I know I’m supposed to begin each review session without a point of
view, but I really wanted to like this device. In demonstrations, it
seemed to be a clever, small one-handed portable keyboard; it sounded
like a great idea....
Because it requires only one hand, the idea is that you can hold
documents or other items in one hand while while entering information
with the other.
I know this guy is supposed to be a tech writer, but has he ever actually been on the internets?
Doesn't he know what a one handed key board is for?
An angry Republican God turns entire world white in response to Hollywood's moral relativism with regard to miscegenation and fossil fuels.
So, tonight, I'm watching "The Day After Tomorrow". For those of you who are as lazy and disinterested as me, that's a brand new movie that came out like a couple of years ago and it supposedly involves end of the world like climate changes due to--and here's the incredible Hollywood liberal bias part--greenhouse gasses and fossil fuels.
You watch the movie, like I did, about five years after it came out, while doing other things, and really only catching about twenty minutes of a some amount of hours and a bunch of unknown minutes long movie, and you never hear one single unbiased argument for why North America gets turned into a popsickle.
Even worse than that, apparently, and correct me if I'm wrong--because I was drinking beer and talking on the phone, and totally not watching what was going on--but the movie prominently featured a "scientist" who, incredibly, was portrayed as knowing more about the climate than the Vice President, himself!
And virtually no one--and I say that as a person who barely watched the movie and has never spoken to anyone who has seen the whole thing and I also have never read anything at all about it; so I'm at least as much of an expert on the movie as your run of the mill conservative pundit or talk show host--no one mentions the elephant in the living room!
Like five minutes into the movie, when I was almost still paying attention, there's a black meteorologist kissing his white wife!
And no where in the movie, nor in any of the reviews, or any of the scientific Hollywood journals is there any discussion at all that the giant big cold thingies that wreck civilization are, in fact, caused not by fossil fuels, but by the wrath of God at the mongrelization of the pure white race.
I'm sure Nick Kristoff or Daniel Okrent would have been appalled if such a one sided story--even a fictional one--had appeared in the New York Times. It's just one more affront to good evangelicals, and the Preznit, who supposedly represents them.
If Hollywood would like to be taken more seriously by more Americans, if Hollywood would like to regain some of it's credibility, which was so badly tarnished by it's wrongheaded opposition to the Iraq War(which as we now know, was well worth it and completely justified), it could look to, again, the New York Times--hire some evangelicals to write your scripts and represent the conservative, right wing point of view!
You don't have to make a whole movie about God covering the world in ice because some heathen black devil ravaged and defiled a pure, Christian white girl.
So, the Meme Queen, herself, Ellen, to whom a day without a Meme is like a day without sunshine, passed this one on to me:
Grab the closest book to you. Resist the urge to get hold of one of the cooler, intellectual ones! You've gotta be honest. Turn to page 123. Go down five sentences, and then post the next three sentences in your blog. Simple.
Simple? You'd think.
Except the honest to God's closest book to me is Raymond Carver's A New Path To The Waterfall and, no shit, it freaking ends on page 122. Page 123 is totally blank.
After that, the only other books anywhere near me, since my computer is in a room I use as an office, are, like, reference books and really mindnumbingly dull--unless you're into it--books that deal with my profession.
I didn't really think anyone would be interested in any of that. So, to be fair, I went into my bedroom and grabbed the closest book to my bed, which is a pretty good novel. I can't believe how old it is now. Bonus points to anyone who can name it:
The fashion designer has the same name as a famous Renaissance painter, and she thinks it is not too much to compare the impact of his work in couture with that of the Old Master in painting. Meanwhile, the bartender tells you that the bar is closed until after the show, but he makes an exception for you and your ten-dollar bill. He is about your age.
It's not that hard. There aren't all that many decent novels written in the second person.
Who to pass this onto? It's difficult to think, as my good friend Elke, has also tagged me for another meme. That's a lot of people to piss off!
Okay, for this one, my friend Anna, who has disappeared--maybe she's been busy reading! And she'll have three interesting sentences to share! The Spangle Monkey. And, hmmm, oh! Back to you Elke!
And, Elke, I'm working on your meme. I had to make a monkey movie first. Because it was fun.
I am not gone, nor was I out playing cowboy. I was wallowing in nostalgia.
The other night, I went to see Echo and the Bunnymen play. It was a good show. And I have to admit, when they played The Killing Moon, I got kind of a case of spontaneous giggles, like I always do when something great happens.
