Posted by lex, on June 16, 2006
Been a while, hadn’t it? And silence! You in the back row, about to open your mouth and say, “Rhythms!”
In due time, I promise.
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So, Thursday was the Kat’s sixth grade graduation. I don’t know about you, gentle reader, but in my day we didn’t graduate from sixth grade – we just stopped going to that class at the end of the year and started up seventh after an interposing summer respite. But they do sixth grade graduations here in California, and it was something of a sight to see.
The night prior, the Kat had her afterlocks all done up in a set of those – whatdyecallems? – curlers! Only spongy-like, not the hard plasticky things my own dear mam, God rest her soul, used to terrify me with in darkened hallways, back in the day. She was as nervous as, well… as a cat, too.
Next morning, having acquired the necessary permissions to cheat you, honest tax payer, out of a full day’s work for a full day’s pay, I got to see her all dolled up in a dress of light blue, complete with a gauzy shawl of a sorts, and her hair falling down now behind her. She was… stunning. Almost heartbreakingly beautiful. All the more so because she’s the last of the clan to finish sixth grade and move on into the emotional pressure cooker that is – shudder! – middle school.
Oh, maybe you’ve forgotten how it was, or maybe, like me, you never were a girl. But it’s dread I’m feeling, constant reader. We’ve been through this before, you see. You drop your newly minted seventh grader off at middle school as a child and the apple of your eye, and then quite suddenly the institution shoves her out the back end two years on as a – wait for it: Teenager.
Stop, now stop: Settle down. There, there. If I can be strong, so can you.
It’s just that we’ve been through this all before in the not too distant, can show our scars (some of which, in fact, are still rather tender, if not actually seeping) and are not particularly looking forward to going through it all again, one more time.
Still: Soldier on.
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Occasional reader CPT J turns us on to Alexandra, who certainly has her priorities straight. And who shares with us a video which proves – yet again – that the only thing more distracting to a fighter pilot than a mirror is a video camera.
Dad would be so pissed, if he found out.
What really amazes me? There’s a point or two in there where the videographer – who I swear, can’t be much above 50′ AGL, and thus is never more that four-tenths of one second from dying, picks up and casually glances at a map, or twiddles with a knob on the instrument panel. I’ve been that low before. Never tried to read a map while doing it, though.
Don’t try that at home.
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First in what may end up as a continuing series: The Worst Album Covers. Ever.
You know? I’m not quite buying it – the whole “Jim Post loves his life” thing. Maybe it’s the walrus mustache, or the outdoor shower, or the dead flat, serial killer ritually cleansing himself look in his eyes? But I’m just not feeling the love.
Problem is? The only other explanation is high irony. And I’m just not feeling that coming off of Jim either.
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Well, that’s enough for now.
What did you expect? Dancing armadillos?
The Lexicans 