Vacation

You may or may not have noticed that I haven't posted in a while. We've had several trips in the last month (including two family reunions - hi relatives!) and with summer in full swing, my time to blog has been limited. But, we're back and better than ever! And speaking of back, I was driving back from upstate NY the other day (and just to clear up a popular misconception, I was north of Albany so I really was in upstate NY. I hate to get regional on you the blog viewer, but as an upstate New York native (Syracuse by birth, lived in Vorheesville, Lake Placid and Albany), one of my pet peeves is people in the New York City area who consider anything above the Bronx as "upstate". For example, I had a conversation at a party this summer with a woman who told me she was from upstate NY. And I got all excited because I love playing the name game and trying to find out if we've ever lived near one another. So I asked her where she was from and she said, 'Katonah'. After I finished laughing and fought off the urge to pour my beer on her, I regained my composure and politely informed her that unless there is a Kotonah that is a suburb of Rochester, Katonah is nowhere near upstate NY. Now, for those of you not from around here, let me put this in perspective: Katonah is in Westchester County. Roughly 25 miles northeast of New York City. From Katonah, you could drive to Connecticut in about 10 minutes. A commuter line to New York City runs through Katonah. Katonah is where Martha Stewart lives and she would last five minutes in upstate NY. There is nary a gun rack, domestic canned beer, snowblower, snowmobile, or pick up truck (with a crack in the windshield) within 120 miles of Katonah. So this woman is placing herself in the same 'upstate NY' category as say, a woman who lives in Messina, NY where it is so close to Canada you can spit across the boarder, or a person in Buffalo, NY who has to shovel 300 feet of snow off of their driveway - and then winter comes. So, for the record, let me establish that if you live close enough to New York City that you can say "the City" and people know you are talking about New York City, you do not live "upstate". My minimum upstate NY claimant: Albany, NY - and I will not argue about this, it is simply fact.)

Anyhoo, I was driving back from upstate NY and I pulled behind a minivan that had two Jesus fish on it. Even if you are not Christian, you can probably recognize a Jesus fish, basically an oval and triangle stick figure drawing of a fish. And because its been a while since you were in school, a little history lesson: during the time of Roman persecution, early Christians used the symbol to indicate that a Mass was being held at a particular location (the neon signs that they first favored often led them to a date with a lion or two in the Colosseum). But, even if I didn't recognize this particular symbol, the name of Jesus was written inside each of the ovals. And all of this is fine - if you are an avid reader of my blog you know my feelings about bumper stickers, but whatever, to each their own. But why two? I would think that one Jesus fish, especially if it included the name Jesus within it, would be enough to convey the message you are trying to convey. So does the first one establish your gravitas and the second one drives the point home? So you see the first one and think, "OK, this guy is a fan of Jesus, that's cool." And then you see the second one and I suppose you're meant to think, "Wow, now here is a driver of a 1988 Toyota Sierra that really, really, really, loves Jesus, because any idiot can have one Jesus fish, but when you have two, well, forget it, the guy is a walking saint. But where does it end? What if a guy in his neighborhood sees the two Jesus fish, but thinks that he is more devout that the owner of the Dos Jesus Minivan, so he runs out and puts a third Jesus fish. So now, Dos sees Tres and all of a sudden he can't see out his back window because he has a school of Jesus fish on it. Where does it end? (Actually, come to think of it, I bet that's how the Cold War started, but with missiles instead of Jesus fish). Can we just agree that one Jesus fish establishes your bona fides as a Christian? Can I get a ruling on this?

