there are eight notes there is a higher chance of striking discord. Add in sharps and flats and the odds get even worse. What about the Superwife, suppose it works for me but doesn’t for her? It would seem an awfully selfish act then. The odds for total satisfaction seem long indeed. I do not ring the bell. I will ring the bell if there’s $40 million or more at stake.

On the way home She tells me we can pick up the equipment for installing the refrigerator’s ice machine. As we near the Mecca of DIY she asks, “Menards, or Home Depot?” I tell her either will do, certain that oneness will be attained whichever way she chooses. Home Depot it is.

We get a filter, some copper tubing and a length of ½ inch PVC pipe for the water line. We’re running out of time. Our friendly customer helper asks what we need for joints. The fridge is above the main fuse box. Code does not allow water pipe within three feet of the fuse box. Quick guess, six elbows and a tee and we’re done.

On the way home I realize I’d forgotten a shut-off valve, necessary for the filter changes, and a cap- unless we want a fountain in the kitchen. We did not achieve oneness. Oneness is not achieved in a rush.

We get home and the whistling starts again. They whistle and whistle. Buddy Jr. climbs on top of her hut, stands on her rear feet and whistles like Benita Mussolini inspiring the masses. The others gather around. Benita whistles and nods. The genuflecting hairballs whistle in response. It almost sounds like “Duce, Duce, Duce!”

Needing to head off the revolt I go outside and gather dandelion and plantain greens. I place them in their boxes, and even Il Duce shuts up and eats. It’s a sad thing to admit, but sometimes achieving civil peace is nothing more than bread and circuses.

Supermom and Ms. Pikachu head off to read before bed. Trainboy watches a video. I sit on the couch to keep him company, and fall asleep before he does. And that’s why I didn’t blog last night.

Hungry Jack Casserole (The stuff stars are made of)
Brown together and drain:
1 lb hamburger
½ cup chopped onion
½ cup chopped green pepper

Add:
¾ cup barbecue sauce
2-1 lb cans pork and beans
2 T brown sugar

Heat and pour into 9/13” pan. Top with a tube of biscuits or crescent rolls (unrolled).
Cover biscuits with 1 cup Cheddar cheese (shredded).
Bake at 375 for 25-30 minutes.

Best served with sides of Beano and acidophilus.
Airwick makes a delightful centerpiece.

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I got my vision back last night for about a half-hour, then the steroid ran out. Took another one, two a day is allowed, and got some sleep.

Today I'm at work, oh boy. Seems odd to say it, but it feels good to be here.

Tonight we blog.

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Here's the news- the brain tumor is pushing forward on my right eye. Another brain surgery is required. The first one was supposed to take care of me for life. Oh, well.

Tuesday morning I'm to get a prescription for Decadron (sp?) to relieve the swelling. Then some surgical consults will be done.

Ever get the feeling God is shaking you up? "Why aren't you listening? We used to talk, talk to me." No doubt about it, I've become a miserable excuse for a Christian.

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I haven't posted in a while, but there's a reason. I've been seeing double. My doctor wants an MRI done of my head to check for bleeding. Oh, boy. If I'm admitted I'll be at Mercy Health Center.

After church it was time to eat, and then it was time for… the train. The Frugalwife raised an eyebrow, maybe two. She asked, “Was that expensive?” Time to dance. “Kinda, but it was cheaper than buying it on the web.” Well, it was true. The shipping would not have been cheap.

Being a fairly large assembly it took a while to assemble. The track was easy to assemble. Though he could certainly do it, Trainboy let me assume the drudgework of assembly, easy as it was, while he examined the train. The boxcar doors work! Two ovals, a bridge, and he was in business. “Whoo, whoo! I love that sound.”

As the day went on we added more parts- the automatic gates for the road intersection, the tippler to dump coal in the coal car, and rocks in the tipping gondola, the unloader for the gondola.

The kids took turns controlling the train, using the other accessories and throwing the switches. We had to turn down the lights so the train engines lights could be seen.

The Supernurse went to work and I fell asleep on the couch. I slept the contented sleep of a parent with happy kids.

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As you may recall from last Saturday’s post Trainboy brought his new train engine with him when he visited cousins. The coupler was broken when he played with it there. I’d glued it and thought it worked. The glue did not hold. I have many glues, none of them worked. They apparently make the couplers out of super-anti-adhesive plastic. Crap.

After Supernurse went to work we headed for the hobby shop. Maybe they would have a replacement coupler. The lady who runs the shop was busy helping a customer so we wandered around for a while. We looked at the train layout they’re building. It has a bridge- he likes bridges. It has a tunnel and he likes tunnels too. He thought it was a fine thing.

The train I had bought Trainboy for his birthday was a Bachman with EZ-lock tracks. From the look of it the track would just snap together. From the look of it. The reality of it was that it still used connectors on each rail for the electrical contact. Trainboy prides himself on being able to do things for himself, but the track was too difficult for him. It was sometimes aggravating for me, requiring pliers to straighten a bent connector.

So I figured there’s got to be a better way. It does no good for Trainboy to have a train he can’t play with when he wants. So we looked at the train sets too. Life- Like sets use a system they call Power Lock. The tracks snap together side-ways and don’t use rail connectors. Hmm…

The set he already has is a fairly small oval. It seemed reasonable that if he liked it we’d just expand it. Buying a new system would mean the first one is either junk, or rarely used. There is such a thing as cutting your losses though and this seemed like such a time.

I picked out a set that’s much larger than his original one. It’s a double oval almost six foot long and about four feet wide. The ovals overlap, meaning it has a bridge- a good thing. It also comes with a mountain so it has a tunnel, the other good thing. There are also loaders and unloaders for coal and rocks, moving gateways, boxcars, gondolas and the always-important caboose. Guys like toys.

He liked it, no doubt about it. Trainboy looked at me and with a very concerned voice asked, “Is it expensive?” He didn’t want to get his hopes up and then see it go back up on the shelf. “Kinda, but we can buy it if you think you would like it.” “Okay.” He was pleased, me too. In the back of my head was a little voice threatening, “How are you going to explain this?” I didn’t care… much.


When we got to the register I asked the lady who owns the store if she had a coupler for a HO scale Bachman. She told me Bachman only came in G and O scale. There were other customers waiting so I wasn’t going to disagree with her in front of them. Call me a weenie but that’s just the way I am. She told me to check the train for it’s make and get back to her to order one. Okay.

We left the store with one large train set and one happy Trainboy. We put it in the trunk and headed out of town to get Ms. Pikachu. She was not there. They’d gone to the zoo. This made me feel even better about the train purchase. After Ms. Pikachu had gotten to go to Adventureland, the zoo, and stayed over at a cousins it seemed fair that he got a train.

We went to older brother, Herr Ronald’s, and Trainboy played with his cousins. Eventually we got the call that Ms. Pikachu was back and away we went. She was happy. Trainboy was happy. They slept soundly on the way home.

-lifelike trains

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The Supernurse went to work and it was just Trainboy and me. He got out his half-his-size-but-still-only-$3.00-at-Wal Mart squirt gun. He showed me how he waters the plants with it. Each plant got three pumps.

When it got dark we went inside and watched some Cartoon Network, because there’s no such thing as too much Ed, Edd, and Eddie.

At bedtime we read ‘Green Eggs and Ham.’ That was it for us.

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Bad news when I got home. The mother of the other Guinea pigs died. Apparently when they shot the video outside yesterday it got too hot.

When she’d had her litter this past winter one of the babies didn’t make it. Since the ground was frozen it wasn’t possible to bury it. The Supermom wrapped it up and put it in the deep freeze. She’d intended to bury it when it got warmer, but it just never seemed like the right time.

They held a little funeral and buried the momma with its baby. Everybody cried, Skunk was a good pet.

We took Heather back home. Ms. Pikachu brought along some clothes and stayed over. She looks forward to this. The last time she visited she was excited that she got to help clean out the chick coop. Imagine that. If she only had the same enthusiasm for cleaning up her room it wouldn’t look like a chicken coop.

It was a quiet drive home.

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When I got home the Superwife told me that she and the kids had shot a movie. They wrote it, storyboarded it, and shot it with the camcorder. It was their version of ‘The Three Little Pigs.’

They used the Guinea pigs for the actors. Costumes were made, including a hat with ears for the fox. Watching the video it was obvious they’d greatly enjoyed themselves. They even had a blooper segment.

We went to see ‘The Lion King’ at the IMAX. I’ve always liked the movie. It has some cute moments, drama, and a fine score. I was looking forward to seeing it on a huge screen. It was a disappointment.

Enlarging the picture so much often made the lines look like they were drawn on a chalkboard. Sometimes the images were so large and moved so fast I couldn’t follow them. The kids have played the DVD too many times to count, so I’m more than familiar with the film. Even knowing everything I couldn’t keep up. It became just a swirl of color. If I’m not getting the experience across think of it this way- watching TV with your nose against the screen.

But the sound was good. Not that it mattered much. I have a nice surround sound system. Part of my system is a 15-inch, 300-watt sub-woofer that can shake the floor. So I wasn’t impressed when the elephants walked during “I Just Can’t Wait to be King.” If you don’t have such a system, and you really want to feel the elephants walk, then go ahead and see it. But I can’t recommend it. The Superwife feels the same way. However, the kids liked it.

