Warning: Explicit amusement and foul, rampant stupidity ahead. Eject now while you still have your dignity.
Streams of consciousness lazily winding their way toward nowhere in particular, except my own amusement.
For example, my son’s dentist is named Robert Johnson… only instead of a black Missisissippi blues player who sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads, Dr. Bob’s a chunky, mustachioed Bostonian with a large model train running around his exam room, and a clubhouse in the waiting room. He must have sold his soul to Geoffrey the Toys R’ Us giraffe.
Last week I was arguing about the shape of Lake Michigan with Graham while we looked at his globe. He said it looked like a hand. I said a pudenda… and even as I said it I realized I had never noticed it before. Apparently too busy snickering at cliches about the shape of Florida to notice that my very own state had another slightly dirty shape right next to it.
I think that was the same day Graham took out his dice and played in the aisle with them during church. (Seriously.) I joked with Dave, sitting in front of me: “I keep telling him to stop playing craps during worship, but he just won’t listen. Last week he took ten dollars from an eight-year-old.” Maybe if I made him put a dollar into the collection plate, it would be okay?
Am I the only person (besides my brother-in-law Brez) who finds it funny that Pabst Blue Ribbon beer is suddenly hip again among Generation Y?
Graham’s tee-ball team photo session featured a “baseball card” option. We jumped at the chance, of course. Then they asked for some physical characteristics to list on the card. Height? I dunno… try 44 inches. Weight? Let’s say 44 pounds, just for the sake of symmetry. He may never again have the opportunity to have matching height and weight. 55 inches and 55 pounds? Now that would be a string-bean of a kid. 66 inches/pounds… a sure sign of anorexia.
Funnest part about coaching tee-ball so far has been teaching the boys about rally caps, and how to hang a bat in the holes of a chain-link fence. Second is watching the ridiculous things they do… like the opposing player who stepped off second base to pick up a wayward ball during our first game and throw it back to the pitcher… or our kids’ pathetic attempts at learning how to slide yesterday at practice… third place: taking Graham for ice cream after his first game, putting a quarter into a gumball machine, and out came a wide, fake-silver chain. Instant bling! So I taught Graham the word “bling”, explaining that every baseball star has to have some. [Not so fun: one of my players asking me: “Did you shower today? You smell like peanut butter.”]
Cinco de Mayo sounds much more exotic if you don’t actually speak Spanish. Like moquitos verdes…
I popped into my old student union building at Northwestern last week, just while I was out walking by the lake. Much to my chagrin, the main change from the “front desk” of a few years ago is that now there’s a Starbucks counter right around the corner from it. They’re everywhere, I tell ya! It’s like a virus, or a Commie plot.
Mars is MY planet, y’all. I called it. We’re both named after the same Roman god, so I can do that. Just so’s you know…
Peeked into a second floor of the conference center on NU’s campus: the enormous night manager or maintenance chief was sitting there on the leather couch, watching hockey on a bigscreen tv (at $18 an hour, probably), while his underlings walked around the building with vacuums on their backs sweeping up (probably filling their canisters with this moron’s Cheeto crumbs).
Walking past the Evanston Taco Bell, I noted their hours: 9am-midnight on weeknights. Who the heck wants a taco at nine a.m.?! Not even a college student is that strange.
I mentioned in passing at church a few weeks back that I like to pop over to Evanston on weekends for a cup of coffee and an Onion. The woman I was speaking with misunderstood for a moment, thought I was talking about a small “o” onion, and therefore thought I was really weird. If only she knew…