And speaking of unnecessary build-ups, I watched a lot of local weather lately due to the fact that I was hoping for good weather for our various trips (and by the way, isn't it a little redundant to call yourself the eyewitness news? We all know what newspeople do, so we don't have to spell it out do we? I don't hear anyone clamoring for a local, hearsay newscast. "Good evening, I'm Paul Curtin and here is what I heard a bunch of other news stations reporting..." Yes, I get it, you have cute news bunnies in Channel 5 windbreakers on the scene. Eyewitness - I understand).
Can we also settle on a Doppler number that all weathermen can agree on? I was watching more than one station and we got a Doppler 5000, a Doppler 7000, and something called an Accu-Weather Doppler (I think it was turbo charged with the premium leather heated seats, but I'm not sure). But despite what I am sure are huge Doppler Differences, they all seemed to come up with the same forecast, and remarkably, they were all almost right! I'm pretty sure the Doppler-makers are the same guys who manufacture razor blades because I keep getting bigger numbers of those too. It seems like only yesterday I was shaving with a single blade. Now, I have so many freaking blades on my razor that it looks like I'm shaving with a house shutter. I mean, how close a shave do you really need? ("Well, sure, I can get a pretty close shave with seven blades, but what if I want to take two or three layers of skin too?") Any more blades and I'll need to register it as a weapon! And thankfully it is usually a smooth shave, but have you ever cut yourself with one of those five blade puppies? It looks like a suicide attempt! There have to be overtired, or hungover, or jittery guys all over the world who are being hauled off to the psych ward by their fearful wives because they have to use a roll of toilet paper to staunch the bleeding from a razor nick! Enough! We need legislation! I'm thinking three blades have to give you a sufficiently close shave, any thing after that, I'm calling the police - or better yet, the local eyewitness news.

Bath Time

Among my many duties as a husband and father is bath time for our kids. Now, I don't mind bath time (well, usually), because the kids have a great time in the bath and it always puts me in a good mood when they laugh and act silly. Plus, as most of you know, I'm a bit of a sap, and I can already see the time coming when my oldest announces that she is too old to have a bath with the other two and wants to take a shower. Now, I know that is part of growing up and all, but man, I am just not ready for a lot of the "growing up" milestones that we encounter as parents. Actually, the silly thing is that I am ready for them, but then when they happen, I immediately want to turn back the clock and pretend they didn't happen. Take, crib sleeping for example. When one or more of our kids were sleeping in cribs, it meant getting up in the middle of the night, usually several times a night to comfort a crying child. This involves dragging yourself out of bed, inevitably cracking a toe, shin or other more sensitive body part on some darkness-hidden hazard to come to the aid of my child. At this point, I am secretly praying for the day that they have their own bed and can come and go as they please. Then that day comes and I regret it instantly. First, good luck keeping a rambunctious three year old in bed at bedtime. Second, when they have a bed they don't stop crying in the middle of the night, they just bring the crying right to you - sort of like a crying delivery service. I should actually have them publish a menu, so I know what I am getting when they come in. They will come in wailing and before I ask them what's wrong they hand me a crying menu and I can pick the reason: nightmare, fell out of bed, sore throat, rolled over on doll and snapped off head of said doll, just threw up, just wizzed the bed, just crapped the bed, sister hit me while sleepwalking. (This way, my two o'clock in the morning wake up can go something like this: "Yes Julia, I will take an order of sore throat with a side of have-to-go-potty, hold the just-wizzed-the-bed. Thanks.")

But, as usual, I digress. The topic at hand is bath time. And (probably since it is summer and they are outside playing all day) I have come to the conclusion that there is nothing more disgusting then having a bath. OK, that's actually not true, there are probably dozens of things more disgusting, but there is nothing that claims to be a cleaning ritual as disgusting as having a bath. And I think that is why there are billion dollar consumer product corporations that produce all manner of bath gels, bath salts, bath lotions, bubble bath liquid - because without that cornucopia of perfumed bubble stuff, we'd quickly realize that we are spending twenty minutes wallowing in our own filth. Who has kids out there? Have you seen the water after your child(ren) takes a bath? On a good day it looks like puddle water after a rain storm (and I don't even want to talk about the bad day scenario) with dirt, pebbles, hair, glitter, grime, sand, various unidentified sticky substances. And they sit in this stuff for twenty minutes and allegedly come out "clean" at the end of the bath. How does this work exactly? You get into warm, clean, bubbled, bath salted water, filthy it up for twenty minutes and then emerge clean? At least in a shower, you are constantly being hit by clean, warm jets of water. In a bath you are soaking in a bacteria farm. And don't get me started on hottubs - when I want to soak in a bubbling cauldron of urine and bacteria soup I'll let you know. I suppose I'd make an exception if I knew the person to whom the hottub belonged - and were comfortable with their cleanliness and personal grooming habits. But, the idea of going to a hotel or lodge and climbing into that hottub - dear God, just save me the time and douse me in human pee and hair follicles and let me go shower.