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Shortly after getting home the Superwife arrived. She and the kids had gone back to visit her sister and to bring back Heather, a niece, for a visit. In short order we headed to the Playstation for pizza and to let the kids play. The Playstation is one of those places with multi-levels of tubes and slides. The kids love it, but no parent will go in there without knee pads.

An indoor playground, pizza, pop, and lots of tokens for the games make for a good time for the kids. While they enjoyed themselves the wife and I talked. We tried to talk anyway. Near us was a ball pen for toddlers. The toddlers being entertained were as vocal as they were happy.

By the time the kids had worked up a sweat the pizza was ready. Just pepperoni for the kids. Anything besides pepperoni is picked off and discarded, so pepperoni is all we ever order for them.

It doesn’t work the Superwife or myself though. For ours I told the fellow at the counter to put on everything but bacon. No bacon for us, we eat healthy.

After we ate the kids split up the tokens and headed for the game room. By the time they’d used all their tokens they’d won many tickets. The tickets were then redeemed for prizes, in this case it was almost all candy. And why not, Halloween was almost nine months ago. A kid can only hold out for so long.

We left with the sweet booty and headed for Best Buy. The new Piglet movie is out. We now have a copy; perhaps tomorrow I can do a review. The world is waiting.

Then it was on to home, and time to Blog. The Superwife has informed me that Trainboy lost a tooth last night. He wants another gold dollar. The last time I got stamps at the Post Office I got five of them. They are nowhere to be found. It would be no good to have a disillusioned Trainboy, so it’s off to the Post Office I go.

It’s a waste that I’m not in a sleep deprivation study.

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We went to Wal-Mart to pick up a few things. As we entered the shrine to the twin gods Capitalism and Conspicuous Consumption we could not help but notice the latest writing on the wall- the school supply lists were in. It was decided that as long as we were there we might as well get it over with. My hopes for a surgical shopping strike evaporated like the proverbial snowball. Didn’t even melt, just gone.

Trainboy’s list for kindergarten was fairly short. I had it all within five minutes. The older the kids are the longer their lists. Ms. Pikachu must be closer to adulthood than I realize, either that or her list was put together by a teacher still young enough to have grand dreams. It was a grand list- a list suitable for an all-night scavenger hunt. A list of Homeric proportions, a list worthy of a Greek chorus supplying commentary on the search.

Some years we wander from store to store like the Lost Tribe looking for the Holy Grail. That wasn’t the problem though. We were beating the rush. It was one-stop shopping; there was no need to go anywhere else. The problem was the choices. Need a ruler? Will that be plain plastic, or should it have templates, or should it roll up, or should it fold up, should it light up? And after deciding on the model, which color? Hmmmm, light or dark?

Folders, colors, markers, pencils, pens, organizers, on and on it went. It was a creative retentive’s dream come true. The kids could almost be guaranteed to be happy. The parents could almost be guaranteed to finish so tired a good nights sleep would be their reward, unless they dreamed of overwhelming school supplies that were suffocating in number.

She needed a basic calculator, nothing fancy schmancy. That was a problem, because all the calculators in school supplies were much more sophisticated. It was amazing- for $10 you can get a calculator better than one that cost over $150 just… 25 years ago. Time flies and so does technology.

I wandered off to Electronics to find a cruder calculator, and found a mind-blowing solution. They have a basic, palm-size calculator in a variety of designer colors. I guessed purple. It cost 99 cents. How do they do that? Make parts, assemble parts, ship from China, sell it for under a buck and everybody still makes a profit. It seems beyond belief.

When I returned to the hunting party with the purple wonder Ms. Pikachu declared it just what she wanted. Even Frugalwife was impressed. Points for me. As Ms. Pikachu continued her deliberations the Frugalwife and I indulged in a little supply-side envy.

Rulers that fold up with a hinge every inch, protractors that light up when pressed- there was a lot of cool stuff. When we were in high school you had to buy a book of tables to be able to do trig problems. For $10 you can have a calculator that displays the solution as fast as you can key in the problem.

Superwife noticed they did not have the erasers that are half pink and half white. Ms. Pikachu will have to rough it with an all-pink one. Someday she’ll tell her kids about it.

While Ms. Pikachu and Supermom agonized over another choice, Trainboy asked me if he could get a toy. Why not? As we headed back to the toys he took my hand. I love that; every clasp is a golden moment. He asked, “Dad, do you love me?” How many times have I told him? How many more have I shown it? But at that moment he just needed to hear it again.

So I told him, “Yes, I love you.” Quoting from ‘Lovable Lyle’ I said, “Sometimes I love you so much I can hardly stand it.” He smiled and replied, “I love you too. It makes me happy.” I was pretty happy myself. It was a golden moment gilded.

It’s hard to say “no” after a moment like that. He didn’t try to capitalize on it though. He picked out a small set of transforming toys- it cost all of about $6.00. Trainboy asked if it was okay. I granted his boon and we headed back to find Ms. Pikachu and Supermom. After we picked up a few more things it was time to go home, happy, but tired.

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We went back to visit cousins. Trainboy was so excited about his Super Chief he brought it along. Are you sure? Things break. He’s sure, he puts it in a soft case to bring it.

After our visit he tells me the coupler was broken. Along with his heart. He was kind of fearful when he told me. I don’t understand that. I can’t remember ever yelling or being mean to him. But maybe I have, I don't know. His fear hurts me more than his broken train could. I have to watch myself, coming to me for help should be easy.

It’s a plastic coupler. I have model glue. A little glue, a little time, and I can still fix anything. One of these days he’ll come up with something I can’t fix, but until then I’m doing pretty good.

-SantaFe Warbonnet

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Trainboy’s Hogwart’s Express electric train didn’t last long. A rod that connected some wheels broke. It was probably a mistake getting him a steam train, they’re too delicate for a six year-old. So there he sat with track and no train. What to do, what to do?

I bought him another train. He likes the Santa Fe Super Chief, so that’s what he got. The headlight/cab light works too. Kids always like getting something in the mail, it’s like Christmas for them. I ordered it over the web, figuring he’d get a surprise in the mail. We can get additional cars, like a caboose, at the local hobby shop. He’s a happy Trainboy.

He asked me to guess what his favorite Monkee song was. Think, think, think. He bounces up and down to ‘I’m a Believer.’ ‘I’m a Believer?’ “No, ‘Last Train to Clarksville.’” Slap my head, well duh, ‘Trainboy’ and ‘Last TRAIN to Clarksville.’

Parents do not have all the answers. But it can be very helpful it the kids think we do.



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We ate, then went to the library. The wife had a load of books and videos to return. While she did her returns and got her reserves I was checking out the new non-fiction and saw a book that looked possible. Flip, check it out, flip, maybe not- couldn’t make up my mind.

Eventually Ms. Pikachu came over and said, “Dad, Mom’s ready.” Uh huh, I’ll believe it when I see it. “Dad, poke, Mom’s ready. Poke. Poke.” She poked me as she said “poke.” It was funny. She knows how to get laughs.
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We watched ‘Roman Holiday,’ with Gregory Peck and Audrey Hepburn. It’s wholesome, it’s fun. One of the girls who live next door came over and watched it. Everybody loves it. It’s a movie that can be watched more than once.

We’ve also recently watched “Harvey” with Jimmy Stewart. The wife has been checking out a lot of Gregory Peck and Jimmy Stewart films lately. They’re all terrific.

It’s always a temptation to say they don’t make ‘em like they used to. Technically that’s certainly correct because they’ve all been black and white. But they’ve all been so good they’re timeless- 50 year-old films and they still entertain adults and kids.

I’d always liked Jimmy Stewart. He was wonderful in ‘Harvey’ and ‘It’s a Wonderful Life.’ He flew B-17’s in Europe during WW2. He walked the walk, you couldn’t help but enjoy him for his films and admire him for his service.

I’d always liked Gregory Peck for ‘12 O’clock High.’ Seeing him in ‘Roman Holiday’ and ‘The Yearling’ I like him even more. Better late than never, I guess.

It would be tempting to say they were irreplaceable, but no one ever is. For example, Tom Hanks has done some amazing stuff. Just for fun there was ‘Big’ and ‘That Thing You Do.’ Nope, nobody is irreplaceable, but the loss is still a loss. The more of their movies I see the greater the loss becomes though. And when I snuggle with the wife and watch a movie a kiss is still a kiss. When I laugh with the kids a smile is still a smile.

Harvey
Big
ThatThingYouDo

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Well this isn't fun.
Saddam’s two kids are reported to have been killed in a gunfight. The 101st, cornered them in a house with two accomplices after being led there by a soon to be rich informant. The shootout lasted six hours, and apparently ended with a missile through the roof. Sorry, but I don’t get this. The butt-kicking 101st held off for six hours by four guys in a house? In Vegas the oddsmakers would probably have given them five to ten minutes tops.

I hope this isn’t a sign of a kinder, gentler army but it may be. Considering the Army is on a feel-good campaign we may not be getting warriors in olive drab. For example- the black beret had always been the headgear of the Rangers, an elite outfit. The black beret was made General Issue for morale purposes. What once symbolized excellence is now nothing more than a tool to make the troops feel cool, and maybe get a few recruits who want to impress the chicks.

It doesn’t take a genius to know that unit élan doesn’t come from handing out berets, it comes from training them to the point they know they’re special. It comes from shared adversity. Current training is a joke.

Instead of hardcore troops we’re getting soldiers who have undergone self-esteem classes but can’t shoot straight (you may not have heard of it, but it’s an Army scandal). If they trained them to a razor’s edge the self-esteem would take care of itself. In a firefight self-esteem classes don’t keep you alive, good training does, and that starts with being able to shoot straight.

