Yesterday there was an opinion column in the sports section that (if you could get through the sarcasm) torched fans for being too forgiving when it comes to superstar football criminals. One of his points of contention was that a product like this should no longer be available.
I don't know, it's the dog's jersey. Has anyone asked him if he likes it?
So he basically goes on to say that as long as people are entertained and the business of football is still making money, everyone's willing to grant second chances. Personally, if I had to go to prison I'd probably ask everyone to keep their judgement to themselves, because as it turns out, a judge actually passed all the judgement needed.
I'm spread way too thin the way it is, so instead of getting wrapped around the axle with Vick, Favre, Plax or whoever, I'm going to try to just be the best fantasy coach I can be.
Never in history has there ever been a larger group of people assembled for the sake of music, love and grubbiness than there was in Bethel, NY in August of 1969. Little did these gathering crowds realize, there was to be a great plentitude of all of the above.
Woodstock was one of those moments in history that continues to be heavily romanticized, as if the paragon of human existence was achieved through soggy sleeping bags and copious amounts of drug use. To be part of a herd of 400,000 people just roaming the hillside doing as you please sounds kind of awesome to me at first, but when I imagine being at the center of that mass of shiftless hippies and then realizing I forgot to turn my oven off or something...holy moly. The scenario I choose to fantasize about is one where I bring truckloads of those chemlight necklaces back in time and reveal them at dusk, right when everyone is totally rolling on acid. The Who would play second fiddle as everyone's gaze is fixed upon my mystical wares. From then on whenever someone would mention Woodstock the next thing said would be, "Oh you mean when that guy had those glowing necklaces?"
Even without the necklaces it would've been pretty awesome to take in some of those groovy tunes, even if some of the lyrics were unintelligible.
You know what makes a good container for empty beer bottles? An empty diaper box.
Also, it's worth mentioning that we forgot to put out our recycling last week, so I really only drink half this much, so don't judge me. By the way, did you see how much milk we drink? Strength to the bones, punishment to the liver...that's what I always say. Always.
Is it possible to be too careful around lightning? Before you answer that, take a minute to view this shocking video. It's a far more effective means of heightening awareness than any collection of lightning statistics I could present you.
Yesterday I received a video request from a dedicated viewer who wanted to see a tribute/montage of the celebrities that have passed in the last week. My initial response was, "Whaddya think this is... TRL?!" The seed had been planted though, and I couldn't pass up the opportunity to lay down yet another topical and poignant mash up of youtube vids.
I never imagined I would be blogging about Michael Jackson twice in a lifetime, let alone twice in a year. As you may recall, I poured out some recognition for MJ on his 5oth birthday, and now I want to dump out gallons of lumpy recognition for his passing. Truth be told, all I'm really going to do is embed this sweet youtube video compilation of moonwalks. I may have linked it before, I don't remember and I don't want to check. I wouldn't be surprised, because in my mind Michael Jackson is pretty much synonymous with the moonwalk. He may as well be called "The King of Moonwalk" as far as I'm concerned. When I watch him dance all I see is thrust, thrust...wiggle, funny leg kick, flail-spin, and then....
MOOOOOOOOOOOOOONWALK.
It's pretty much the most captivating and mystifying blend of dancing and witchcraft that has ever been seen by more than a tribe-sized group of people.
I'm going to rely heavily on the tool of imagery this time to illustrate the past week's adventures. I'm going to start with today and work backward, largely because the most important of all these occurances took place this beautiful afternoon in our backyard.
Maura walked.
I was gardening, Jodi was blowing bubbles...basically soakin' up the good life. I lifted Lil' Peepers to her feet, let her go, and watched her take about 6 steps toward mama. At that point our faces were frozen in amazement as we looked at each other thinking, "That just happened!" Of course I'd love to follow the story with a video capturing the phenomenon, but for whatever reason cameras are usually a repellent for such behavior. I'm sure the official footage will be coming soon.
Earlier, we tethered Maura into her new bike trailer and packed it with picnic fixin's for it's maiden voyage into majestic Irvine Park. Twas a pleasant ride and though I love carting her around, I couldn't help but draw a direct comparison to this.
Things were as they should be at the petting zoo.
As we travel back to yesterday, I'm standing on the rocks beneath the dam in Chippewa testing my angling finesse when I catch a glimpse of something gliding through the boiling water that I was almost sure was Nessie. After accepting the reality that I had just seen a 4-foot sturgeon it was but a moment later when I saw another prehistoric torpedo cruise past about a yard from the shore. I had heard of creatures like this living beneath dams, I just wasn't expecting to see a steady procession while I tried not to snag them with my lure. I can't remember a time while fishing that I was afraid to catch a fish, but this time I was definitely not prepared equipment-wise to do anything but watch my rod snap in the event that one of these guys took the bait.
Behold.
Oh, and I caught a crawfish...but no other fish.
The next stop for the Delorean is last weekend at Governor Dodge State Park. The occasion is a reunion between the Brights and Scanlans that through the use of Cory's exceptional camping gear collection, culminates in the creation of possibly the most heinous fireside treat ever conceived. I give you the hamburger-marshmallow-chocolate chip cookie smore.
Dontcha just want s'more?!
You may get the impression that we had food to spare if this is the kind of crap going on. You're perception would be accurate, as we seemed to have a hobbit-like meal plan happening all weekend. For example, when Jodi and I showed up at camp at about 9 on Friday night, Cory had already used his dutch oven to prepare some kind of hobo stew for he and Mary earlier, and was just putting the finishing touches on his apple cobbler for dessert. The next morning the same dutch oven was used to brew up a "mountain man" breakfast made up of veggies, eggs, sausage, and wads of cheese equalling probably about 1000 calories per serving while coffee perked on the fire. How else are you gonna get your day started?
Glow sticks and beers were frequently cracked as we listened to spooky podcasts and thought of how consistent our camping activities were with other like-minded camping purists.
Then back another week or so, a peacock or some such bird walked though our backyard at around 9 or so and flew up to the branch of one of our trees to have a nice rest for whatever reason. It's almost as if he was thinking, "Here's a bit of delightful randomness to spice up your weeknight, Cullen." Unfortunately that little story didn't spice up this post so much.
I don't know, it's the dog's jersey. Has anyone asked him if he likes it?
"Hey dad, I'm bored...and curious about what we're supposed to do for three days."