I'm Too Dumb For Classical Music

Recently (and by recently, I mean April - I really have to get these things out on a more timely basis), my wife, Mother-in-law and I went to see the Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center. For you Neanderthals and uncouth readers out there, that means we went to see some classical music. More to the point, we saw some people who have more talent in their little pinkies than I have in my entire body. It boarders on the ridiculous. This last time, several of the musicians couldn't have been more than twenty one. When I was twenty one I could barely play the juke box, never mind a cello in a Chamber Orchestra. And their biographies are already six pages long: "When Gunther was sixteen he had graduated from Julliard and composed his first opera. When he turned twenty, he began conducting the New York Philharmonic." My most satisfying achievement at twenty was having a fake ID that looked enough like me that I didn't get hassled trying to go into bars (but it wasn't just the fake ID, it was the back up. Man, if you had a library card or a blood donor card with the same name as your fake, how golden were you!? You walked up to a bouncer with the confident gate of an Oscar winner on the way to the stage. And if your back up also had a picture on it that looked like you - better than hitting lotto. And if you didn't have back up, or if your ID was less than stellar, you had to have your A Game with you at all times - you needed plausible excuses as to why this was the only thing you possessed with your name on it, you needed to know everything about the person on your ID - name, address, birthdate, astrological sign, favorite color, shoe size. But, not only that, you had to be the wing man for your friends. So you had to know their fake names, addresses, birthdays, astrological signs, and three stories about how they just lost their wallet last week with everything else in it except the piece of ID in their hand. And you had to rehearse it all right before you approached the bouncer. Getting in to a particularly difficult bar under these conditions is the twenty-year-old version of a jewel heist. Once everyone got in, you all were so ecstatic that the first half hour on the bar was spent high fiving and recounting the harrowing adventure that had just transpired. And looking back on it, those were some of the greatest nights of my drinking life because of the adventure surrounding the whole thing. It wasn't just going out drinking, it was the jewel-thief caper that preceded it. Anyhoo, to sum up, these are talented people we were watching. And they all play instruments from 1625 or so - how can it be that an instrument from that long ago is better than something that is made today? Technologically speaking, isn't every single thing better now (or at least made better now) than it was in the 1600s? Think about it, medicine, transportation, heating and cooling mechanisms, watches, clocks, footwear, clothes, roads, bridges, architecture - all better now than in the 1600s. How is it that musical instrument manufacturing peaked in the 1600s? Can you imagine going to a physician's office and asking to be treated with methods and medicines used before 1700? "Yes, Doctor, I have a cut on my leg, but I don't want anesthetic and a few stitches, I'd appreciate it if you'd cut my leg off with a bone saw while I bite on this piece of leather." That, in my opinion, is one of the fascinating things about classical music - how technology peaked 350 years ago. But I digress.

I am not ashamed to admit that I really enjoy classical music. I was first introduced to it without my even knowing it - pieces like Beethoven's "Ode To Joy" and Handel's "Messiah" are hymns that have been played at church forever. Then, a great high school music teacher really broadened my appreciation for it. It is soothing and relaxing, and to watch the musicians play their instruments is pretty phenomenal (our seats are in the fourth or fifth row). But, one look at the program that they give you when you sit down reminds me that I am too dumb for classical music. Because the authors of these programs will not let me sit there and enjoy the beautiful sounds emanating from the instruments. No, they scoff in a very haughty way (one that shows contempt for my feeble mind) at my attempt to listen to music. I have to understand the music in order to properly appreciate it. For example, here is an actual quote from the program about one of the pieces we listened to: "The formal unfolding of the Phantasy Quartet follows an ingenious transformation of the traditional sonata structure through which is carefully woven a set of unifying motivic cells, most pervasively the small interval that the cello draws from the silence at the beginning of the work" Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Whoops, sorry, I think I dozed off while writing that. What does that sentence even mean? That's the type of sentence that should be written in Latin, so the four people in the audience who speak Latin can appreciate it, while the rest of us can just listen to the music. Here is how I would analyze the same piece: "I liked it, it was pleasant to listen to."