The Army’s current promotion doesn’t make sense either- An Army of One. What kind of crap is that? An Army of One is fine if you’re Stallone playing Rambo, but in reality what keeps you alive is your buddies. The Army plays with real bullets; they should not be playing Hollywood.

I can almost here the war movie- the grizzled old sergeant yells, “Reynolds, take your Army of One and go check the left flank.” Reynolds is shaking in his boots because even though he aced self-esteem class and made corporal he knows he was pencil-whipped on the shooting range. He says truthfully, “Sarge, this Army of One isn’t big enough to do it by itself.” The sergeant grimaces and says, “Alright, take the Kowalski Army and the Preston Army with you.”

That wasn’t worth the effort to write or read, but I didn’t delete it anyway.

Part of the problem is that the military is seen as a refuge for hawks and terminal losers. That shouldn’t be the case, especially after 9/11. Remember 9/11? For months afterwards there was a groundswell of patriotic fervor. Everybody had a flag, or two, on their car. Those A-rabs weren’t going to beat us, uh uh, we were flying flags. Ever day the streets looked like another parade. Did anybody actually do anything? Besides kicking the crap out of Iraq and offending the Germans and French? Did military enlistments go up? No. The military is still struggling to get people and keep them.

Having an all-volunteer Army is a nice idea. But just to get some of the best and brightest in to play, and let everybody have some sense of civic duty and awareness of what is at stake, maybe everybody should serve two years. The military would have the luxury of discharging the unfit. It would be good for the health of the country, and just think of the money to be saved on the ad campaigns.
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I wrote this in reply to someone who thinks the war in Iraq is so wrong. I need a post so here it is.

I think butterflies are free, and if they come back then they're really yours, if they don't they never were.

And I think you should make love, not war, but that's hard when you're being run through a shredder machine.

And I think war is harmful for children and other living things, but if the kids are left in prison, they'll just have to roll with the punches.

I think this is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius, but it's hard to tell that when you're strapped down and attached to electrodes.

I think it takes a village to raise a child (to quote Hillary Marx), but that's hard when they're dropping chemicals on your village.

I think you should question all authority especially when it tortures and fills mass graves.

I think you should expand your mind, but that's hard when it's in a vise.

I think you should think outside the box, especially when you're chained to the inside.

I think you should free your mind when you're in shackles.

I think the Iraqi people are happy to be free just so they can sell their oil.

I think "power to the people" but Iraqi democracy may not survive hanging chads.

I think the Iraqi police needed a better PR firm. Because if it feels good, do it, and they did it. Maybe they were just trying to go with the (blood) flow. When it is all said and done, it was just about sex and violence, and those always sell.

I think when in Rome, do as the Romans do. But when in Iraq don't get on the raq.

I think de' nial is not a river in Egypt, but Iraqi war protesters float their boats there.

I think you can't trust anyone over thirty, except me.


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The other day I was driving along when up ahead was a squirrel in the middle of the road. “Run little squirrel, run” I thought. Almost by ESP, or some other cosmic link, it ran for the side of the road. Safe. But only for a moment, for it suddenly executed one of those mid-air turns with change of direction only the desperate dwellers at the bottom of the food chain can do, and it ran back out into the street.

Squirrels apparently have a memory limited by the size of their skull. Or maybe their twitchy tails are a sign of ADHD and they don’t care where they’re going, they just want to go. The only other explanation is rather dark and would seem to violate the natural order of things.

Squirrels have suicidal tendencies. They're natural recruits for Hezbollah. I've hit a few myself, squirrels I mean, and never like it. You always flinch when you feel the thud of something under your tires, as long as it's not wearing a robe and explosives. At least they rarely cause damage, and they do feed the bottom of the food chain. Being at the top of the chain it will go through a few filterings before we get to it.

The worst thing I've ever hit was a deer; everyone in my family has hit one. The deer took out the hood and some headlights. It ran away- should have hit it harder and at least gotten some meat out of it. (Testosterone rush.) Why yes, I am feeling manly at the moment.

Squirrels are a reminder that Darwin isn't always right. Massive breeding can outdo Darwin's laws. Come on guys give it a try, do it for posterity, you have to believe your uber-DNA is worth it. The hard part will be convincing the wimmin.

Maybe all those senseless rodent deaths just mean we need a new social/entitlement program to move them to the country. Give them a job and housing. The mascot could be a little squirrel with a tear running down its cheek, a PETA badge on his shoulder, a bleeding heart on his chest, and a DNC patch on his hat.

I'm crying already, where can I send my contribution, or does that come out of my paycheck?

Oddly enough, on my way home tonight I ran over a skunk. Actually, the car ran over it, but you knew that, a smart one you are.

I ran over the skunk and it stunk so badly, all the way home. Forty-five minutes to home. The kids were already sleeping so they didn't notice. But sleep isn't a good option when you're driving, so I drove, and smelled. My nose I mean, but you knew that, like a whip you are.

Eventually I thought wow, that stink doesn't go away, its strong and relentless, that’s kind of manly actually. And as I thought of it that way it became less and less offensive, it became skunk musk. Women may be strong enough for Irish Spring, but even a woman on steroids can't handle Skunk Musk.

Knowing the wife would never share my enthusiasm for my new air freshener I stopped at a car wash and tried to wand it out. That's right, tried to; it still stinks, just not as badly.

It also occurred to me that my attitude change might give a little understanding as to why people have trouble training their dogs. The dog craps, the owner rubs its face in it. The dog sniffs, his eyes go wide, his ears perk up and he thinks, "Hey, that's good! Since you like it I can make some more. Bring on the Kibble and I'll doo-doo this place right."
Female dogs are easier to train.

It's a theory anyway.


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-

Time to hit Wally World again. They must get such a huge chunk of sales I’d rather shop elsewhere just to keep the competition alive. Target is the only chain in the area that really competes with them, but you only have to drive by their lots to see Wal-Mart is clearly ahead around here.

In contrast K-Mart always looks like dead retailer walking. So I go there when I can, anything to keep another competitor open. For a while they had some self-check-out terminals. Then those were closed with a sign that said, “Closed so we can add more checkouts to serve you better.” That made no sense, of course. There were still a dozen checkouts and no more than three are ever open at a time. Spin is everywhere.

To be realistic, what else are they going to say? “We aren’t making enough money to maintain the new terminals, so we’re just shutting them down?” They haven’t pulled them out, they’re just blocked off and they’re used as a storage area. That chain has problems. I wonder if they’re in a death pool, and what the odds are.

One thing the kids and I like about K-Mart is that they have an Icee machine after the registers. Pay for the cup with your other stuff and fill it up on the way out. Trainboy and Ms. Pikachu each get one. They have to alternate filling it up between the red and blue. While they have official flavors of raspberry and cherry that’s just a comfort mechanism. Truth in advertising would be to just call them Red and Blue.

Back to layers of Red and Blue. Sometimes when you suck it up through the straw you get lines of both colors and the same time. That’s kind of cool. When you get near the end the colors start to mix, and that’s when anyone can see that Red and Blue make Purple. So there’s an art lesson to be had too.

But we went to Wally World anyway. Because if you’re going shopping with kids and need food, pet bedding, auto supplies and anything else needed for daily living you only want to get out of the car once and just get it over with. Wally World is good for that.

-icee

We went to see the latest Rugrats movie. It’s playing at a small theatre in a nearby town. Two adults, two kids for $11.00. We loaded up on pop, Milk-Duds, and Dots for a couple more bucks. Small-town living may seem boring, but it’s cheap. The Cheapwife likes that.

After about a half-hour I blinked and failed to un-blink. The next thing I was aware of was being nudged with a “Dad, wake up.” It’s not my fault, once you learn how to sleep sitting up it’s like riding a bicycle. So’s snoring, hopefully it wasn’t so loud it bothered anyone. I didn’t ask, they didn’t tell.

I also didn’t ask how the movie ended. In a few months we’ll probably have it on DVD and I don’t want it spoiled. So I’ll be in suspense for a few months, if it seems I’m a little tense you’ll know why.


RugratsGoWild

I finished ‘The Hunt for Bin Laden,’ an excellent book. It’s a chronicle of the Green Berets that were dropped into Afghanistan after 9/11. Conventional forces take months to mobilize, Special Forces take days. For a fast response they were it.

They would link up with the local rebels, plan attacks and call in air support. The Taliban had had it all their way since the rebels of the Northern Alliance didn’t have the hardware to mount an offensive and take ground. Once our guys were in the bombs started to fall and they kicked butt from one gutter to the other and back again.


It’s a thrilling read, page after page you want to cheer and say, “You guys kick ass.” The Berets actually rode to battle on horseback singing ‘The Ballad of the Green Beret.’ That’s the kind of stuff that if it were fiction critics would say it was just too far. Forget Hollywood, these guys were bigger, and real too.

There are odd things, like when you find out the Alliance and the Taliban know what radio frequencies the other uses. Security anyone, anyone? Perhaps they figured people switched sides all the time, or there were plenty of spies, but it would still make sense to try to keep the other side from overhearing you.

There are funny moments, like when a Beret is talking to a weapons officer in the Spectre flying overhead. An Alliance commander hears the voice of the female officer and seizes the opportunity. He tells the Taliban the US has so little respect for them they send their women to fight them. Then he patches her through and she talks to them. She says she’s there because of the terrible way they treat their women- quite an extreme insult in itself. She becomes known as the Angel of Death.