It's been sort of a, um, problem in some, you know, intimate moments from time to time. Understandable, and I'm working on it.
Seeing that band was also a weird experience. I think my friend, Brandon, really nailed it down when he looked around the club, frowned, and said, "You know, if you took a college bar from 1986 and then made it fatter and balder, you'd have this."
It was funny, but also distressing.
Christ, these were my peers. I probably actually went to college with some of the people in that club.
What the hell happened to them? Marriage? Kids? Voting Republican? Whatever it was, thank God it didn't happen to me.
It just didn't seem possible that I was as old as some of those people in the crowd. But then, while I was standing there at the bar, I started thinking about a month of May a long time ago. I was remembering laying around in a dorm room that belonged to my friends Donna and Leslie(neither of whom, by the way, particularly cared for the spontaneous giggling thing. Or for that matter, I guess, discovering the fact that they'd both heard it. I'm not really sure. That was never really made clear to me. But, ultimately, there was something they both really didn't care for. A lot.)
And I remembered those nights up in East Halls in University Park, drinking Vodka and Koolaid or some other horrendous crap, and listening to Echo and the Bunnymen. And I counted back the years on my fingers, and then I had to take off both shoes to count back on my toes, as well.
And I thought, "Jesus Christ, I am that old. How the hell did that happen?"
Well, you're only as old as you feel, right? I took some solace in that. Until I woke up this morning, feeling exactly as old as I am. Laying on my bed, as horrible as I was feeling, it took me a pretty good while to figure out that all that had happened to me was a long night. My first thought had been that I was recovering from surgery. In a, frankly, pretty messy hospital room.
Also, my shoes were still on.
Shit, back when I was first listening to Echo and the Bunnymen, I'd have a night like last night; it would go on until the sun came up, and rather than go to bed, I'd go off to class in the morning, still wearing the same clothes. I'd go to a couple of classes. Get something to eat at The College Diner, and be early for happy hour.
Me, At 4 A.M., Nineteen Eighty Something, Preparing For Calculus 140, And Also Falling Off A Chair, Drunk
It felt like every New Year's Day since I was old enough to drink, all rolled into one. I felt like George Bush after a long day of "clearing brush" on the ranch, except without the lacerations and contusions on my face.
Hey, I might have been dangerously drunk, but I'm not stupid.
It was one of those amazingly wonderful mornings, where you're not only deathly hungover, but apparently still bombed. Some guy, who I'm working with on a project, called me at about ten o'clock this morning. He was talking about the Hague Convention and some ministry in China, and forms that needed to be filled out, and some other things, about which I have no recollection.
Nothing. Not a thing. And I talked to the guy for about an hour. At least, I think it was an hour. I measured the time by the twelve glasses of water I drank while I was on the phone. That seems like an hour.
About twenty minutes ago, I felt strong enough to risk changing out of my pajamas. In another ten minutes, I think I might try out my legs. See if I can walk downstairs. To the sofa. So I can take a nap.
So, anyway, I'm not gone. Or playing cowboy. Apparently, I'm just old.
American Super Hero, Ed Viesturs, Towering Above Mere Mortals
SEATTLE - A Seattle man has become the first American to climb all 14 of the world’s 8,000-meter peaks, an 18-year adventure that culminated Thursday on the summit of Nepal’s 26,545-foot Annapurna.
Ed Viesturs, 46, who has climbed the world’s highest peak, 29,035-foot Mount Everest, six times, reached the summit along with three Italian climbers whose names were not immediately available, according to an e-mail from his wife, Paula…
A veterinarian by training, Viesturs attained all 14 summits without the use of supplemental oxygen. “I climb without bottled oxygen, even if it keeps me from reaching the summit,” he wrote on his Web site. “My personal goal is to see how I can perform, to experience the mountain as it is without reducing it to my level. For me, how I reach the top is more important than whether I do.”
And little American kids trade baseball cards? They think Barry Bonds is a hero???
Shit, Ed Viesturs climbs without oxygen in fucking outer space. Barry Bonds? Barry Bonds can't even play the outfield at sea level in California without mainlining bull sperm directly into his heart.
I'd like to see Barry Bonds play in a stadium that killed one out of every three guys who tried to round the bases.
No, really. I would. I'd be a season ticket holder for that.
Well, I'm just kidding around, you know. Like I said, I'm about the only person I know who doesn't have one by now.
I have friends, who are chatty, who I think would actually die without their cell phones.
I'm not much of a phone person to start with--I mean, I'm not even that crazy about having a phone in my house. So, the idea of having one with me everywhere I go gives me the willies.