The people who wrote this program are probably the same people who publish Wine Spectator magazine - you know cork dorks - people who can't simply open a bottle of wine and enjoy a glass or two. No, it is a process. First, you open the bottle eight and a half hours before you are going to drink it to let it "breathe" (I always picture that scene from "Raiders of the Lost Arc" where the nazis open the Arc of the Covenant and bad ass God-protecting spirits melt the bastard nazi faces. But maybe that's just me). Then you pour it into a decanter to release the enzymes it the wine. (By the way fun fact: there is apparently more releasing and breathing in opening a bottle of wine than in childbirth. And where is all of this stuff going when it is released? I don't want to be cleaning wine enzymes off my walls for the next month.) Wait another two hours for enzyme release. Next, pour into an aerodynamic red wine glass and swirl it around until your hand falls asleep. (This is the toilet bowl effect. Oh, come on, you never noticed that toilet water tastes better when it is swirling? Uncultured boors, all of you.) Then stick your nose deep into the glass to capture the aromas that haven't escaped while you let it breathe for eight hours. No drinking until you can identify at least four distinct smells (and "smells like wine" doesn't count as one). Next, take a small sip and swish it around in your mouth for an hour and forty five minutes so that the full oaky, nutty, oily, apple, cucumber, fallafel tastes rest on your palate in order of importance (or alphabetically, it really doesn't matter, but decide before you sip to avoid inter-mouth confusion for the enzymes). By the way, don't even think about swallowing that sip - that sip must be spit out to allow your mouth to calibrate the flavors, something your throat could never hope to accomplish. Now, once you have completed these short steps...you may finally, after all of that hard work, finally...have a three hour discussion with the others at the table to see if they picked out the same flavors and aromas as you.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and open a bottle of wine and listen to a little Mozart.

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness

I had to go to New York City on business a while back, so I took the MetroNorth commuter train to and 'fro. Now, as these things go, MetroNorth is not an entirely unpleasant way to travel to NYC - the vast majority of morning commuters are quietly doing work or reading the paper and drinking coffee and, thanks to iPods, you don't even have to be annoyed by the occasional snorer or loud cellphone talker that used to drive me crazy when I commuted daily to NYC. Oh sure, there are still the constant annoyances that never go away, such as the person who finds the hour-long commute on a train to be the perfect time to cut his nails with his nail clippers. I wish I were making that up. I mean, who in their right mind thinks its a good idea to even trim one's nails in public, much less an enclosed train car?? Why don't you whip off your socks and cut your toenails while you're at it Chief? Any bellybutton lint you need to take care of? What other personal grooming can we do in such an enclosed space? Can I shave your back for ya? Or do you take care of that in the cab ride downtown? People never cease to amaze me. The other constant annoyance on MetroNorth is the bathroom. Now, granted I have never been to the slums of Calcutta or the bottom of a sewage treatment plant, but I can't imagine a more filth-ridden location on earth than the bathroom of a MetroNorth train. And, I suppose some degree of latitude is necessary here because, it is a moving, bouncing, rocking train, so no one's aim is going to be spot on, but in the first place, I was probably in utero the last time one of these bathrooms were cleaned, and my Mom was probably in utero the last time they were cleaned with soap and/or detergent. And secondly, some train riders (I'd wager they are guys, but I have no scientific proof) seem to take great pleasure in "going" on anything in the bathroom except the toilet. It is quite the little adventure to try to go to the bathroom on a moving train without touching anything.

