By Lex, on October 8, 2008
Magic Mountain all day, at the behest of SWMBO V3.0 and one of her cohort. The Hobbit having taken a pass.
Pray for me, and talk amongst yourselves.
Update: A pretty good day. Traffic up the 5 was smooth at 0730 – herself can be quite the slave driver when it comes to her entertainment – and we got to the park with time to spare. Your correspondent immediately saw the X2 ride and determined to have at it, but the lady insisted upon intervals of warm-up in lesser contraptions. Wise beyond her years as it turns out.
Only $29.99 if you purchase on line, as against $59.99 at the door. Which makes it a no-brainer. They still nickle and dime you here and there: It costs a dollar to stow all loose gear in a little locker for the two minutes spent shrieking on the ride. A smarter man might have left it all in the car, but who goes anywhere without a cell phone anymore?
On April 11, 2006
I’ve never had a bumper sticker on my car. Never really had anything I felt all that strongly about, maybe.
Or maybe I just never had anything I felt really strongly about that I thought could be captured on a bumper sticker. Or that anything that could be captured on a bumper sticker, and widely understood, necessarily had to be so simple a thing as to be trivial, even trite – and therefore insufficiently descriptive. So simple as to almost be insulting to the depth of complexity in thought and experience we grant ourselves free of charge. Even as we all too often tend to ascribe ill motive and bad faith to those we do not know well, but with whom we disagree on some topic. Believing as we do, that our complexity affords us some degree of authenticity in which The Other, acting as he is in manifest bad faith (for daring to disagree with us) cannot share.
Disagreeing as he does on some topic, like the one you can occasionally see on a bumper sticker.
Posted on December 30, 2005
You want to feel judged? Evaluated? Sifted and weighed?
Placed in a box?
Then let your 14-year old daughter, who has recently taken a fancy to vinyl records and record players sort through your collection of music from Back in the Day.
Your complete collection of the Beatles albums brings with it a kind of grudging admiration. Eyebrows are raised at the sight of your Bob Marley collection, too. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young confer credibility upon you as well. You momentarily bond over Fleetwood Mac. Your chest swells a bit at this unlikely bit of appreciation. But nothing lasts forever, alas:
Not withstanding the worlds coolest album covers, the sight of the Molly Hatchet collection does nothing for your standing, and your stock starts to plummet as she breezes quickly past the Charlie Daniels Band albums you bought when, for 35 seconds, southern country and rock successfully fused – in your mind anyway – into southern rock. You can only shrug as with a quizical look, seeking some explanation, she pulls out the soundtrack for Urban Cowboy. You try to explain that “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas seemed to really have some sort of deeper meaning that was just out of reach back in the late ’70s, but she’s clearly not sold. By the time she gets to a seemingly endless series of Genesis/Phil Collins platters you just sit there in the corner softly weeping, hoping that the humiliation will soon end.
Sic transit gloria.
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