The Day Neil Armstrong Died
Unconventional Norwegian models road-tripping, rubbing oatmeal on their faces.
Not the dream I necessarily hoped to have…
“Crackers! Come here! Come as you’re called, Crackers! Come to Daddy!”
Sometimes… Puck, overly ambitious, “coaxes” Crackers from remote corners, resembling a tug-of-war pulled tea.
Floozie had departed the premises with Rose, so kitty was flying solo. Except, Sunday Pumpkin would be added to attend our version of “fat camp” so that she wouldn’t actually die before her eighth birthday.
“I’m going to keep Crackers with me always,” said Puck confidently. “In my family. And you and Dad and Max, and Crunch… and James.”
He seems pretty set on naming one of his kids “Crunch”.
We’ll see if that sticks.
So, paintball.
That’s what The Bear did from ten to two across the Missouri at a party for The Duke, who, I believe, was celebrating his 31st birthday.
These boys.
So Puck and I hit up the park again on a windy hill, a chubby banana split lollipop for Puck, and a dad with his kid and a soccer ball.
Puck will incessantly make friends wherever he goes.
The Bear returned in the mid-afternoon with some beautiful octopus marks on his arm and gut, and some fine male-bonding time. He had also been invited to another birthday party, enhancing my earlier belief that boys never grow up.
I’m ok with that.
Thought of the Day
I think the Athenians of Mars Hill were sort of like ancient hipsters.
Ancient Athenian hipsters.
Acts 17.
The verse I’m referring to in particular for my “argument”, if you will, reads…
“Now all the Athenians… would spend their time in nothing except telling or hearing something new.”
I get the fact that hipsters probably try to be “ironic” more than “new”, I guess, judging from the suspenders-with-shorts, purple punched-out-lens eyeglasses, argyle socks, plastic rings, and bottled Japanese sodas.
And maybe “new” is just being “ironic” anyway.
Or not.
But I can just see these Greek guys sitting around, chatting it up…
“So, Archimedes-Coconut-Seashell, I’m liking that rad necktie, dude. Pairing painted olives on silk with calico patches is just… so totally ironic, man.”
“Seriously, dude. It took me like, fifteen hours and seven minutes to paint that palm tree. I was, like, completely connected to nature and all that stuff while I was painting it. And the calico I cut out of my great-great grandma’s toga. Dude, my mom was like, so mad at me. But now I’m, like, part of the present, you know — olives; they’re, like, sort of alive right now — and the past, dude. My great-great grandma’s been dead for like thirty years. I never even met her.”
“Sweet, dude. Just sweet.”
Alright, maybe I’m just dating myself pairing something out of a 90’s family sitcom with what is not actually modern hipster language. But it’s a funny thought. Of course it entirely misses the actual point of the passage, which I will let the Apostle Paul summarize for you more eloquently than I could have done.
But seriously…
“Come on, Aristotle-Sun-Lobster XII, how many times do I have to tell you — ‘Obscure Observations of Celestial Bodies and Random Orbital Structures — 301’ meets at nine AM. ‘Studies in Para-Ancient Persian Subculture and Wine Production — 101’ meets at ten. Get with the program, man!”
[Maybe “new” for them was discovering that maybe a time machine was an actual possibility. Maybe I’m just equating hipsters with hippies…]
“Dude, I told you already. I dropped those classes last week. I’ve been too busy taking care of Watermelon, my pet snail. Besides, I’m working, like, every spare minute on my exhibit for Burning Man.”
Ok, now I’m pretty sure I’m really just describing hippies.
Maybe they have the same origin.
Or something more profound than mustaches, oyster shucking championship t-shirts, and chess piece cupcakes.
I don’t know. I think you either know something’s hipster when you see it, or you don’t. There’s not much gray there.
Either way.
So, yes, I think it’s sort of a funny idea.
Even if it didn’t really happen.