And speaking of bathrooms, when I was waiting for my train to leave the city, I actually used the bathroom in Grand Central Station so I wouldn't have to use the one on the train. Now, for you non-New Yorkers, this little Hobson's Choice is like deciding between a colonoscopy or a kick to the groin, because, after all, public + bathroom + New York City = big yuckies. But I had to laugh when I went into the bathroom because there is a big sign that says (and I quote): "No loitering" (thanks goodness that sentence is part of the sign, otherwise I may linger in the Grand Central men's room for hours - the smell of b.o. and stale urine being my most favorite of all aromas); "No panhandling" ("Uh, sorry I can't get to my change right now sir but my hands are kind of otherwise occupado right now"); "No bathing" (which, you know, thank God that was there because after a day in the City I was feeling like I needed to strip down and rinse off before getting on the train). And obviously I know why the sign is there - for the poor homeless souls who might not have somewhere else to go, but is the sign really necessary? Because, if you're not homeless, chances are you aren't going to be doing any of those things, but if you are homeless, I'm pretty sure a sign isn't much of a deterrent. But, what do I know, because not a week later I am in a men's room at a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike and there is a man washing his feet in the sink. I really wish I were making that up because I now have to go get hypnotized to try to burn that little image from my brain. So, maybe the NJ Turnpike people need to find out who made Grand Central that sign.

Where has the time gone?

Has it been three weeks since my last post?? Wow, time flies. My time was quite occupied by planning and executing a 40th birthday bash for my wife. So, if you've been checking in and have been disappointed (or relieved) to find no new post - my apologies, won't happen again until the next time it happens. Anyhoo, so I was driving to work this morning (I'm drafting this during lunch - no rest for the weary) I saw a dead raccoon by the side of the road, which is no big deal because this is a fairly common site round these parts. But then, about twenty feet later I saw a second one. So, naturally I'm thinking murder-suicide. One raccoon probably found out about the other raccoon's illicit affair with a squirrel and just lost it. In fact, it was probably quite the intricate plan by one of the raccoons. Because raccoons are very smart - the ones in my neighborhood manage to pull latches off of garbage cans, hoist each other up onto the cans and start a conga line/assembly line of food back to the woods. I mean, think about it - he (or she, I've never been that close to a raccoon to look for the obvious difference, but I'm assuming the murderer was a male. If the female raccoon caught the male raccoon cheating, she'd have probably just scratched his eyes out and taken his favorite garbage-eating spot) would have had to think up this elaborate rouse to get her to cross an extremely busy highway - probably told her there were dumpsters full of rotting food to forage through, and then convince her that they were waiting for this last car to go by before they made a run for it, then....BAM! a vicious shove right under the front wheel of a late model Ford Explorer XLT (you know, with the big off-road tires and extra suspension). And then, despondent about what he had done, he probably crawled out to the middle of the road to await his fate. Or maybe, it was a raccoon tragedy, sort of a raccoon Romeo-Juliet, unrequited love deal. Maybe one raccoon (let's go with the female this time in the interest of fairness) had arranged to meet the male raccoon at that spot, but the male raccoon had been picked off by a tractor trailer two minutes before she got there. Then, despondent, she offs herself. Is that how it played out? Or maybe they were the rat equivalent of Darwin Award winners (you know those people who die in the dumbest, most ridiculous ways possible). Maybe they got drunk on the residue of some whisky bottle in a trash bin and started daring each other do dodge cars. Oh well, they are just rats with better P.R. anyway; plenty more where they cam from. Like the ones who visit us every night and break into my garbage cans and throw trash all over my yard. Freaking parasites! Death is too good for them!!

Hey, speaking of my yard, why can't "ability to grow incredible amounts of weeds" be the envy of gardeners everywhere? Then I would be considered the best gardener alive. And I could give clinics and write books on 10 easy steps to grow tremendous weeds. And weed-growing companies would pay me gobs of money to be their spokesperson. I need to live in a world where weed-growing equates with success. Its my only hope.

