Sonya and I were at Cat's Saturday, shopping for some music. We made it to the counter with Switchblade Symphony, Abba and some Tom Tom Club. We are so eclectic, no?

We were checking out when I saw a little display for Ricky Martin's new album.

"He's livin' the vida loca, you know," I told Sonya.

Evidently our purchases and sarcasm in the face of pop music convinced the employees at Cat's that we were on their side.

"This is our take on the Moffatts," dude behind the cash register said, showing us a copy of the latest Moffatt single with the faces cut out and evil little devil faces replacing them. It was wonderful.

[Definition
Moffatts, The: a novelty singing group composed entirely of - presumably related - little boys. They used to be quite a staple on Talk Soup, where John Henson would get no end of joy out of mocking them. Now they have refashioned themselves as a b-boy boy group - big pants and all.]

Speaking of the big pants, here's a question for you: when girls wear a little tiny skirt it's called a mini-skirt. When they wear great big floor-dragging skirts it's called a maxi-skirt. So when the kids today wear those great big pants are they called maxi-pants?

You know what else Sonya and I got Saturday? Action figures. Star Wars action figures. Sonya got the Ewan McGregor one, and I got Samuel L. Jackson. I gleefully played with them, and the dialogue went something like this:

"I can't believe they let a goddamn junkie be a jedi."

"Use the force, ya fookin' coont!"

"My lightsaber's the one that says 'Badass Motherfucker' on it!"

So Sonya and I were playing Scattergories last night, and Roxy, sitting on the couch behind me, starts in on that dreaded, side-heaving, "hup, hup, hup, hup" fixin'-to-puke thing that dogs do when they're about to be violently ill. I, not wanting to have to clean dog puke off the couch, grabbed a handful of papers from nearby and stuck them under the dog's mouth, mere seconds before she horked up a wad of vile stuff.

What was the paper? Well, one piece was a take-out menu. The other was my answer sheet from the game were playing.

Needless to say the game ended after that.

Sonya and I went to the grocery store after work today. When we came home we parked in the alley behind our building and I went in the door by the service elevator to see if there were any shopping carts down there. There were, but there was also something else. Something wonderful.

Picture the biggest, baddest window valence you've ever seen. Now picture it with exaggerated, deep-cut hangin' down parts and a clashing green-and-blue pattern with red velvet fringe.

This wasn't just a valence, it was...

The Valence of Love

"Awwww, baby...I'm gonna lay you down under my sweet Valence of Love and rock yo' body all...night...long..."

Sonya says that's a Chef song if she ever heard one.

You've seen Twister, right? When Sonya and I went to Universal Studios last summer we did Twister: The Ride twice. It was excellent, with explosions, flying cows and rain blowing in your face.

Anyway, as you're standing in line waiting to get in you get this little movie that I'm sure Universal paid Helen Hunt and Bill Paxton a brick of money to do. In it, they introduce themselves:

"I'm Bill Paxton..."

"...and I'm Helen Hunt."

This has been a running gag with Sonya and I ever since. One of us will start the intro and the other finishes. It's funny. I like it. Do you?

The wife proclaimed herself an idiot this afternoon, right after she screamed in pain from the kitchen.

"What did you do?" I asked, walking into the kitchen.

She was rubbing her forefingers and thumbs gently. "I took that pan," she motioned to a pan on the stovetop, "out of the oven a second ago, using a towel. Then I decided to move it.

"Without the towel."

The person is not an idiot. The act, though, may lack intelligence. Remember: hate the sin, love the sinner.

back'ard

latest

archive

for'ard