They brought 5,000 patches from the NYPD and FDNY with them, many of them embroidered with a name from the slain. When they conducted a raid, or just pounded them into the dust, they’d leave patches- to let them know it was payback for 9/11. One time they had a sizable number of Taliban cornered and the Alliance commander tried to negotiate their surrender. A Beret said, forget that, we want to kill them all; it was payback with a vengeance.

I don’t recall any Beret being killed by Taliban, but there were some who were killed in friendly fire accidents- such terrible wastes of our nation’s finest. But accidents happen, especially in a war zone.

They were able to kick the Taliban out of Afghanistan with about a hundred Green Beret in a couple of months. Since the Berets would take care of the population when they weren’t fighting, when the Taliban were gone, the Afghans weren’t just glad the Taliban were gone, they often became pro-American.

It’s a book that makes you proud of the men who fight for this country, and grateful that they do. There are so many terrific stories it just screams for a ‘Band of Brothers’ treatment.

Is it a detached, objective book? No. Around 1964 the author trained with the Green Berets and then wrote ‘The Green Beret.’ He’s their friend and squarely in their corner. He’s an enthusiast, and that’s the perspective it’s written from.


TheHuntForBinLaden

We watched ‘Mr. Smith Goes To Washington,’ another wonderful Jimmy Stewart movie. It’s a sweet movie with some rough edges suitable for family. There are several opportunities to have discussions with the kids- ethics, government and civic responsibility can be started with the pause button.

The dramatic culmination is his filibuster of the Senate in the face of overwhelming odds. Trivia question- Who holds the record for longest filibuster? Answer- Strom Thurmond.
Apparently he had a lot of stamina. Question- Is it time for a nasty comment about his reputation as a ladies man? Answer- No, that would be rude, we speak only kindly of the stiff.

It was a lot of fun to watch a good movie with the family, the bonding thing is a good thing, good.



-MrSmith

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Worked late. Got home. Superwife changed into Supernurse. Doing my manly hunter/gatherer thing, I went to Wendys to grab something for everybody to eat. Ate. Supernurse went to work. I fell asleep. Not much to say, some days are like that.

Oh all right. When I get home the guinea pigs start to whistle. Even before I open the door. They apparently hear my footsteps on the porch. They whistle because they want to be fed. Five whistling guinea pigs, the only thing missing are the impatient cries of "garcon!" Because they are French Guinea pigs.

So anyway. Before I come into the house now I have to grab a couple handfuls of weeds to feed them. Being the insolent diners they are, they have no appreciation for the effort, they expect it. Little do they know the contempt I have for them, they get the service I give and nothing more. They prefer dandelions, sometimes they get them, sometimes they only get plaintains. They are pigs. They are swine. It's like having five more kids, only they're penned up, and they can't hit me up for money.

That was hardly worth it, but the wife's at work and the kids need tending to.
Your link to guinea pigs-

guinea pigs
Wendys
Later

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The Cheapwife was at Target earlier today. She noticed some men’s clothes on clearance she liked. So away we went to Target. If you want to see what a woman likes in men’s clothing just look at her husband. That may not be absolutely true, but it’s close enough.
After two bags full we were done and headed for Royal Fork to get something to eat. Shopping really makes me hungry. Well, that and not eating for a long time.

Ms. Pikachu was acting so normal it was spooky. Trainboy apparently decided to pick up the slack. He said, “Hey, look” and opened his mouth to display a filled-to-capacity quantity of mashed potatoes and gravy, which he then slowly pushed out like some sort of parent’s nightmare play-dough fun factory.

Ms. Pikachu complained that Trainboy “can’t say a sentence without fart or poopy in it.” I told her that he was only copying her, and if she didn’t like it she should stop it herself. She looked like, “what, it’s my fault he acts like me?” Actually it’s mine, but saying that isn’t going to help anyway.

After everybody sitting near us is either grossed-out or offended it’s time to go home. Funny how I never have a belly-full until my belly’s full. Or maybe it isn’t.

So we got home and I thought, I am so overdue to Blog, got to Blog. The wife told me she’d checked out ‘Twelve O’clock High’ from the library and wanted to watch it with me. That’s right, not only will she go to air shows and military museums with me, she’ll check out military movies and watch them with me. God I love this woman. Blogger will have to wait.

We watch the movie. She gets to admire Gregory Peck’s acting abilities. Say that “Gregory…. Peck.” I get to watch a war movie with real B-17’s. It was filmed in ’49. You never see more than about a half-dozen B-17’s at a time. And they crash one of them. It belly-lands and takes out a couple of tents. They were war-surplus back then, sold for scrap. If you could find one to buy now it would cost millions. The crash is almost jaw-dropping extravagant watching it now.

It’s a great movie. In college one of my business instructors was a WW2 pilot, he used the movie as a lesson in management. We watched it in class for class. It was my favorite class. He was my kind of guy. Watch it with an eye on management lessons and it teaches a lot.

Ms. Pikachu asked “Why they didn’t shoot it in color instead of black and white?” I don’t know, maybe for evoking the feel of the era. “But they’d already done ‘Wizard of Oz’ in color before the war.” Dig up Selznick and ask him. Leave me alone.

After the movie the wife said, “Maybe I’m not managing the kids well enough. Maybe I should get more out of them.” Well okay, but I’m a little uneasy at the idea of being married to Gregory… Peck, even if she is playing General Frank Savage. Maybe she can be General Francine Savage. There, that’s the ticket.

No wait, I’ve never really cared for Francine, how about Rebecca, General Rebecca Savage. That’s better, but Savage really sounds kind of … savage, how about General Rebecca Niceperson? It’s working. But General is kind of ostentatious around the home, how about Corporal Rebecca Niceperson.

I’ll just be referred to as “Captain,” or maybe “Sir.” Yeah it all works for me. Get down and give me twenty.

Have your people call my people and we’ll do lunch. Shooting starts next week after we do a rewrite and polish the script some more.

Sorry, sometimes they’re like a runaway engine.

Links:

12 O'Clock High
Gregory Peck
Wizard OF Oz

We went to a Cedar Rapids Kernels baseball game. They're the local minor league team. Don't ask what league or level, I neither know nor care. We arrived late, of course.

It was already the second inning and the locals were already losing. The visiting team, the Beloit Snappers, was at bat. I saw that name on their jerseys and thought, what were they thinking? Snappers? Is that the turtle? Were they once the Indians, but out of racial sensitivity renamed the team for a fish- the Red Snappers? Is their first love football, but they aren't big enough? Questions, questions, and it just distracts from the game. Focus, gotta focus. Are they a team of casual photographers? Are they zipper challenged? Stop it, stop it, make the voices go away.

A Snapper hit one deep. Maybe he... snapped it. He rounded first and headed for second. When he got there he slid. I would swear he was already going vertical when the throw came in. The ump called him out. He protested most strenuously. The ump could be glad such robbery cannot result in prosecution. Had they called the cops nobody but the victim would have seen a thing. Who, me? I was in the can with about 4,000 others. Such is the home field advantage- big cans.

Call me cynical, but it seemed to me the ump was just trying to keep the game reasonably close for the home crowd. Because it's a new stadium and you have to keep the crowd there so they'll keep buying. It would do no good if everybody left early during a blowout, the place needs to be paid for. There’s a lot to pay for. It even has a big-screen over center field where they run video of the game and crowd shots.

They run replays frequently. But they didn't run a replay of that, uh, questionable call. If it WAS a bad call, there was only one reason to replay it, and there were lots of reasons not too. An ump is kind of like a wife- make it mad, and you will so regret it. All you'll have left is your clothes. The ump put up with the Snapper’s tantrum like an indulgent mother. He just told him to go to his dugout and think about how his temper affected others, and stay there till it was time for supper, or something like that. I made that up. When I lie I’m honest, it’s policy.

The bad call was never significant to the game. All it cost was a double to the hitter, and much pop/beer and hot dog money from the crowd.

The only things you're allowed to bring into the stadium are your wallet and appetite. The Cheapwife informed me a can of pop is $2.75. Right there you knew that the game had better not go into extra innings or we'd risk starving and dehydration. I'd ask the owners if they'd ever heard of the Laffer curve, but they'd probably reply with their own question, "Ever heard of mortgage payments? Guess how much on a multi-million dollar facility, plus salaries and operating costs?" Even so, they'd get no more than sympathy from the Cheapwife. Sympathy is always free.

The game was almost incidental to the whole experience. If the pitcher isn’t winding up something is being played over the speakers. It seemed that at every changeover there was some contest or gimmick going on. They want you to enjoy the experience and bring every pop swilling, hotdog-scarfing kid you’ve got time and time again. They want to pay the place off early.

They had a contest to see which section could do the best chicken dance. Like I would participate in that. You think I’m gonna do the chicken dance? Not in this lifetime. I could barely conceal my scowl, and amusement. There was a line of exuberant women in front of us. They gave it all they had. Cindi Lauper was right- girls just wanna have fun. Of course, we won. Oh joy. Whoopee. Will they see me on ESPN?

Some fine young men came by and gave everyone in the section a coupon for Chick-Fil-A. Excuse me, why are you giving me this? “Because you’re in the section that won the chicken dance.” Well I’ll be plucked.

