The Beatles had a bunch of song fragments they didn’t know what to do with. Instead of fleshing out each fragment into a proper song, they strung them together and came up with the medley at the end of Abby Road. Presto! An instant classic! I have some pics that, individually, won’t make a decent post but I didn’t want them to go to waste, so I’ve taken a page from The Beatles. Here’s my photo bomb.
We took the girlies to a dude ranch over their spring break. I’m not a dude ranch kind of guy and, thankfully, this wasn’t a proper dude ranch. We slept in a hotel, not a tent. I don’t like camping and I don’t like tents. I’ve said it before: I work my ass off so that my family DOESN’T HAVE TO sleep in a tent. If we’re ever sleeping in a tent, something went horribly wrong. For me, a two-bar wifi signal is about as close as I like to get to roughing it. I’m a fool for the city.
I’d never stood next to a horse before, much less ridden one. They’re big! It seems to me they can crush you if they’re in a bad mood. But after four days of riding, I understood the bond that can form.
Q: What is the proper way to groom long-hair cattle?
Those leaf blowers are so loud that you’d think the cattle would be spooked, but they didn’t seem to mind. If I were that cattle, when that guy got around back the way he did, I give him a good, swift hoof to his soft spot.
There were bona fied celebrities there. No joke! Here I am, on the left, chatting with the patron saint of single New York women, Sarah Jessica Parker. On the right, I’m in a serious foreign policy discussion with Secretary of State John Kerry. Too camera shy to be included here: mopey singer/songwriter Carly Simon.
I had drinks with Guap and his bride last Friday after school. She’s funny and charming. He is, too. They’re a great couple. Anyway…I walked to the back of the pub to use the restroom and passed these idiots:
The photo quality is terrible but you get the idea. Mom, dad, sis and bro, away on a holiday in exciting New York City, all starring into their mobile phones and ignoring each other like a bunch of zombies. When I came out of the restroom and passed by them a second time, they were in the exact same position. This is my hot-button issue. This and texting while driving. I wish there was something that could be done. But what? They’ve got us.
I attended a baptism over the weekend. I love statues of saints for their aesthetic strangeness, but I don’t understand them. In Exodus, it says, “You shall not make for yourself a carved image…etc.” Isaiah says, “I am the Lord…give glory to no other, nor my praise to carved idols.” But every church I’ve ever been in is choked with statues. Walk through any church and you’ll see people worshiping all kinds of carved idols. Wouldn’t a strict interpretation of the bible mean NO statues whatsoever? I guess it depends on the statue being praised.
I bumped into an old friend. This is St. Lucy. She was martyred in the Middle Ages. Her eyes were gouged out prior to her execution. She’s always depicted with a pair of eyeballs on a plate.
These martyrdom stories are astonishingly violent. I’m not sure how they’re suppose to touch me spiritually. They don’t. They never have.
Keen observers will recognize St. Lucy as my blog gravatar. The statue in my gravatar is in a Greenwich Village church. It’s a much finer example than this one. These eyeballs are merely painted plaster but the ones in the Village are actual glass eyes!
Stare at this guy for five minutes right before bedtime. Okay? Sweet dreams.
Hush little baby, don’t say a word
And never mind that noise you heard
It’s just the beasts under your bed
In your closet, in your head
6:20 a.m. northbound R Train out of Times Square, Tuesday, April 29
This wasn’t some homeless guy. You see that once in a while and it’s excusable. Almost. This was a regular guy on his way to work. That’s poor subway etiquette! And they want to allow mobile phone reception in the trains?! Please.