Entertainment Part Deux

I went to the Mall this weekend with my two younger daughters - I don't usually frequent malls, but I heard they had opened a new Chess King and I had to check out the latest fashion trends (actually, we were shopping for a birthday present and it was pouring rain, so I didn't want to get me and the kids soaked, so we opted for the covered-parking-garage Mall, rather than the 5000 square foot outdoor Toys-R-Us parking lot where the closest spot we would get on a Saturday is two spots to the left of my own driveway four miles away). Malls are an under-rated idea, don't you think? Take every cheesey store, throw them next to one another with 16 year old kids with attitudes working at each one, spice it up with ultra-fattening kiosks of glorified dog food, and voila! the most depressing place alive! (by the way, 'voila' may be spelled incorrectly - I looked it up but couldn't find it. For rant about said escapade, see two posts ago, I'm too tired to get into all that again.) But I will tell you what Malls are very useful for: entertaining two girls ages 6 and 3. How you might ask? (well, you might ask, but I kinda doubt it, but I'll tell you anyway). One word: escalators. Yes, these moving monuments to our lazy, entitled, overweight society can keep two little kids entertained for hours - and I do mean hours. I had to drag them out of the Mall after an hour and a half only after we rode each escalator in the place - ten or so, in all - about six times each. It was truly hilarious to watch them get so exited to ride up, down, one after another, running to the next one to ride again. (I mean, why did we spend all that money going to Disney World and for ski lessons - clearly Mall escalators are the true thrill-seekers' paradise). My three year old would stand at the base of one and summon up courage like she was about to bungee jump, while the six year old was practicing her jump off timing maneuver. It was ridiculously entertaining for me to watch them so entertained by something so simple (well, I suppose 'simple' is a bit of a stretch. I mean, its actually a pretty amazing invention and I have no freaking clue how they work, but everyone at the Mall must agree with me that they are pretty neat things because they get on them and just stand there, which is reason enough for me to live a quiet, weapon free existence. Because if I were armed, I may go postal on someone who gets on an escalator and just stands there instead of using them to increase the speed at which they travel. Escalator. Its in the freaking name!!! Its an escalator!!! Escalate! Cause to go faster! If you get on one of these fancy contraptions and continue to take steps, you go up faster! Moron!! But no, to most people, this is apparently not an escalator, but a personal lift valet where they can use modern technology to float them unassisted to their chosen destination. And don't get me started on those flat, escalator-like thingys in airports and such. How many times have you been at an airport comfortable ahead of your flight? Never, right? Its human nature to be rushed when flying. Whether its a late start or traffic or security lines, even if you were on-time, something made you rushed. But, when you need these flat escalators to help you make up a few precious minutes, you invariably run into a fellow traveler (the one with everything they own stuffed into one "small" carry on bag and one "small" purse) who has decided that the flat escalator is actually their personal magic carpet which they will ride leisurely to their gate. And its not like these are short trips; most of these people movers - ha! that's the phrase I was looking for, people movers - are quite lengthy. And do you know why that is? IT IS SO THAT YOU CAN COVER A LOT OF GROUND IN A SHORTER TIME FATASS!! OK, sorry about the fatass comment on this family blog, but, well, it had to be said. But, now I know why these people insist on ticking me off. they are not lazy, entitled morons; they are really just 6 and 3 year olds, who never really grew up.