The wife returned with Trainboy. He’d wanted to go into one of the kids’ amusement ‘things.’ She informed one of the fine young men that she was a ticket holder for this section and had performed the chicken dance back at the kids’ area. She was regretfully informed that only those sitting in the section at the time of the contest got the coupons. Life is not fair, even if you participate. She got the joy of the dance, but she was plucked.

After the Kernels lost there was a fireworks display. The stadium is like a parabola that reflects all the noise. It hurt the ears. We had enough. We headed out and the grand finale started. We got out of there before the traffic jam could start.

Two for two. I’m batting a thousand this month for getting out before the traffic jams start.

Links-

Cedar Rapids Kernels
Beloit Snappers
Cyndi Lauper

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So what has been keeping us busy? Well…

After church Sunday we went to the airport for a little air show. You had to park at a nearby school and take a bus to the show. It was a twenty-minute wait in 90-degree heat for the bus. But there were planes. Not a lot of them, but an interesting selection. There was a Ford Tri-motor, a Spirit of St Louis replica, a Stearman, two F-16’s, a B-17, and a B-24. Those last two were WW2 bombers.

It was hot- around 90 degrees. We wandered around and looked at them, but the kids quickly tired of it. Trainboy claimed his brain was melting. Ms. Pikachu hit me up for a buck, bought a bottle of water, and poured it over herself and Trainboy. They were happy.

Rides could be bought on most of the planes for $40. The bombers were $400 for a half-hour ride. The Wonderfulwife said I should get a ride on a bomber. I couldn’t believe it, I couldn't do that for myself. $400 is a lot to spend to get happy for a half-hour. But there it was- the ride of a lifetime, and one of the seats was for me. Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.

Which one to ride? The B-17 is the more famous of the two. But the B-24 was a better bomber. It carried more bombs, was faster, had a longer range. Nobody gets excited about the B-24 though. It never got the PR it deserved, never developed an aura. It’s the only flying B-24 left, there’s five B-17’s. Can’t resist, I still tell him I want the B-17.

I took Monday afternoon off, picked up the Wonderful wife and kids and away we went. It was a no-go. They were replacing the elevators on the B-17. Do I want to ride the B-24 instead? Nah, I can wait till tomorrow. In the meantime we go through both bombers- family is free with a paying rider.

Trainboy loves it. Ms. Pikachu has no interest; she stays in the car and reads.

On Tuesday it’s raining. Call the flight crew, they expect the weather to break about 1:00, be there. I take off the afternoon again; grab the family and away we go again. We get there and the new elevators are on, but the trim tabs aren’t. Not good. They have to be balanced; it has to be test-flown before taking any passengers up. I tell Jim, it would be okay to fly the B-24 instead. He’s happy.

I get a B-24 sticker to wear to let everybody know I’m a passenger and I’m out on the flight line with the wife and Trainboy. More rain. Crap. We go through the bombers again, take pictures. We wait in the car a while. Trainboy notices there is hair on his legs. “Does this mean I’m becoming a man?” “Should I shave my legs?” Never a dull moment. Eventually the rain stops, the clouds break, and it is sunshine. Oh baby, here it comes.

We get a quick briefing, seat belts to take off and land. Don’t step on any hatches. They were built to breakaway to make bailing out easier. Nice safety feature- if you’re wearing a parachute. Once the plane is airborne you can go anywhere but the ball turret, and the turret on top. No top turret? That's a crimp, but since it’s hydraulic they probably don’t want to have to fix it. It still leaves the waist guns, and the tail-guns, and the nose gun/bombardier. This could still be fun. Oh yeah.

We board through the bombay, climb up on the catwalk and find a place to sit. I get a rear-facing seat at the bulkhead behind the bombay. Buckle up. It’s a primitive 40’s seat belt but who cares? The engines start up 1, 2, 3, and 4. They rev up. It’s loud; you have to yell to be heard. Leaning back against the bulkhead it hums with the vibration.

Looking back through the tail of the plane you can see it rock back and forth and round and round. It’s like an old dog wagging its tale, still wanting to play. Every guy on the plane wants to play. Come on, let’s play. Let’s see things move away from the tail. Let’s get some air beneath these wings. Let’s go.

It starts to get quieter. The crew chief sticks his head in and tells us to unbuckle and get out, we have to wait a while longer. The tower has decided it isn’t quite VFR conditions again. It looks good to us. You can see almost all the way to the horizon, the bottom of the clouds look plenty high enough. Come on, let’s go. We aren’t making the call; we have to wait for the tower.

We wait for an hour, it’s not getting any better. We talk to the fellow who runs the ground operations for the airport. He’s an interesting guy, good stories.

Look up, and it’s just getting darker. This is not good. You don’t have to tell me, this is not good. The pilot comes around and says the weather service will make another call in ten minutes. This does not look good.

Ten minutes comes and goes, it still isn’t clear enough to fly. The storm has stalled, it’s backing up and it’s getting worse. It didn’t take a meteorology degree to see that. It isn’t much longer and the fellow handling the bookings says that even if conditions clear up there won’t be enough time to get in the ride and then get to their next destination.

We have been waiting 4 ½ hours for a thirty-minute thrill, and we aren’t going to get it. What we do get is a refund, a lot of time walking through both bombers, and a few minutes with my back pressed against the bulkhead, feeling the old plane shake to life, and hearing the roar of those four engines. So frustrating, yet so wonderful.

Had I said “yes” to switching the day before, the B-24 ride would have been a fond memory. I could have gone with a sure thing, and instead rolled the dice without knowing it and lost. Oh well. Just sitting in it with the engines revved up is more than I had before, so that’s something. I can’t wait till it comes around again.

You can see the bombers and their schedule at
collingsfoundation
-

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For the 5th, while the Supernurse did her thing, we went back and visited Big Brother. His printer tanks needed refilling, and so they were refilled. I tried to be careful and still got ink on my fingers. My fingers were suitable for text and photoquality. We bitched and moaned about life in general, a good time for bitchers and moaners.

The call came- Ms. Pikachu was back in town, over at her cousins. Away we went to pick her up and head for home. Trainboy had been up all day and would normally have slept all the way home. Having Ms. Pikachu back he was too excited to sleep. Much more calm about returning, she promptly fell asleep in the back seat and slept all the way.

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For the 4th Ms. Pikachu was with a cousin at an amusement park.

We went downtown for the F-16 flyby. They were late, which was okay, so were we. One pass and they were gone, certainly heading for the next scheduled town.
The 4th must be the one day a year where their navigation and timing skills are put on display. They got here, but were 10 minutes late; .500 isn't bad if you're swinging at baseballs. Practice, practice, practice, they have 364 days to get it right for next year.

My is-it-worth-it rule is that time spent at a destination should be more than the time spent getting there. The flyby was under 10 seconds. We walked farther downtown to see what festivities there were. You couldn't help noticing blankets staked out along the river to reserve spots for the fireworks. Apparently the absent owners did not fear goose doo-doo. There were plenty of geese.

There was a robot tournament where two, count 'em two, competing robots tried to push the most canisters over an incline. It would be a fair guess that those in attendance were family and classmates of the competitors. There was a tent where a pancake breakfast was held earlier, and a banner for the start/finish of a race held that morning. That was it.

Most of the activities have been moved to a rural college campus. It would seem to be time to move the rest of it. There is no reason to shut down the main road through downtown for an empty tent and a crowd too small to get arrested for unlawful assembly.

It didn't seem worth the time. But Trainboy thought the robot with pincers was cool. So it was worth it for him.

Time for lunch. Trainboy says he wants pizza. To Chuck-E-Cheese we go. Pepperoni pizza, games, what more could a kid want. We returned home bloated with cheese products, and leftover pizza. What a deal.

The wife and I planted some flowers in the planter. It was partly cloudy, but still very bright. It rained on us anyway. Trainboy thought it was hilarious.

The wife changed into her Supernurse costume and away she went to save life, liberty, and buttheads from themselves. Before leaving she reminded me that fireworks were at 9:45. It was up to Trainboy and me to amuse ourselves in the meantime. I did laundry, he did Cartoon Network.

Sometimes it amazes me how much laundry needs to be done. Clothes, sheets, towels, it's an unending cycle. The Circle of Laundry. Why aren't more women depressed? Why hasn't there been an explosion in nudist colonies, where everybody sleeps in a sleeping bag, showers, and air-dries?

Cavemen only showered when they were caught in the rain. They bathed when they went fishing. If they only had one greasy bearskin they were happy. Cave women thought the men were manly and they too were happy. At least until they decided they needed a newer, more fashionable fur.

What am I doing here? Haven't a clue. So, uh, back to the narrative.

I tire of laundry and want to get out. I check the tablet on the fridge for things to get. There are things. Trainboy and I head to Hy-Vee to get them. We get tartar sauce, Kraft's, Lemon Herb. I put three of them in the basket. Trainboy gets thoughtful, "Dad, I think we need another one." No arguing with that, it all gets used. A fourth one into the basket. Grab a bottle of Lea and Perrins for me, and we're both happy.

We head back to dairy and get a gallon of chocolate milk. You might say, "Isn't it cheaper and easier to just buy white milk and add Nestlé’s Quick?" You might. I would have to say that if my milk-averse kid only wants chocolate when it comes out of the jug that way, I'm not arguing with a six year-old. I'm surrendering faster than the French. It's peace at any price, in this case, $3.09 a gallon.

I like the fruit and yogurt parfaits at McDonalds, but you have to go there to get one, and how often is that? Not often enough if you like them and you only go there if they're offering a toy in the kids' meal the kids want.

