Scary and Thrifty
Yesterday, Alex told me that he's practicing scary faces so that next Halloween he won't need to wear a mask.
Three Out of Four Would Be Good
Time to start thinking about some New Year's Resolutions for 2008-- I really want to feast more often on the blood of the innocents, make it a habit to exact vengeance on those that cross me, sample those exotic fruits and vegetables that I have not yet tried, and learn to ballroom dance.
Old Carpets Defeat Giant Shark!
Although I thought my son Alex would say that the best thing in the Metropolitan Museum of Art was The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living (a giant shark floating in formaldehyde-- some kind of weird installation art) he actually chose "those carpets" as his favorite exhibit, which made me very happy, since that's what I was there to see: these baroque tapestries, which are leaving in a few days, contain images of sea monsters, mythical creatures, battling knights on horseback, lions being stabbed, and depictions of Jesus, Mary, and Neptune, all rendered in precise detail on twenty foot high, hand-weaved masterpieces (one took seven years to make).
Dave Aims High and Falls Short
I'm trying to learn "Dueling Banjos" from the movie Deliverance on my banjo, but parts of it are way too hard for me, and this is depressing since all I want to do is sound as good as an inbred retard.
Whatever Stroke Floats Your Boat
We met a golden retriever today that survived hurricane Katrina-- he must have done a mean dog paddle.
The Gift That Keeps Jiggling
Santa Claus brought me four pounds of belly fat-- how much fat did he bring you? . . . and where did he hide it?
Child's Unfettered Imagination Causes Problem
After my son Alex asked for another impossible Christmas gift-- a radio-controlled flying skull-- my wife said: "This is why we need to let him watch some TV, so he can see some commercials and know about some real toys we can actually buy."
R.I.P. Ed
Ed Otken: gentle giant, childhood friend, the only farmer I have ever known, the only farmer ever to employ me, and the only person I have ever voted for (years ago he ran for Town Council; I think he lost) died on Wednesday (I was thinking of voting in this coming presidential election but now, in honor of Ed-- and my laziness-- I'll never vote for anything again).
Stacey's Story
A story from Stacey that entertained me:
"Last night after I got home from the bar, I walked my dog, and then, just before I was about to go to sleep, someone started pounding on my door and ringing the bell-- needless to say, I was freaked out (especially because I watched "I am Legend" the night before) and hesitant to open the door, but I put a knife on the stairs-- in case I need to defend myself-- and then I turned the knob and opened the door; a wrinkled face said, 'I saw you walking your dog . . . I got your meats . . . I saw you walking your dog, I got your meats' which took me a second to process (especially because the way he said it made it sound like I gotchomeats) but it turned out that my mom shipped me some Omaha steaks and they went to the wrong apartment."
Dave is NOT Hydrodynamic
This morning at the gym, I tried out my new Speedo swimsuit; I bought the straight leg style (which looked to be the size of boxer shorts in the picture) but I didn't account for my large round buttocks-- they ate up a lot of the suit's material-- and as a result I was showing way more skin, hair, leg fat, and gut fat than I had anticipated -- I wish you all could have been there to see it.
Here I Am Now, Entertain Me
I would like it if some of you would pretend you are plotting to kill me-- you know, let me overhear ambiguous snippets of conversation, leave some telling clues around for me investigate, and occasionally say things to me like: "Right, right, if you make it to summer vacation."
Like Freddy Krueger, I Appear in Your Dreams
One of my fellow teachers was dreaming last night about how it wasn't a good idea to let me have a bit part on her imaginary talk show-- according to her boyfriend, she sleep-said, "Letting Dave on . . . not a good idea . . . he'll end up being the star . . ."
First World Problems
Whenever I watch half of a football game and then go to bed, I wake up in the night wondering who won, but I'm too lazy to go downstairs and check-- so next time I'm going to bring the laptop upstairs and leave it on the dresser.
Next Stop: Barbie's Dreamhouse
Yesterday, we took the kids to see "Enchanted" and I kind of liked it . . . can someone please poison me?
Hit Me On the Head, Please
I wish I had a case of selective amnesia (like Jason Bourne) so that I could go back and read the old posts of my blog and it would be like I had never seen them before; I also wish you had amnesia, so you could go back and enjoy them as well.
Xmas Sux
Today in the English office I gave the first of my anti-Christmas rants, and-- as the 25th approaches-- I expect they will increase both in their frequency and in their inclusion of blasphemy and profanity.
I Didn't Leave the Camera on the Roof of the Car!
Last night, my wife spent a good deal of time and energy dressing our children seasonally and then posing them in front of our little fake tree (which she moved from the table to the center of the living room) only to find that when she made the card on the Costco site that someone had changed the resolution setting on the camera from high to low for an Ebay photo of some old Dungeons and Dragons modules (she was hopping mad about this, even though I reminded her that if she hadn't left the old camera on the roof of the car-- the old camera that I didn't know to work-- the old camera that was the subject of the first post of this blog--then this never would have happened, but this logic fell on deaf ears-- and, as punishment, I have to dress the kids and take a new, high resolution photo this afternoon, so while the rest of you are sipping hot chocolate and watching the sleet, I'll be wrestling Alex and Ian into red shirts and trying to get them to sit still and simultaneously smile).
You Had a Hellhound in Your Vagina?
My favorite line in Richard III is what Old Queen Margaret says to Richard's mom, about her hunchbacked malevolent son Richard of Gloucester: "From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept a hellhound that doth hunt us all to death."
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