So (don't you just love when people start a story with "so"?)...
I'm lying next to Ben in his bed this evening telling him a bedtime story. When I finish, he informs me that he has a story to tell as well. He begins to tell me about how Spider-Man was living with this one particular family in a house in the jungle and how Spider-Man would sometimes make the family mushrooms to eat.
Then he starts saying how cold it was outside and how the family was cold. Next he starts talking about the *air pressure* of all things. I can't quite follow him, but it starts to dawn on me that my four year old apparently has theories about how air pressure is related to temperature. I'm flabbergasted as he goes on and on in his own words about how they needed the air pressure to warm the air up to a more comfortable temperature. I'm lying there thinking my son is a genius.
Then tells me that the family had two, one upstairs and one downstairs to make it warmer.
"Two what?" I ask, puzzled.
"Air pressers," he says.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Last night's Superbowl Halftime show was the most out of control bit of self-worship I've ever seen. Beyonce (if that is her real name) is marginally talented, sure. (Name three of her songs, if you can; I know I can't.) She's very pretty, but frankly she doesn't need me to like her because clearly she likes herself more than enough for both of us. From the huge lit up profile of herself that appeared at the beginning of the show, to the video effects of multiple images of herself dancing with herself, the entire show from start to finish was one long (very, very long) demonstration of just how much she thinks about herself.
If I'm ever invited to someone else's party, a party that is being thrown for the express purpose of determining a world champion and then celebrating their victory, I highly doubt that the time I'm allotted during that party will be eaten up with a hubris-riddled scene of me demonstrating how awesome I think I am. I hope I'd have the sense to offer what I could to the celebration and then go take my seat and shut up.
You can only take so much of someone's crotch (and that's not much) before you want to ask them to please put it away because it's frightening the children. Dressing up like a puttana and having 30 paid "friends" dress up just like you and dancing around you isn't a chorus line, it's conceit. Get a grip on yourself and reel your fat head in before it floats away.
Not only was the whole affair not entertaining, it was extremely uncomfortable to watch. Go stand in a corner and think about what you did.
Next Superbowl, instead of having some overpaid and under-talented fool parade their legs around and make eyes at the camera for 20 minutes showing us all how great they think they are, why don't we have some wounded veterans stand up at the 50 yard line and tell us why they love their country and what we ought to be teaching our kids to make them love theirs too?