Sooooo, as long as we're in dairy, into the cart goes a 32-ounce container of yogurt. Then it's off to frozen foods for frozen fruit, get some trail-mix, and we are set for some serious yogurt bingeing.

A bag of Doritos for Trainboy. A bag of toffee-covered peanuts for me. Works for us, time to head back home. Forgot paper plates, and whatever else was on the list doesn't matter either, we got the important stuff- our stuff. We are guys, guyly guys.

Back to doing laundry. Have to get it out of the dryer before it wrinkles. May I just digress a moment here, may I? This may not matter to anybody else. This may be laboring under suspicion no more founded than trickle-down-economics. Be kind, don't laugh. But I prefer to dry clothes on the 'warm' setting rather than 'hot.' If left unattended it seems they don't wrinkle as quickly, or as badly, that way. It also means the clothes finish drying just ahead of the washer finishing. It makes for a much more efficient operation imho.

Don't wait for the awkward silence to pass; it won't unless you keep reading.

Around 9:15, toiling upstairs with another load of laundry to put away, it was obviously getting dark outside, and the fireworks thing came to mind. A half-hour till fireworks seemed like plenty of time to me. Put on the shoes and away we go. Guys are like that.

A half-hour seemed like plenty, it most certainly was not. The area had probably been packed for hours. What to do, what to do. I pulled into a business and parked in a no-parking area. They weren't open, I didn't care, so call the cops, and you think they aren't busy already?

We walked two blocks to a bridge with a nice view and inserted ourselves into the crowd. The bridge walkway was full of people in lawn chairs who were still trying to maintain their space. Forget that. We'd just got there and had no need of being comfortable for a few hours.

There's a space wide enough for my knees, and there I stand. Trainboy goes up on the railing and my arm stays around him. The people on either side of us scoot to even out their spaces. I don't care; it's just Trainboy and me on the bridge.

People shoot their own fireworks. When they drop to the water he declares, "It made fish sticks!" He says it every time; he always thinks it's funny.

"Oprah, Umah. Umah, Oprah." That still isn't funny. But I digress again.

Another rocket into the river, another "fish stick" comment. I tell him that if he caught one, and had tartar sauce and bread he could have a fish stick sandwich. "Ha, ha. Good one dad." I've just been patronized by my six year-old son.

The fireworks start. It's a good show. It's timed to music broadcast on the radio. The car is blocks away. Usually you can figure that at these things there's always a teenage boy who's plowed all his burger-flipping money into a giga-watt sound system that worth more than the mini-car it's in. He's proud to show it off, and it's the one day a year you don't mind. No such luck tonight.

It’s fireworks without music, we tough it out. How did the pioneers do it?

After about thirty minutes of a pyromaniacs dream Trainboy notifies me his butt hurts and he wants to go home. That's my boy. We walk back to the car, and from the sound of rapidly succeeding explosions the grand-finale must be starting. Get in the car, turn on the radio, hear the last few bars, and we are out of there before the traffic jam can even start. Trainboy had wonderful timing. Sometimes it's all in the buttocks.

We're home in a few minutes. We kick back to toons, chocolate milk, and fish sticks.

Supernurse gets home, and resumes her disguise as mild-mannered Superwife. She shares pizza with Trainboy- he's a growing boy. I fall asleep on the couch- it's just a guy thing. Some might call it a weenie's camp-out.

And that was the 4th.

Publicserf

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HodgePodge for $50.

A little bit ago Trainboy announced that he'd farted in the bathtub. It must have been important to him. Thanks for sharing.

When we were getting groceries he pointed at a garlic press and informed us, "Those are levers." He was right. Not bad for 6.

Ms. Pikachu was the only student to attend all the scheduled summer flute lessons. No bonus, award, or mention in the newspaper. She was robbed! Certainly the instructor can see that either Ms. Pikachu is a serious student, or she has a serious mother. It's the mother.

It seems to me the human body needs 'x' amount of sleep per day. Deprive it of sleep and sooner or later it will get it back. The debt accumulates. Stay up too late too often and you risk a premature burial. Fortunately for me, I'm married to the SuperNurse/HolyWife. I'm not dead till I miss church. You, on the other hand, had better get your sleep.

I don't care for the current fashionable pants that are halfway up the calf. Every time I seem them I think, "Big rain forecast?" The worst are the mid-calf pants with bell-bottoms. Good God, is it just a test to see who will wear anything if it's declared fashion? They scream, "I am clueless, I am pliable!" Either that or, "I've grown eight inches and vomit so much I haven't put on a pound." I try to convince myself these capri/clamdigger/flood pants have an upside- they show a little leg. But they don't work for me, it's not enough leg. So greedy, and I'm comfortable with that.

There you have it- nothing is too petty for me to bitch about. My feminine side is a real bitch.

Living in the 'hood you can see every variation on current fashion by just sitting on the porch and watching the local posers pass by. Sometimes it isn't pretty. A couple days ago a fellow walked by with his shirt just on his arms. It was as though he'd started to put his T-shirt on and decided, "no, I ain't going to put my head through the hole like everybody else. I'll wear it like this to be different, maybe attract a fine babe or three, and I'll still have it handy to pull on if I want to go into a store and buy beer." It wasn't hot outside. It was fashion genius. He was the day's King Poser in a kingdom of posers.

To save some of these posers the mental challenge of coming up with a new way of being special, how about these:
-shave your face, but let the neck grow
-cut gaps into your eyelashes
-when that gets tired cut matching gaps into your eyebrows
-grow long temple locks like an orthodox Jew, and shave the rest of your head
-wear a diaper on your head, it gives you that paternal look chicks dig
You say those are stupid ideas? well yeah. But they're different, apparently that's all that counts, and that's all that was promised.

But on the topic of 'things chicks dig-' what is it with women getting excited when men growl? You remember the Ohio Players? There was one guy who had his fro' over one eye and ended every phrase with "ow." You'd think breathing hurt. But every time he went "ow" women screamed, you could almost hear the eggs splash. All those eggs splashed like rain- really appropriate when they did "Fire."

On Star Trek the Klingons are the personification of males' aggressive tendencies. But all the growling they do for foreplay is just their Phil Donahue touchy-feely give-the-women-what-they-want side. They'd rather have a beer and a woman who's instant-on. Yes, behind those tribe-of-linebacker facades they're just guys in need of plastic surgery and comfortable clothes.

The wife ironed my shirts last night. She said she'd ironed the church baptism robes and just decided to do my shirts while the iron was hot. Was I going to argue? That would be a "no." It was strange, but I took it as a sign she loves me, for whatever reason.

I had to take the Intrepid to the mechanic because the air conditioner wasn't conditioning. It was just recharged a month ago. He did his thing, and we went to Wally World for more stuff. When we picked the car up he informed me the evaporator has a leak, fixing it would run around $1,000. He recharged it, and charged me half the usual price. He said at least we'd be cool through the weekend. Two Dodges, one without air, one losing it. Why can't Dodge make an air conditioner that lasts? It's enough to make me buy...... something else. Something stylin', somethin' swervy', sumpin' growly.
Maybe a Ford.

That will close out Hodgepodge for today.
The wife/editor has informed me this post wasn't funny, but that it doesn't have to be.
Oh well.

Just a disclaimer: I don't really care what women wear, the wife keeps my opinion from mattering anyway. Ladies, if you want to wear capri pants that's your decision, go ahead. Don't be dissuaded by what other people think, that's just a different herd-think. They're probably comfortable and cool, form should follow function. Just don't wear them in an Islamic theocracy. But I still think bell-bottoms that are mid-calf are senseless. And my opinion still doesn't matter here, or in Paris.

If that isn't enough butt-kissing let me know.
Publicserf



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This one turned out almost painfully self-absorbed, oh well.

-Buddy Hackett and Katherine Hepburn are dead, and not necessarily in that order. Not that the order is important either. Last in first out, or first in first out, only an accountant would care. The gentlemanly thing would be a lady first, so all right, Katherine and Buddy it is. If that’s too familiar- then it’s Ms. Hepburn and Mr. Hackett. By now everybody should be happy, depending on your perspective.

As a kid death announcements weren’t of any interest- usually never knowing the deceased. Unless it was a relative close enough to get me out of school I didn’t care. Going to a funeral was never any fun, but it was still a day out of school. Death could have an upside. Deaths during summer vacation were such a waste.

Now I’m middle-aged and each death is a black frame on fond memories. Hepburn, Hackett, Peck, Stewart, Berle, Landon, Harrison, Orbison, - I’ve admired some, laughed at a few, and enjoyed them all. They were old friends without ever making their acquaintances.

Entering my own autumn, the leaves of the older generation fall faster and faster. There is sadness at their loss. And there is sadness knowing my generation will soon begin to move through its final burst of color to fall in turn. It is just a matter of time. The clock ticks, the calendar turns, the leaves fall. The ground will catch us all.

When younger, death couldn’t come soon enough. I would pray that I’d die soon, “Please take me home, right now.” Right there is a pretty good indicator of an unhappy childhood. But God is no vending machine; he reserves the right to say “no.” That seemed to be all he had to say. My luck seemed to be worse than Bill Bennett’s. Not realizing it, it was better, God wasn’t saying “no,” he was saying “wait, you can’t believe what’s coming.”

And suddenly I was dating the cutest girl, and she thought I was worth a “yes.” It seemed like a miracle- I was married to her. It still amazes me. Then it was two children as adorable as their mother. Blessings beyond belief, it was worth the wait. Death is no longer something to rush to. Heaven is an eternity; time as a husband and father is only a few ticks. Heaven can wait. God knows it’s nothing personal.