But it's not the phones that bother me, or the fact that some people really enjoy being able to call someone from anywhere--I mean, that's sort of one of the miracles of our time--it's what having a phone with you at all times does to some people's sense of common courtesy.
People who are generally very courteous and thoughtful become absolutely retarded when their cell phones ring.
If you were entertaining in your own home and the phone rang, unless you were expecting an important call, most people would probably let the answering machine pick up, rather than leave their guest to have a ten minute chit chat. Or they might answer the phone and say, "Look, I've got company. I can't talk right now. Can I call you back later?"
If you were sitting in a restaurant, having lunch with someone, you wouldn't suddenly, in the middle of a conversation, whip out a newspaper and start reading it, telling the person you were with, "Hold on a second, I've got read this article."
If you were walking down the street with a friend, again, having a conversation, you wouldn't suddenly put on headphones and start listening to your IPod, saying "Just a minute, I've got to listen to this song."
And, yet, in our cell phone culture, in these same situations, people feel absolutely comfortable flipping open their cell phones and saying, "Hold that thought." And then proceeding to have a ten minute conversation about nothing very important while the people that they're actually with have to wait patiently, twiddling their thumbs or looking up at the ceiling,while being forced to listen to half a conversation.
I mean, it's rude. It really is. It's like being put on hold while you're actually with someone.
I just can't tell you how many times I've been at meetings, or lunches, or whatever--just a social occasion--that I've been invited to--it was for the other person's benefit, and it was my time I was giving up for them, and they've had the nerve to take a phone call right in the middle of it!
Ten years ago, if you were having lunch with someone and the waiter told you there was an important call for you, you would probably apologize profusely for having to take the call, and promise to be right back to the table.
Now? It's an upraised palm, a "hold that thought", ten minutes of oblivious chit chat, and then an "Okay, now, where we're we? What were you saying?"
It doesn't have anything to do with the phones. It's just something that they strangely seem to do to us when they ring. They seem to make ordinarily decent people incredibly thoughtless and rude. And the last thing Americans need is something else to make us more rude, or inconsiderate, or oblivious to people around us.
I have to be one of the last people I know to not have a cell phone. I can see how usefull they can be--car breaks down late at night, stuck in an elevator, whatever. But I just hate them. I really do.
My friends and family are always trying to get me to get one. They say things like, "If you get a cell phone, then I can always reach you."
Without getting the obvious--"That's exactly why I don't want a cell phone."
Nothing drives me crazier than when I'm having lunch with someone and they get a phone call. Or you're driving with someone and they get a phone call. Or you're just walking down the street with a friend and they get a phone call.
And it's never anything important. It's always like some incredibly small thing that doesn't require interrupting lunch or a conversation, or a meeting, or anything at all. I mean, we have to put a staff meeting on hold, and twelve people have to sit around twiddling their thumbs for fifteen minutes, because somebody's spouse suddenly, and oh so importantly, wants to discuss whether or not their husband or wife took the movies back to Blockbuster?
I don't want to sound like a total crank, but what the fuck? Why don't you ask in person when you both get home? Or better yet, why don't, when you get home, look around and see if the fucking movies are still there? And if they are, you can, without any phone calls at all, return them.
And that's why I don't have a cell phone. As soon as you get one, for emergencies, people start calling you to ask you if you remembered to wear pants to work.
So, anyway, I'm in the supermarket today. And I'm pretty miffed, like I always am in the supermarket. Because I hate grocery shopping. It's an irrational thing, I know. Because it always takes me about an hour, and when you consider all the things I get for about an hour of supershopping in the supermarket, it seems like a super deal compared with, like, the fifteen minutes it takes me to go out and get one cup of lousy coffee at the convenience store.
So, it's irrational, I know. But it still makes me cranky as hell. And since I'm all miffed and cranky, I just like to do my supershopping about as fast as possible. Alone. At about a ten minute mile pace.
And I'm clipping along, at a pretty good pace--I think I had my heartbeat up to meaningful exercise levels--and I turn down the baking aisle. Which makes me even crankier. For those of you who haven't noticed the Master Baiter picture on the upper left hand corner, I'm a guy. Which means I don't bake. I fry, I stew, I grill, I microwave--sometimes I put things in the oven, at 400 degrees, for certain amounts of time, but that's not baking.
It's indoor grilling.
