Obilgatory Mother's Day Posting

My mother is great for many reasons, but the only one in my head right now is that she is always willing to try whatever crazy beers I bring home.

What Happens After the Zoo Closes?

Weddings, apparently. I had the pleasure of assisting in the marriage of one of my brothers to a lovely woman, and now none of us need worry about him any longer. That's her job now, read the fine print, honey.

The ceremony took place in a portion of the African Savanna, near the zebras and giraffe habitats. Ideally, the peacocks were to have pranced about tails a-waving, and the zebras were supposed to graze peacefully behind the couple and the officiator while everyone gazed at the beautiful scene. Instead, we got twenty minutes of maribou storks, and twenty seconds of zebras. The peacocks stayed out of sight, and periodically screeched like a child without LEGOs, or a parent stepping on a LEGO. I'm told that the zookeepers refused to apply the cattle prods to coerce the animals into the pattern set by the wedding planner.

Maribou storks are not the prettiest birds in the world, rather more competitive in the ugliest birds in the world category, but are incidentally hilarious when standing behind your brother as he swears his vows. Someone took the bold move of ensuring that my other brothers and I could not look each other in the face, obviously assuming that we would spend the entire ceremony attempting to crack each other up. This is an important part of all wedding planning involving any men, especially the Brothers of Indeterminate Number since we seem to have made an informal and previously unmentioned tradition of throwing each other into Giggle Loops.

The storks tried their best at looking pretty, even putting on a little show and dance for the gathering crowd. This show stopped as soon as the wedding party took their assigned positions, and the storks, perhaps sensing that no one was looking at them anymore, went back to picking at their nits. I am undyingly grateful to them for having the good sense to avoid crapping during the service because that would have been cruel and unusual punishment for me. I would have burst into laughter, and then my severed head might have landed in their enclosure. To be promptly eaten by the carrion consuming storks.

The peacocks were no help at all. I do not exaggerate when I say that they sound like a man stepping on a LEGO. Scatter some LEGOs by Daddy's bathroom door in the middle of the night, and you will know exactly what a peacock sounds like. The sound of much grounding.

After the ceremony, we were allowed to feed and pet giraffes. I took the opportunity to size up the average reticulated giraffe for the possible consumption by fire in Snag's backyard. It pleases me to say that Snag's grill is more than adequate for the job, as if we thought it would be any different. I was not allowed to feed or punch a cheetah. I was, however, allowed to punch a tiger with a false perspective shot, but potato tomato.

In case you care, and I know you don't, giraffes do not have soft lips like a horse, cow, or emu. Giraffes have tough, rubbery lips, and require a serious duration marinade, and a serious duration low roasting. Snag is probably an expert at cooking these great beasts, and I've heard their necks are rather like osso buco, but the other way around.

One final note, Helob is still angry at me for my lack of effort. He wanted me to break into the temporary exhibit of tarantulas, and take some photos for him. I told him that was gross, and that he should leave me out of his sex life. Eat your crickets, Helob. They're well-fed, and loud.

Taking All My Time

The Genius has another minion with which to dominate his realm! I tickled her feet, and she yawned at me! ADORABLE.

Dued

My sister in law is having contractions. So that's neat I guess, since she's due like now or somewhen. Anyway, most recent cool thing my nephew was overheard saying was a John McCain quote:

"WHERE ARE YOU, MISTER PUDDLES!?"

I would link to the proper video, but this computer doe snot have an updated flash player and it's not my comp, so oh well.

The Turkey Video and Me

By now, I'm sure most of you have seen the video of Sarah Palin being interviewed in front of Joe the Turkey Killer and read better jokes than I can write about the subject. I saw the video when it was played on The Rachel Maddow Show which was on the large, flatscreen television at the pho place where my family had dinner on Friday night. The television was muted, which I found oddly appropriate for Palin, and I was one of the unlucky three who were sitting facing the television. Having now seen the unsensored version of the video, I have to admit surprise that anything was fuzzed out at all, but then I am rather badly red-green colorblind. The video reminded me of a family story from our days in Romania.

This story takes place in the year before the Iron Curtain* fell, as we were driving home to Bucharest from a road trip through Yugoslavia. We had had a flat tire on the way out from Bucharest, so our spare was already in use when we ran over a nail or two** about ten minutes from the border with Romania with only hours left on our visas. We managed to limp across the border, during which I took the opportunity to admire the scenery while secretly trying to locate the Iron Curtain. We were now about 500 kilometers from Bucharest with two flat tires and three good ones. Paranoid security forces could show up at any time, and the people in the nearest town might be too afraid to help us out, regardless of hard currency or not.

Since it was getting late and we weren't going any further that day, Mom and Dad decide to camp out in the recently reaped field near the side of the road after asking permission from the farmer. As we set up our tents, our emotions were mixed. I was ecstatic about missing school the next day. My mother was worried about feeding us, since she had planned on a ten day trip which was stretching to 11 or more. My father was likely angry and bordering on furious. My younger brother was probably oblivious. My older brothers were feeling devious, taking every opportunity to tease us about being traded for a new tire. As we lay down for the night, we all felt extreme discomfort because the five-inch plant stalks didn't exactly crush easily beneath us. The sensation was akin to sleeping on a bed of nails with a nail density of one nail to one foot. I have had worse nights, but while they also involve claim jumping in camp sites, they are from a different era of my life.