Entertainment

This may be a sign I am getting older, but I don't understand some of the things that pass for entertainment anymore. And before this post (and, indeed, this blog) becomes a "crotchety old man rant about the world today" sort of thing, let me begin by saying that I have bungee jumped (and loved it). Wait, I just re-read that and I should back up: let me initially, first say that I am not crotchety - I am, of course fairly hip, with it, down with the kids, and super cool. Wait, I just re-read that and I should re-back up: let me primarily, initially, first say that I am most definitely not old (but that whole "super cool" thing may cause a few loyal readers to respectfully disagree). Anyhoo, I have bungee jumped, which was awesome, I love roller coasters, I golf, so you know, I'm not afraid to get my heart racing and all. Heck, if I didn't have kids I'd probably try sky-diving if I were drunk enough. But there are certain activities that just boggle my mind. Base jumping springs to mind: people who climb buildings, mountains, big bridges for the sole purpose of hurtling themselves off of them and trying to land safely. Now I know what you're asking yourself: "what the heck am I doing reading this inane blog; I have a million things I could be doing and yet here I am reading this drivel." (Well, just think of the self-loathing I have writing it!) No, you're likely saying to yourself, "wait Pablo (you know, because you're hip. After all, you're cool enough to be reading this blog, so you're probably thinking 'Pablo'), didn't you just say you'd try sky-diving? What's the difference?" Well, I'm glad you thought that because I would proffer - dictionary time people!! By the way, I just looked up 'proffer' because I originally had only one 'f' in it and it didn't look right, and this was the entire definition: verb; To offer. That's it??? If proffer means to offer, then why have an entirely different word than offer - you just added two letters to it!!! I thought I was going to find an elaborate definition, multiple uses, Latin origins - anything. Nope: to offer. I may be sick. No wonder every other non-English speaking citizen of the world hates to learn English! First they have to deal with things like their vs. there vs. they're. And raze (which means to knock down) vs. raise (which means to lift up). And ewe (sheep) vs. you (you). Things like that are bad enough. But then you have little Francois or Hans on Ming sitting in English class somewhere in the world and learning the word 'offer' and its definition. And somewhere down the line they'll learn the word 'proffer' and the teacher will say, "oh, it means the same as offer, but you have to add two letters to the beginning of it." Would they not be justified in beating the teacher over the head with the dictionary? Who invented this? I think I'll start my own language based on that premise: Pablovian. Its like English but different. Instead of saying "is" for example, to speak Pablovian, one would say "pris"; the word "and" would be "prand", and "or" would be "pror". "Proffer" would remain the same, of course and will hold a special place in my dictionary because it is the first official word of Pablovian. Wait right here, I have to update my resume to indicate that I am now bilingual...

OK, I'm back. Where was I? Oh yes, well, the difference between base jumping and skydiving is clearly the chance for survival. Sky diving takes you up several thousand feet (from what I understand) and when you jump, there usually aren't large buildings you have to, you know, avoid on the way down. And since you are several thousand feet in the air, you have a chance to check out the scenery, scream with exhilaration, calmly open your parachute and float blissfully toward a soft landing (unless the chute fails to open, in which case you would probably continue the whole "scream with exhilaration" thing for at least another little bit). But base jumpers are much closer to the ground when they jump, they have to open up their chutes immediately and hope they slow down in time to avoid becoming sidewalk art. No thank you.

Because scaring myself sh...witless (family blog) was never my idea of a good time. I still don't get horror movies or the people who go see them. Even the tv ads scare me. I just saw one for Saw 2 or something and I had nightmares for three days. How is wetting myself entertaining? I mean, sure it was funny when I was a kid and my parents had to change me, but what about after I was twelve? Then it became a bit less funny and a bit more prtragic and prsad prright?

And before I go, I have to add depressing books to this list. My wife reads these books all the time (I'm sure they're all on Oprah's Book Club or whatever) and I'll ask her what they are about and her answer is invariably: a homeless, abused, orphaned, peg legged, mute teenager struggles to find her voice and keep her sanity during the bubonic plague in Calcutta during India's war of independence from Britain. Ooooo, pass that one over to me when you're finished will you? Jeez, no wonder she and her girlfriends drink so much wine at book club; if I read books like that I'd need therapy. She gave me a book like that - "The Road" - for my birthday and I made the mistake of reading it on a recent business trip. Its about a father and young son who appeared to have survived a nuclear holocaust and their journey down a road to "the coast" (by the way, the mother survived too, but we discover she killed herself because she couldn't take living in this destroyed world - I wish I were making that up). Well, there was not enough alcohol on that Delta flight for me as I read this. I mean, it could end with them discovering a fully-operational naked Disney World on "the coast" and it couldn't bring me out of my funk. Who purposely reads this stuff? I remember taking a Dostoevsky course in college and he is a fantastic author, but if I read about one more starving orphan or banishment to Siberia, I'm going to lose it.

Maybe base jumpers are avid readers of Oprah Book Club books...