But I needed something in the baking aisle and so there I was. And I'm cranky, and I'm miffed, and I've fallen off my Tour d' France pace because, being in the unfamiliar baking aisle, I have to actually read the foodstuffs rather than just zip by and grab the familiar food shapes, like I do everywhere else.
And while I'm trying to read these crazy baking things, there's this horrid woman next to me and she's got out her cell phone. And she's not just talking to it. She's holding it around her hips and shouting at it, and it is shouting back at her, in a really dumb masculine voice.
And they're not even shouting back and forth about the shopping, like those incredibly annoying people in the video store. They're making small talk. Small shouting! She's standing next to me and shouting back and forth with her phone about someone at work, and their retirement, and the pension plan, and the masculine phone is shouting back about his supervisor and what he would do, and they were both shouting about something being crazy and stupid.
And this personal conversation is going on about as loud as the Muzak overhead.
And I'm standing there, cranky and miffed, and I want to strangle this horrid woman because I don't care about her co-worker or her masculine phone's supervisor, and I don't want to hear about it, and, yet, I don't have any choice unless I want to leave the whole damn store. She's forcing me to listen to her inane, stupid, personal conversation.
So I grabbed ten pounds of flour, and some cinamon candies, and some shortening--not that I needed or wanted any of that, but I was in that aisle for something, I could remember that much even with her idiotic shouting at her hand, so I got something and I fled.
And I go up an aisle or two, and I'm by the seafood counter, and there's this guy, standing in front of the lobsters, shouting at his hand! And I recognize his voice--and the conversation--from the baking aisle!
No shit! That horrid woman was not having a conversation on her cell phone--she was talking to her goddam husband on their intercom about thirty fucking feet away! And they weren't talking about what they had to buy. They weren't talking about what to get. They were just shouting a personal conversation at each other through their cell phones while they were thirty feet away from each other!
As if, just because they were using their cell phones, no one else could hear.
They were the only people in the world!
And this is why I'm a gun control advocate. Because if I'd had a firearm on me, at that moment, I'm pretty sure I would have shot somebody.
Though, on the other hand, if I had shot somebody, I'm pretty sure they could've called for an ambulance almost right away. On their cell phones. So, you know, there's good and bad in almost everything.
So I drive down to my parents' farm today. They were going to have a cookout, but, on account of it being so damn cold, it turned out to be a cook-in. But it was still pretty good--piles of fat pork chops, zuccini, asparagus, corn on the cob, pickled eggs, coleslaw, wine, cake...you know, cook-in kind of stuff. And while it wasn't as good as what I had planned on having for lunch, which was some of that left-over cold pizza in my fridge, well, you know, my parents did the best they could.
And, aside from my parents, my sister was there with her husband, his sister and brother, their mother, and my little baby nephew.
It was a family type...thingy. I have no idea why I was invited. I guess someone thought it would be good for me to see one.
Anyway, after lunch, late in the afternoon, my mother and I went for a walk around the farm. She had much to show me, new chickens--my mom's crazy about chickens. To me, they look just like really dumb birds. But, to her, they're a soap opera with a cast of hundreds. And she goes into great detail about who has been dating who, who is not getting along, who has had a bad winter, and about all their little triumphs and disappointments, and dramas, and so on.
You wouldn't think it, but chickens lead quite an exciting life. I, myself, standing before the chickens, felt a little embarrassed about how little I had been doing. You know, in light of all the shit they had been up to lately.
And my mom had to show me the ducks, and the peacocks, the doves--which, I'm kind of crazy about and was more than a little jealous of because she has these snow white ones--the guinea hens, the miniature donkeys, the dogs, and finally, the horses.
There were some horses in the lower pasture, but when we got to the upper pasture, the gate was hanging open and we could see a couple of horses just loose, out on their own. Which is not a good thing. So my mom ran back to the house and within a minute or two, my dad, my sister, my two brothers in law, my sister in law, and her mother are all running up to the upper pasture to help get the horses back in.
Which I thought would be a pretty simple thing. They're horses. They must get out pastures all the time.
My dad comes up with the plan. He and my two brothers in law will go up into the field and get behind the horses and they will drive them down towards the upper pasture gate, where my sister and I will be waiting. And we will stand in front of the horses and wave our arms around and herd them into the pasture.
"Alright, then," me and my sister say. And my dad and my brothers in law head off to get behind the horses.
And so my sister and I are standing there by the pasture gate, waiting, and we're sort of giggling, because, to us, this sounds like a horrible plan and beyond that, it sounds like, for some reason, we got the ass end of it.
