Becoming a cat owner....the self-interview

Were you excited about getting cats? 
I've seen enough weird Facebook pictures to be wary of putting "excited" and "cat" in the same sentence....so...yeah.

You'd rather a dog?
Cats have the audacity to eat your food, live in your house, and treat you like the help.  I'm determined to find away to remind my cats that their presence in my house is purely optional....as is are those treads they like so much.  Dogs know what's up; if I shovel your shit, you'd better be happy to see me when I get home.

Is your son excited?
He's five years old and they're furry and breathing....you do the math.

Anything surprising so far?
They're awfully violent...when they're not practicing Cat-jitsu on each other, they seem to spend a awful lot of time practicing murdering smaller animals.  They're like furry little hitmen who clean themselves.

A Trip up North...the self-interview

How did the trip start out?  Awesome!  If by awesome you mean my Father in law's truck engine blowing out.  Their camper/rock star tour bus was out of commission.  Unless you know people from the Upper Midwest in their sixties, you really can't comprehend the trauma.

Where were you trying to go? Grand Marais(mar-ray) MN.  Apparently, the Minnesotans handle French better than we do in  Wisconsin(prairie du sheeeen)...maybe because their governor isn't a douche.

Did you make it up there?  Of course, this isn't Lawrence of Arabia; we just waited a day.

What's there to do on Grand Marais?  Hiking, sailing, fishing, or if you're my family, driving around aimlessly in search of some schtooping El Dorado of the North Woods.

Is it pretty up there?  No, generally I hate lakes, trees, bluffs, and nice weather. 

How did your son like it?  He liked starting fires by our cabin...should I be worried?  Also, he liked skipping stones. 

He's basically become a caveman.

Ya can't beat fun at the old ballpark

Miller Park loomed large as we approached it.  To me, it was an edifice of comparable mass and reflective of the mania that is sports fandom in Wisconsin.  It was a sight to be admired, but in context; it was like other ballparks, but different in this way or better in that. My appreciation of its retractable roof and red-brick exterior could only exist in comparison with other such places.

To my son, whose mouth gaped as he clasped my hand and beheld the structure, it was something else entirely.  It was, quite literally, the biggest thing he'd ever seen.  Outside, it was a monument to the big world outside the existence he knew; inside, it was a sensory kaleidoscope.  The cavernous spaces and masses of humanity were seasoned with merchants selling hot dogs, caps, and programs, and the green steel girders were ornamented with banners to the present-day gods of baseball.

He took great joy in matching the number of his ticket to the number on his seat.  Neither one was unique, twenty thousand others just like them existed, but they were his and his alone.  To me, tickets were something not to forget.  To my son, they were remembered.  For a boy of his age, life is about growing up and becoming part of the great big world.  His ticket, the one just like mine and the man beside me whom he didn't know, was proof of a small place that only he could occupy.

As the game went on, I tried to explain baseball to my son. I told him what a strike was, why the outfielders stood where they did, and what each crack of the bat meant.  He was having none of it.  For Liam, the wonders of the being at the game were much more meaningful than the game itself.