It is a great comfort to be a Christian. Some might mock my faith as wishful thinking, it is not, it is faith. Wishful thinking is wanting something I can’t have. Ask the wife, she has the list. My faith is knowing that heaven is coming, and I’m going there. I believe it because the Bible tells me so.

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I’m catching up here. I’ve moved a couple posts to their correct days, just because I could. Kinda hate to make excuses, but I'm tired. One of these days the blog will look better, but not today.

Arriving home from work there wasn’t anybody in the house. Look out the kitchen window and there you have it- the wife has started to mow the back yard. Feeling manly, in an irritated kind of way, I go out back and mow the back yard. It’s a safe bet you won’t see any other yards in the neighborhood being mowed by a guy who looks like he just got home from the cubicle. Then the lawn is mowed, and then it is time to get some groceries.

Then I wrote this. Now I’m going to post stuff back to 6/27 and go to bed.

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6/29
Went to church Sunday morning. We always do. Admittedly, if I could I’d probably sleep in and just ask for forgiveness. Not the HolyWife, uh uh, Sunday has one reason and one reason only- get your butt out of bed and into church. Through droopy eyes I admire the strength of her resolve. Appreciating how she takes her spiritual responsibilities so seriously- I get dressed.

Church was a dud. Our preacher was off to a convention, we got someone in missions instead. The guy is out there living his belief, have to admire him for that. But he could really use some work as a speaker. So hard to stay awake. Through still-droopy eyes I ogle the wife and stay awake. It’s okay, God understands, I tried, but the flesh is weak. Sometimes you have to play it.

After church we went to the airport. There were supposed to be plane rides for the kids after the pancake breakfast. There was hardly anybody left in sight. Just a few middle-age kids playing with their radio-control planes. And we are out of there.

To Best Buy we go. We get the Monkees’ first-season DVD set. You laugh. I don’t care. Sure the show was dumb and got dumber, but the music was good. Good tunes performed well. The kids love the music. While traveling the Trainboy will bounce in his seat to the beat. Ms. Pikachu always requests her favorite Monkees CD. I love the music, lots of favorites. It’s a good time. Then it’s on to home. You’ll get the rest of a Monkee rant later. Promise, threat, take your choice.

I got out a shovel and scraped off the grass/weeds in a strip near the fence in the back yard. On the cleared strip went one of those flower seed rolls. It’s really too late to do it, but better late yadda yadda. Then there came the recollection of a can of flower seeds left from last year that’s supposed to be for prairie wildflowers.

Widen the strip. Sweat some more. Sprinkle seeds on strip and on the seed roll too. Supposedly the seed roll could be left as is. The canned seed is supposed to be covered. They need dirt. Trainboy and I go to K-Mart to get dirt- three bags full. Trainboy spots a toy VW, I get a spontaneous hug. Life is good. Got a couple Icees too, we are deserving. Three dirt bags does a nice job of covering the seed. If the seed is still any good we could have a nice butterfly garden. Oh joy. Really. Oh joy.

Mow the front lawn.

Then it’s back inside and a week’s worth of laundry awaits. After a couple loads I sit down on the couch with the kids. They’re still watching the Monkee DVD’s. They love ‘em. Lots of kid laughter. I fall asleep before finishing an episode. Wake up in the middle of the night and go to bed.
Publicserf

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Thought we were going to go visit family. The weather was wrong, or was it the moon phase? No matter, we stayed home.

For the evening we went to the local college campus for an outdoor symphony. It was part of the local July 4th –week celebration. The symphony played well, I just didn’t care for most of what they played. Damn me for a heretic, but I almost never care to hear Copeland. Perhaps the theory is that we rejoice in Americana, the holiday thing, it doesn’t matter, I don’t appreciate Copeland’s stuff, I just can’t wait till it’s over. It’s like bad lovin’.

They did two pieces written by a local composer. The piece from his musical was eminently forgettable. The song with lyrics was sung by the composer, hated it. The music was predictable, the singing heavy-handed, the lyrics were cliché ridden. He got a standing O. Couldn’t believe it, a standing O just for being local. I laid on the blanket, making no attempt to get up, neither did the wife or kids. What a bunch of critics we were. This is going to sound terribly vain, but I thought that I, even I, could write better lyrics.

Ms. Pikachu continued to play her Game Boy. Trainboy was fed his hot dog by the Superwife. I continued to lay there, looking at the sky, doing nothing to justify my existence.

As the sun slowly went down the clouds to the south darkened. It became apparent lightning filled the formerly friendly-looking clouds. Mother Nature put on her own fireworks display. It was too far south to threaten the scheduled show- no thunder could be heard. It was as though she was a wildly gesturing mute.

Continued to lay, continued to look. The sky overhead turned from bright blue-gray to darker hues. The darker it got the colder the air became. Above me beckoned a solitary star, growing brighter as I got colder. The surrounding crowd continued to murmur, only the wife and kids were distinct. I wondered if this was anything like death would be. Not that it mattered, there’s no hurry to find out.

The symphony finished it’s program with a patriotic/military medley. And it was dark enough for fireworks. Somebody cued up a disk of Disney favorites. Couldn’t believe it, not that I minded. Just thought, hey, you’ve got a freakin’ symphony here, it might behoove you to use it. But there was a reason, the fireworks were timed to the music.

It was nicely done. Impressive actually. Beautiful fireworks nicely timed and choreographed. It was just amazing that a relatively small town can have such a sophisticated display. Technology advances and it trickles down.

The wife watched while sitting on her right hip and leaned on her right arm. Irresistable. I scooted up behind her and snuggled. So soft, so warm, so wonderful. Everytime we saw a good one we squeezed the other. Did I say it was wonderful? It was wonderful. In a big crowd with the kids and it was still so romantic. Life was good.

The symphony draws an older crowd. When the show was over we quickly gathered up our things and headed for the parking lot. Since we moved faster than the average fine-arts partaker we were able to beat the rush out of the parking lot. The wife was happy.

Last year at a Little River Band/Paul Revere concert we sat in the parking lot for 30 minutes. So there’s a lesson for you- if you want to beat the rush, hang with old folks. But if you have to go to Marilyn Manson, well, you get what you deserve.

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This just in- the Supreme court overturned Sodomy laws by a 6-3 vote. The court opinions probably make for some strange reading. There are probably people who will read the ruling with heavy breathing.

You have to wonder how many couples never discuss current events, and suddenly the husband tries to make small-talk by mentioning the Supreme Court has been busy. The wife looks at him lovingly and says, "Legal doesn't mean mandatory. You have a better chance of getting me to memorize the Chicago Cubs roster. Don't go there, cuz you ain't going there. Honey, I will kill you first. " End of discussion. Uneasy silence. "Hey did you hear Sammy Sosa got caught with a corked bat? Um, forget it."

In unrelated news, Strom Thurmond is dead. Or maybe not unrelated. Maybe his wife got even after he got excited about the Court's ruling. Fortunately for you, the Serf does vulgar, but not THAT vulgar.

Before I forget, David Brinkley died. Sure, you know already. Kind of sad though. His career seemed to be one of second billing, 'Chet Huntley & David Brinkley.' Then he dies on the same day as Gregory Peck. "GREGORY PECK died today, we'll run a special tribute later and for the next several days. By the way, David Brinkley died." A day earlier and he would have had a day to himself. In media, timing is everything. Despite how it worked out, Mr. Brinkley is probably handling everything with his customary equanimity and dry wit.

I, on the other hand, will handle the coming day with my customary lack of sleep.

Public Serf

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As a matter of fact, I have been busy. Starting with yesterday-

It rained and rained and rained. Which is to say- it rained all day. There was no van out front when I got home, odd. The wife and kids were home, normally not odd, but really odd without the van out front. Superwife looked a little uneasy. She told me how “odd” transpired.

She took Ms. Pikachu to her flute lesson and waited in the van with Trainboy. She decided against leaving the engine running. That was reasonable. It got muggy so she turned the fan on. That was unreasonable. By the time Ms. Pikachu was done with her lesson the battery was too run down to start the engine.

It had been her intent to return some library books after the lesson. It was eight blocks to the library, or eight blocks home. So all of them walked to the library in the rain. When they were done they crossed the street to the bus terminal and rode the bus home.

Quick quiz- How do you know you’re having a bad hair day? Answer- when the bus driver tells you that if you have a Title 19 card you can ride the bus for free.

Second quiz- How does the husband know the wife had a bad day? Answer- if you don’t know, repeat the first quiz.


The rain showed no signs of stopping so we drove over to the school and jump-started the van. I was soaked. But since the Superwife equates services with love some points must have been earned. The soaking was surely worthwhile, for someday there will be a reward, or maybe not.

Easy assumption- any husband who values marital happiness will make no comments regarding the wisdom, or lack of same, of the prolonged running of power accessories with the engine off. Which is to say, sometimes the smart thing is not to appear that way. She loves me, not only for services, but because I know when to shut up. Usually.

We went home, got the kids, and went to see ‘Finding Nemo.’ Everybody loved it. It was sweet, funny, and had humor for the adults who must stay with the children. Smart move Mr. Disney.

In all honesty, I liked what I saw, but fell asleep for at least a half-hour of it. So I can’t say I saw the whole movie. But it was good, and if you see it you should stay through the credits. There are sight gags anybody could enjoy until the screen goes blank.