And we're laughing and we're saying, "Well, at least when they drive these horses down on top of us, and we have to get in front of them, at least we won't be without the tools to stop them--we'll have our arms to wave. Which is cool, since horses are all pretty familiar with semaphore. As long as we don't panic and drop our arms, we should be okay."
"Maybe we should just start running and bleeding now," my sister said. "And not even wait for the horses."
Now you have to understand, what was really making us giggle is not any fear of horses, but the fact that our father is an extremely dangerous man. It's frankly a miracle that either my sister or I survived childhood--never mind the fact that he's still alive.
My dad has a tendency to come up with ideas, to jerry rig things, to do things in a way that makes you extremely nervous. A prudent person would not go along. But he also has a tendency to get really angry and start insulting and yelling at anyone who objects. That is, until someone gets hurt or nearly killed, then he gets kind of a sheepish grin on his face, and admits that, well, maybe moving that ladder around with the claw hammer on the top wrung might not have been the best idea he ever came up with.
He's done this in so many different ways--some of them life-threateningly dangerous, others just run of the mill dangerous ways--I couldn't even begin to describe them. But it always ends up the same: in a classic case of "I told you so", though, because he's our dad, we never really do tell him so.
And we should, because he never stops.
My favorite example was a not very dangerous thing, but it was my dad all over. When I was in college, he owned some apartments. And he had a vacant one that needed a lot of work. So he and I, one week, worked on his apartment--sanded and refinished the floors, painted the walls, put down new linoleum, replaced the fixtures.
And, one day, he wanted me to put some metal lining around some countertops. And I had to cut this metal, but all I had was this crappy handsaw. And it was the world's worst tool for the job. It was totally wrong. Not only didn't it cut the metal very well, but just about every time you dragged the saw across the metal, the saw teeth would catch and the saw would jump and just about cut your fingers off.
So, I spent about an hour or two trying to cut these metal strips and then I said, "The hell with this. I'm going to wind up cutting off a finger. We need a better saw for this. This saw is not the right tool for this job."
And my dad, who was working on something else, and was all sweaty and tired, blew his top. He came out, swearing, into the kitchen and grabbed the saw from me, and said something like, "Oh, for Christ's sake, give it to me then! Get out of the way! If you can't do a simple thing like this, then I'll do it. I guess I have to do everything myself, like usual..."
And then he pushed the saw one time across a band of metal, the teeth caught, the saw jumped, and it sliced through an artery in his hand, which proceeded to start squirting blood across the ceiling. We had to turniquette his arm with my t-shirt and tie a towel around a couple of sponges on his hand and then drive like hell to get him to the hospital before he passed out.
But he was pretty pleasant on the way there. We made small talk about all kinds of things. Don't think we said much about that saw.
I'll give my dad this--he's brave. In a weird sort of way. He stubbs his toe, and the whole world has to stop! He drops a claw hammer through his skull? He's cool as the other side of the pillow.
Anyway, that's just anecdotal. But all the stories are pretty much like that.
So that's what had me and my sister laughing. But we also figured, he's got like a dozen horses. And he's had them for a while. Years and years. And, Christ, two of the horses we saw out were Haflingers, and pretty nice ones at that. I mean, how dangerous could it be?
Right? I mean, he'd probably just walk them down towards us, and we'd ease them into the pasture.
So we're looking up above the pasture, we have a fence on our left, the pasture on our right. We're standing in sort of a lane between the two. In the summer time, it looks kind of like this:
With the horses being up on the hill, in front of us. Behind us is:
And, if you keep going down that way, you come to the lane, and that takes you out to the road.
So, again, our job is to stand in front of the horses, wave our arms, and herd them into the pasture on our right, and stop them from going towards the road or to the lower pastures on our left.
We're giggling. We're laughing. But we'll have this taken care of in a couple of minutes.
That's when we hear, I shit you not, the sound of thundering hooves.
And we look up, and, no shit, there are three horses, wild eyed, at a full frothy gallop--fuck, a sprint--hauling ass down this narrow way toward my sister and me with my dad running behind them, driving them, shouting, "Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Like in a cowboy movie.
I mean, they're not trotting. They're not sort of, whatever, running. They are pounding the mud as hard as they can. Eyes like saucers. Ears back. Nostrils flared.
It seemed a little extreme to me. You know, based on the situation. But there they were!
And there's just me and my sister, and this narrow way is still like about forty feet wide. And here come three wild horses at a full gallop, downhill, towards us.
