Away from home...

 ...after the holidays; it's either one damn thing or the other around here.

The damn thing is dirt-nanny work I'm doing for a friend of mine. He needs the help, but it sucks ass like all dirt nanny work. So I figure I earned my week off.

The not-damned thing is that we got some snow yesterday; not enough to be a real nuisance but enough to be pretty, so I just enjoyed the winter wonderland and put out seed for the wild things who weren't enjoying it nearly as much.

I've been enjoying all the soccer (and, yes, I know; Qatar is a hissing, and FIFA exists to make the IOC look like a bunch of saintly contemplatives. I'm not pretending to be a good person about this...) but I'm going to miss the insane energy of the Japan fans. 

Apparently the soccer world will, too; they've won some sort of weird fame for policing up the stands after their games.

So will the otter. Ah, well; live and learn, Taiyo the Otter. Soccer. It's a cruel game.

Speaking of cruel, the Girl just laid down the law: no more singing "Hong Kong Phooey" because it's racist.

Yeah, well, no shit; it was a Seventies cartoon about a dog, voiced by a Black guy, pretending to be a Hong Kong kung-fu star. 

And let's not eeeeven go into "Rosemary", the horny switchboard/9-1-1 operator who spent the entire show constantly trying to hook up with the randos that called the cops.

The layers of "this is some fucked-up-racial-and-sexist shit" go about basement deep.

But it's Seventies phooey racist style! Sorry, kiddo...Yah!

Anyway. I'll get right back on this blogging thing later this week; I've got a break coming up.

Little Runaway

We've had a remarkably domestic weekend around here. First, it rained cats pretty much both days, so we didn't get the yard work done we wanted to, except reparing the giant cat ass-crater Miss Nitty has made in the little raised bed where the poor carrots are trying to grow.
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We went to Home Depot and ordered a monsterously expensive door for our remodelling project, went to Goodwill and Peep found an enormous snake (now called Jake and living in his bed along with the other four gajillion bed friends), cleaned house, cooked, played with trains, read, napped, went out for a latte or three...
We also went to out little St. John's Library and checked out about a zillion books and a video: The Remarkable Riderless Runaway Tricycle.
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That was Saturday afternoon. We have now finished our fifth viewing of the RRRT. Shea is still undecided about which is the best scene: was it where the RRRT avoids the junkyard magnet? Where the RRRT outfoxes the police car? Or evades the street sweeper? No matter - Peeper-double-thumbs-up is the review of the RRRT. Future repeated watching appears inevitable.

What is mom-and-dad funny about this video is the pure artless Seventies-ness of it. It's got everything: Chevy K-cars, Mark Spitz mustaches, joggers in knee-sox (ass-hugging shorts, gold chains and more-mark-spitz-mustaches). It's like this wierd little hommage to disco, polyester and bluegrass. Plus there's no dialogue, so the kid actors can't ham it up. Joe Bob says: check it out.

So in honor of the RRRT and just to prove that no decade has a lock on pure-D wrong fashion choices, here's the Peep doing his "lost-member-of-the-Village-People" impression. We finally got around to Goodwilling a bunch of Mojo's maternity clothes (no more need for that stuff, thankyewvurramuch) and we found a bunch of his baby- and early-toddler things. He loved some of them so much he refused to part with them and even slept in this little ensemble.

Fortunately my little hunka hunka man-meat is now in a less...umm...tittilating ensemble.
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As Donna Summer would have said: toot toot heeeeyyy beep beep...