Then it was time to eat. Right across the lot is the usual string of restaurants. We hadn’t done the IHOP before, so there we went. Ms. Pikachu was enthralled by the selection of syrups- four of them. So she had to have pancakes, and pancakes she had. When she was done she declared she couldn’t eat another thing till morning.

It would not matter to her, nor to you, but let me expound on the joy of pancakes. When we were kids, anytime we went on a trip Ma made pancakes, because if you fill your gut with pancakes you won’t be hungry for a long time. It’s true. There is wisdom there for the traveling family.

The only problem with this wisdom is that pancakes don’t agree with everybody. I love ‘me. Syrup, fruit, whipped cream, just pile them on. The more the merrier, while you’re eating anyway. Shortly after eating them I always feel sick, but not to the point where I blow chunks. So I still don’t feel hungry for a long time. The wisdom still holds, even if my stomach doesn’t want to.

Upon returning home from work today the wife informed me of an event taking place related to the 4th of July where a band would play, and they’d have hot-air balloons. We went and sure enough, a band played, and there were hot-air balloons, five of them. They were inflated about sundown. Every time the burners were touched the balloons would glow. Very cool effect.

The band was a local one. They’ve been together since the Great Flood so they sound pretty good for a bunch of geezers. I almost fell asleep while they did a cover of Steely Dan’s ‘Do It Again.’ Almost. It’s impossible to sleep when offered a glass of lemonade and a bag of kettle corn.

Supermom and Trainboy went off to see the balloons close up.

Having a near captive audience Ms. Pikachu self-induced a fit of mania. She repeatedly said, with a loud voice, “I’m going to drink coffee, and eat beans, and have coffee-smelling farts.”

Small children looked at her like she was an alien and hid behind their parents. Fearful, yet too fascinated to look away.

Most of the parents looked at Ms. Pikachu, and then at me, smiling like “Have you got your hands full.” We do.

One of the nearby mothers was there with several kids. One of her kids was a girl about sixteen or seventeen. Said girl was wearing a tight t-shirt, low-rise jeans, and a thong. You couldn’t miss the thong; it was higher than the jeans and lower than the shirt. You wanted to say to the mother, “Have you got your hands full” but she probably already knew. It is a common problem. Saying "You've got kids," and "You've got your hands full" is redundant.

All kids want to be grown-up. All too often they make the wrong decisions to take shortcuts to adulthood. So the girls dress like sluts, the boys want to get drunk and take advantage of a slut, and all too often they smoke too. All done in an attempt to appear sophisticated and grown up.

The next thing they know they’re jump-starting a dead battery in the rain and wondering how they got old so fast.

Publicserf

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No idea what happened here. It’s lost forever. The Cheapwife took the evening off. I vaguely remember waiting for the wife, and thinking I was glad I never enlisted in the Army.

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I haven’t posted again for the past few days. It’s not that I’m avoiding it, it’s just been a busy time.

I went to work to find out I'd been scheduled to have the day off. My leave request said "mother-in-laws birthday." I headed home. The Superwife informed me she’s in Colorado. What to do, what to do? The wife knew what to do. We spent the morning watching a movie she’d checked out from the library. I don’t even remember what the movie was, or particularly liking it. But I do remember thinking, “this is the best use of my vacation time?” Not that it mattered.

Then she said we were going swimming because it was going to be 95 degrees outside. All the better reason to stay inside thinks I. We have air conditioning for a reason, right? The answer apparently is, “Wrong.” So off to the beach we went at 2:00. Hot. Real hot. Can people boil in the water? Hot.

The Superwife and the kids went into the water with a couple of rafts. They later reported to me they’d had fun. As is immediately apparent, I did not join them. I stayed in the van and took a nap. Why? Well, firstly, I was tired. Secondly, I’m too self-conscious to do it. Born shy, gotten worse, can’t get over it. I’ve tried rationalizing my way out of it, but have never been able to. It always comes down to feeling too embarrassed.

You’ll never see me in a swimsuit. You’ll never hear me sing. You’ll never see me talk in a group. Other people certainly do those things just fine. The wife and kids have no problems. The best I can figure is that I’m just wired that way. It’s just an extreme aversion to doing anything that could cause negative comments. Even if with my hearing I’d never hear them. Just the suspicion is more than I can bear. So it was nap-time for the Serf.

They played for a few hours, nap-time was over, and away we went. “Anybody hungry?” Yes’s came back. Um, how about the IHOP over there? We’ve never eaten there. Trainboy says no, he wants Burger King. Apparently kids don’t develop an aversion to constantly eating out of bags until they’re old enough to say, “Don’t trust anyone under 30.” So to Burger King we go.

Trainboy pulls the toy out of his freshly bagged meal and declares, “This is the one I’ve wanted!” You have to wonder how much food is sold at fast-food places just for the kids’ toys. Kids don’t care about nutrition. Kids don’t care about variety. Kids don’t care about taste. Parents just care about peace and quiet. So we reach into our bags and eat.

Then we went grocery shopping. Groceries and groceries and groceries. Don’t worry about a famine, you know somebody with food. Every kid seems to have their favorites that run in streaks. Right now Trainboy’s home cooking is fish sticks with lots of tartar sauce. It cannot be just any tartar sauce either. Fat-free profanes his mouth. Regular just won’t do either. By the Prince’s command it must be Kraft Tartar Sauce with Lemon. Nothing else is deserving of his attention. I’ll buy two or three bottles at a time just to make sure we don’t run out. That can save you a trip late at night. For fast food he’s strictly chicken nuggets and fries.

Ms. Pikachu’s fast-food of choice is a cheesburger and fries. While she was eating her fries she used them to scrape the cheese off her cheeseburger wrapper, then she reached over and scraped the cheese off my wrapper. She shared that she thinks fries and cheese are wonderful, but it would be even better if you put chocolate on them too. There’s an idea that could put your food back into the bag, after you’ve put the bag to your mouth.

She’s a chocoholic. She takes great pride in it. Just hand over the chocolate and nobody gets hurt. She claims all chocolate as though it's rightfully hers.

Oddly enough, her current favorite home food is cup-a-soup stuff. Add water, nuke to boiling, wait a couple minutes, and she thinks it’s just the best. At least it’s easy. What is probably the best about it is that she can do it herself anytime she wants some. A little chocoholic who wants some control.

Anyway, it seems that Ms. Pikachu is just like her mother. She looks like a copy with blond hair. Very bright, very personable, very fun to have around.

On the other hand, Trainboy also looks like his mother, but has a personality like mine. He's very quiet, thoughtful, and affectionate. We try to get him to speak up for himself, which is why if he wants to go to Burger King, we go. He needs to know his opinions matter.

You can't help but look at the two kids and think their personalities are so different they just have to be wired that way. People can make decisions to change, but there are limits. It just doesn't seem probable that an introvert can will themselves to be an extrovert. On the other hand, maybe it's just being willing to practice. I dunno.

I’ve been doing some computer-taught HTML stuff. One of these days this blog will start looking a little different.

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Trainboy puts things together as best he can, but sometimes the results are amusing. He usually rides up front, and feels it's his job to inform me when the little green arrows say it's time to turn. If there's no green arrows we just keep going straight. It's like magic, the car tells us where to go. No wonder there are so many superstitions.

Giggles went home with her mother on Saturday. Here's a Giggles story- We were at a McDonald's drive-thru waiting for our order when a sprung-up pickup pulled up behind us. You couldn't miss him even though he was behind us. First of all, his headlights were about head high, the inside of the car was like daylight. Secondly, he had a powerful stereo and wasn't afraid to use it. We heard him before we saw him. Whump, whump, whump, whump.

Giggles declared, "I know that song!" She really knows her whumps apparently. She started hopping up and down. Ms. Pikachu couldn't resist, she started hopping up and down too. The car must have looked like it was nodding to the beat. The pickup driver smiled and waved. This only encouraged them. Laughs, yells, "He smiled and waved!" Even more enthusiatic bouncing. The stuff that inspires parent's nightmares. Okay, that story is done, time for another.

Ms. Pikachu has decided to take up the flute for Jr. High band. It's small, so it's easy for her to carry around. She realizes that her piano background makes it fairly easy to play. It seems like a good fit.

We watched RedHot a while back.
We've seen it before. The wife liked it so much I bought a copy from Amazon. It's a movie about some Russian classical music students wanting to learn rock and roll and they start playing it in secret. There's a lot of piano playing in it, both classical and rock. It seems to have inspired Ms. Pikachu to practice the piano again. So TV can have it's educational uses. But it's still used more for watching things like Ed Edd and Eddie

When I was a kid I never like the Three Stooges. I thought they were stupid, I didn't want to be stupid, I didn't want people to think I liked stupid. 'Ed, Edd and Eddie' is even dumber. I just love 'em. "Quit countin' your teeth Ed!" As I've gotten older I've learned I can embrace the stupid and still be me. "I am stupid, hear me roar. In numbers too big to ignore... I am voters." That was stupid.

Do that like Obi Wan Kenobi, "The force Luke, use the stupid force." Or, depending on your viewpoint, Darth Vader, "Give in to the stupid side of the force Luke. I'm your Father, Leia's your sister, life is stupid." A pretty good chunk of me is stupid, and I'm comfortable with that now. It's all part of...... growthfullness. Stupid growthfullness.

I have no idea where else to go with this post, apparently I've hit the stupid limit.

Publicserf









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