Well, it didn't seem any crazier than any of the other things my dad had ever made me or my sister do, so we dutifully got in front of these three extremely agitated horses, who were, again, at a full gallop, and now looking even more disturbed because, not only was there a man behind them screaming "Ha! Ha! Ha!", but now, surprisingly, in front of them suddenly two people appeared waving their arms and heading them off.
And I'm thinking, "This has just got to be the wrong way to do this."
But the best part was when the other five or six horses in the upper pasture, being herd animals, noticed these three horses hauling ass along the pasture fence, they immediately started a fucking stampede toward to the gate we were holding open. All looking just as wide eyed and hysterical.
At about this point, my sister got a little panicky, which was actually much smarter than what I was doing, which was sticking with the plan--there I was, idiotically, jumping in front of these 1200 pound animals, who were at a full, wide eyed, agitated sprint, and waving my arms!
It had to be one of my stupidest moments since college.
But my sister panicked and shut the damn gate to keep the other hysterical horses from running out of the pasture and all running loose over the farm.
It was pretty smart. But my sister's always been much smarter than me when it comes to completely ignoring my father's, um, ideas.
So these horses nearly run us down, and sprint past us into the lower end of the farm. Where, they stop. They notice their buddies inside the pasture and they stop. At this point, my father reaches me and my sister, and he's furious! He can't believe, despite what he must have just seen, that we didn't somehow herd these three, dangerously excited horses into the pasture.
And he says, "Stay here. I'll get behind them, and this time, don't let them get by you!"
And like idiots, we say, "Okay."
And in a minute or two, he's again driving them, this time up the hill, at a full gallop, shouting "Ha! Ha! Ha!" at them. And they're running just as hard, and now they look even more hysterical. And, again, all the horses inside the pasture are running with them, towards the gate.
At this point, my mom panicks, because, really, you have to see what this looks like, and she starts screaming for us to get out of the way. But like idiots, we're still trying to get in front of these completely panicked horses, which pay no attention to us. And the one, the biggest one, who's not a Haflinger, nearly runs over me.
Which prompts my dad to say to me, "Oh, for Christ's sake! Way to go, Rich! I guess I have to do everything myself!"
Which made me start laughing, because I was thinking, "I guess next time around I should tackle the big fucker." And I guess my sister, who had just watched me nearly get run over by this horse, was thinking the same thing, because she started laughing too.
And, no shit, the next thing my dad does is jump into a fucking truck, throw it into four wheel drive and start hauling ass around these already hysterical horses. Like they're not already out of control, and frothing, and just a little too excited. But now, he's chasing them with a truck. And I'm thinking, "We're not going to have to herd these horses into the pasture. They're going to have heart attacks. Then we can just drop the carcasses back in there with a backhoe."
Then, my dad runs the horses another time, at a full wild, gallop, past the gate and almost over me, because at this point, my sister has just said the hell with this. And I'm thinking, "Why am I trying to get in front of these hysterical horses? I'm a kid from Connecticut, for Christ's sake. I've hardly ever even been on a goddam horse! Why is this my job???"
And my brother in law comes up. And he went to school in Wyoming and worked on ranches out there. And he's looking a little worried at this point. Which made me nervous. But then my sister in law comes up, and she's just ridiculously hot, which made me forget all about the stampeding herd of horses we had going.
And I didn't want to sound too stupid, but I had to ask, "Um, can't we just get a fucking apple and some carrots or something? And just stand by the gate? I mean, that always seems to bring horses. Do we, um, have to drive them at, uh, well, like insane speed to the pasture gate? I mean, do the horses have to go through the gate at maximum horse speed in the world?"
And my in laws looked at me and said, "No. We need to calm these horses down."
Right about the time my in-laws were saying this, my father had gotten his hands on a halter and was now driving the horses again, at top speed towards us, by swinging the halter around his head in a circle and shouting, "Ha! Ha! Ha!"
It could have gone on forever. The whole thing ended, after another wild sprint or two, when my sister in law, who's totally hot, managed to lay her hands around the biggest horse, Chip's head, and talked to him soothingly, and then she led him slowly and calmly, without a halter or a truck, at a fucking walk through the gate.
Then, the other horses walked along, as well. Like nothing had ever happened.
Which is what I imagined we were going to do in the first goddam place, before the wild stampede roundup.
About three and a half minutes after that, I was in my car and on my way home.
It's late in the game. Still not real sold on family. Food was good, though.
Before you "tsk, tsk" me. Have a sense of humor.
Peter Case does. Have a listen. It's good clean fun.