Sep
6
Crikey, he was a beaut
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September 6, 2006
I’ve been listening to a lot of really good music lately, thanks to you guys. Snow Patrol, Keane, Imogen Heap, Goldfrapp, The Sounds, Some Girls, OK Go…my iPod has been completely rejuvenated.
Embarrassingly, this morning I chose to bypass all those quality tunes in favor of Guns N’ Roses, in order to sing along with “Rocket Queen” at the top of my damn lungs. Do you ever pretend that the music you’re listening to is the soundtrack for a scene in a movie, starring you? Like:
INT. TOYOTA COROLLA, DAYTIME
LINDA sits behind the wheel, her eyes narrowed against the bright morning sunlight. She REACHES for the volume control on the car stereo and cranks it up.
LINDA
(off-pitch)
I might be a little young but honey…
Outside, random OTHER DRIVERS cover their ears, pained expressions on their faces. BIRDS fall from the sky, stunned.
LINDA (CONT’D)
…I ain’t naiiiive…
Well, I didn’t say it would be a good movie.
So let’s pretend we’re all hanging around the water cooler here; boy, how about that Steve Irwin? What a sad, oddball reminder that we’re all just one random smiting away from the big dirt nap. I mean, here’s a guy who spent most of his life thrusting his face into the gaping maws of deadly crocodiles, yelling about how they’re real beauties and crikey what a ripper, and he dies not from being ground up as a crocbait but from a stingray, what the fuck. I swam with those things at Grand Cayman once, had I any idea they could barb you in the goddamn heart I probably would have done much less ray-petting and far more swimsuit-pooping.
We heard about the Crocodile Hunter story while we were at JB’s family’s cabin on Monday, and when JB’s brother was talking to JB’s mother on the phone (he was elsewhere) there was the following amusing exchange:
JB: “Tell Joe the crocodile hunter died!”
JB’s mom: “Oh, and Joe? Crocodile Dundee is dead.”
JB: “No, the croc hunter.”
JB’s mom: “Joe? The croco– the crocodile.”
Me (enjoying the confusion): “That’s not a knife.”
JB’s mom: “Just a minute, Joe. (to me) What?”
Me: (oblivious, talking to myself): “Heh. I see you’ve played knifey-spooney before.”
JB: “The crocodile hunter, Mom!”
JB’s mom: “Joe? Joe?”
Last night JB turned to me apropos of nothing and said, “Man, I am bummed about that crocodile guy”. I know what he means, it’s weirdly depressing. Maybe someone will make September 4 Croc Hunter Day and we can all wear khaki shorts in honor of Big Steve.
Sep
5
Back to the familiar
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September 5, 2006
We arrived home mid-morning from our weekend in Oregon (driving 6 hours with a small child? Bah), and I am greatly looking forward to my own bed tonight, my own TWO FUCKING PLY toilet paper (1-ply: why?), and frankly, heading to the office tomorrow where my assistance is not required for the cleanliness of anyone’s butt crack. Unless my job description has been woefully overhauled recently.
Vacations are no longer restful, that’s for sure, but Riley’s presence makes greens greener and the air sweeter. Of course, it helped that we actually got a night on our own, which must be why the baby Jesus made grandparents.
Photos!
Birthday cake part deux. He still didn’t like it.
Standing under a neighbor’s grape…bush? Tree? Grape…thingie.
Ha ha haaaa, HOWDY COWPOKE.
Not pictured: the earsplitting wailing sound the boy was making as I attempted to get him dressed.
The coastal town of Florence, where JB and I spent the night on Sunday.
We flew a kite. As in, “Aw, go fly a kite.” We did not, however, piss up a rope.
I can’t remember the last time I held a kite. Note to self: fly more kites.
Beach and sandpipers.
Hiking with JB, the boy, and Dog. I can’t remember why they were both peering in Dog’s ear like that.
Looking through a knothole in a wooden shed.
Nothing says “casual” like an arm slung all awkwardly over someone’s shoulder, you know?
Sun, setting.
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