The next morning we asked around the little farming town for some guy who might be able to help us with the leaky tire. The helpful gentlemen of this nameless town would react pretty much the same way to my father's requests for information: "VULKANAZARIA!?" and then they would relate some version of "I don't know anyone, but my brother/uncle/cousin/friend does know someone." We set off limping down the road, searching for a "VULKANAZARIA?!" In the end, we found some guy who was unable to fix the tire, but who thought we might be able to stick an inner tube inside our tire. That just might work. But first he had to find a tube without a whole in it, so we went to his buddy's house who had a large enough basin to submerge the semi-inflated tube and check for bubbles.

The scene at the buddy's house was interesting. A bizarre conversation was taking place my father conversing with a couple Romanians in a couple of different languages as my older brothers stood by, trying to look mature and knowlegable, and my mother watched me and my brother play with the variety of animals in the courtyard of the lovely, little farm house. There were kittens and maybe a puppy. There were also chickens in a coop, but those were rather less interesting because they were fenced in and I can't recall any chicks. So we played with the kittens, and tried not to be terribly bored as the tire issue dragged through the day.

When the grandmother of the house walked out of the kitchen door with a hatchet in her hand, the chickens suddenly became the focus of the afternoon. The grandmother was wearing a dark scarf and the hatchet was in her right hand. She walked over to the coop and at this point my mother said, "OH! Hey children! Uh, look down the well, I saw something move down in the well." My younger brother ran over and began looking down the well, as did I. As I looked down into wet darkness, I realized that there was absolutely no way my mother could have seen anything at the bottom because the weel was deep and she had been standing at least ten feet away. The chicken coop door creaked. I turned to ask her a question and she said, "There it is, I see it!" She pointed down the well again, and I didn't want to be the only one to miss the well creature, so I looked. The chickens began a mighty squawking. Seeing nothing, I turned my head again, but this time my mother grabbed my head and pointed it down the well and told me to look harder. The hatchet made a thunking sound twice and the squawking stopped. There was nothing down that damn well but water. My mother said, "Oh, maybe I just thought I saw something that wasn't there, or maybe you missed it." There was some blood on the stump by the coop.

We never did that tire fixed in that town. We ended up inflating the tire with a cigarette-lighter-powered-air pump and then racing as fast as we could for a mile or two, then my brother would jump out and inflate the tire again. I think this went on for close to six hours before we got home.

* KLANG! But seriously, ask me sometime about my young mind's unknowledge of metaphor and my subsequent education. I was a very confused boy, but my igneous parents even more so.

** Exact number uncertain. I remember at least two and one of my brothers claims there was only one.

Lessons From My Father: Number X+2 or 3 or 438

During every election cycle that I pay attention to, I remember the 1988 elections. I remember watching the Democratic National Convention during sweltering heat in an A-frame house in Wisconsin while my brothers had fun outside because I thought we were required by law to watch these things.

I remember wondering who the shit are all these old men and why isn't Jesse Jackson speaking more? Jesse Jackson was the only person I had heard of before that night.

I remember wondering, how does the rest of the country survive through this interminable extravaganza? Damn it was boring, but I was worried I would get arrested if I didn't watch it.

I also remember my father's briefcase. He had a soft-sided, tan briefcase that he carried to work in Bucharest. I went looking through it once, because I was hoping to find nuclear materials or Romanian state secrets or something cool like James Bond in that briefcase. Instead, I found a bumper sticker stuck to the unpocketed-side of the briefcase. That bumper sticker read, "Lick Bush." I remember thinking this was rather underwhelming. Being the age at which American children read a lot of old-timey but timeless novels like Tom Sawyer, I thought nothing of this sticker although I did wonder why it was on the inside of the briefcase. I had learned that summer that Republicans exist and are the problem and support George HW Bush, so I figured that maybe they wouldn't like my father's proud admission that he would make Bush say, "uncle" or something.

When I was voting for the first time, I remembered this bumper sticker and laughed out lout while I was standing in the booth. Two little old ladies shuffled over and asked if I was ok. Just proud of my dad, that's all.

My Nephew Has Really Grown Up in the Last Month

I am staying with dandrobium and his family for the weekend. For those of you that don't already know, dandrobium is one of my Brothers of Indeterminate Number. His lovely and talented wife, julenopsis, comes home and picks up her fascinatingly intelligent son, GeniusNephew. GeniusNephew has a vocabulary that rivals mine and has some curious opinions about gender roles as they relate to cars and trucks. julenopsis makes some comments about how a friend of hers called her a MILF at some point in the day. julenopsis' mother asks what a MILF is. julenopsis replies that a MILF is a "Mom I'd Like to Fool Around With." At this point, my nehpew decides to say, "MILF!" I giggle. My nephew looks at me and smiles and says, "MILF!" I crack up. julenopsis says, "Honey, don't say MILF!" GeniusNephew says, "MILF!" I lose it completely. GeniusNephew starts saying MILF over and over and I am hell and gone laughing my face off. dandrobium tries to get me to quit laughing by saying that is only encouraging GeniusNephew. I don't care because I can't stop laughing.

I couldn't get my nephew to say "Gender Roles" when he insisted that the biggest truck in the alley behind his house was definitely a man's truck.