Soooooo, how was your 4th of July? Mine was goooood too, thanks. Good and bad. But mostly good. Mostly good because we spent the weekend at The Magic Cabin playing tennis and listening to 8-track tapes.
Holy Cannoli that magic cabin is like tripping on a wrinkle in time. You seriously become get dazed and confused about what era you're in.
It's trippy, man. Super trippy.
And groovy too. Super groovy.
You know what else is trippy? Listening to Jethro Toll on 8-track. Especially when your hub is doing his Irish jig slash air flute.
John Denver is trippy on 8-track too, especially when your son is beat boxing to Grandma's Feather Bed. And your hub is doing his Irish Jig slash air fiddle.
The guy's got skillz, what can I say. In fact he's so skilled . . . how skilled is he? He's so skilled he can flex and point his toes all at the same time.
It's trippy, man. Real, real trippy.
I must confess that my hub's famdamily's 8-track collection is kinda fascinating.
But kinda creepy too. Creepiest 8-track tape award clearly went to My Turn on Earth.
"How did you stay members with music like this?" My daughter asked, as sincerely as humanly possible.
What a silly goose daughter. Simple. We grew up with cassette tapes. Everyone sounds like they've been smoking pakalolo on 8-track tapes, even the Mormon Youth Symphony. And Ernie Ford. And Frank Sinatra. And Peter Frampton.
(But I'm pretty sure Peter Frampton never touched pakalolo when he was making cassette tapes.)
After we listened to the family 8-track collection, we watched VHS movies on the VCR, and the 13 inch TV. Namely The Matrix and Braveheart.
Word: Nudity, Medieval warcraft and Keanu Reeves are much easier to stomach at 13 inches.
After we watched VHS movies, we played Checkers and Scrabble and more tennis. And we drank picante flavored saimin from a heavy glass measuring cup. And then we got bored.
Except me, because I never get bored, so while everyone else was getting bored I was devising ingenious plans. Plotting really. To overthrow my MIL.
See there are only two things I hate, Spagetti-O's and dried flowers. Oh, and hate crimes. I hate hate crimes. But mostly I hate all the dried flowers in the whole wide world.
But my MIL LOVES them, so here's my secret, underground, evil plot: every summer one dried flower bouquet will mysteriously disappear from The Magic Cabin. Mwuaahahahaha
Starting with this one (2011):
And then this one (2012):
Then I will start on the plastic flowers.
And finally the silk tulips in my front window box will mysteriously disappear too, because if there's one thing I refuse to make it's a hypocratic oath.
That should keep me keepin' it reals for at least ten years, eh?