Friday, June 30, 2006
I admit it. When you first married I thought you were too cool to be parents. I was just barely older than the two of you and had to work really hard to come off as cool myself (dating older well, girls, British girls, then branching out into the guys the cool older girls had been dating - it was Texas in the 80's on the buckle of the Bible-belt, becoming me wasa bit of a challenge.
Then you moved to Austin and one weekend, Justine Trout and I drove down to visit. We went to the genius movie BRAZIL and watched it stoned. It was the single coolest movie theatre experience of my life.
I remember my Bubba and I going to SIX FLAGS OVER TEXAS and riding the rollercoasters with POPPERS. Take a hit at the top of the hill and you're slamming as you pour through double loops. Never forget that.
And Scheri, first outsider to break the code and sneak into Fortress Hogan...YOU GO GIRL! I have loved you, your humor, your focus, your tolerance and understanding. You are my sweet sister forever.
Now, despite my invaluable influences on the lives of these three young men, I must also recognize the contributions of their "birth parents" who, with no experience outside the occassional baby doll whose hair always ended in a butchered afro, have managed to keep the hairstyles of their young ones (oops! forgot the "bald Lars" incident) perfectly acceptable.
Not to mention that they somehow have taught these guys how to operate respectfully and as far as I know intelligently in this great wide world. I know I've forshadowed the bits of my personal charm that I have seen them all display (maybe it's a phase?) but really my "charm, smarm?" has served me well, saved my *ss and as long as it is not used to hurt others can be a perk.
My little sister, Rachel is the best of us all. I hope that doesn't bother anyone to read that, but when we adopted her in 1971 and I held her and she stopped crying, touched my face and cooed, I knew she got me, loved all of me and I will never stop reflecting that love back at her.
Mark, you are a brave soul to marry into this endless Tennesee O'Neil play. We feel deep and wide and loud...repeat. Your sense of humor is spot on and will probably preserve your sanity. I love you.
Well crap, you've managed to become a man while I've lived away. I remember you, baby-boy, first nephew/grandchild of the immediate clan. You were a deadly diaper-sniper and I remember your grin as you let fly the water cannon the minute any diaper changer came into range. If we get out of this stupid war, maybe a commission in the marines as a sharp shooter?
None of us knew how to care for a baby when you came along. Luckilly grandmothers, Lolas and Scheri's endlessly fertile Aunts made sure we kept the dry parts dry an moistened the wet ones.
Actually, Lars, Erik and Donovan have been raised primarily in malls and SuperTargets. I expect great retail in al of their futures!
Sometimes you realize that even six years can amount to being "gone too long." When these next two young atheletes were born, I was only around when my career alowed me stops at home. I loved these little babies who have grown into fine young men, or at least sneaky enough young men to be believed fine. That's more about my teen years that theirs, I was assumed to be a model highschool student. Early on, I learned how to appear to be one...worked pretty much the same.
Erik rehabbed himself from a devastating high leg bone break when most kids are working on walking without falling down. One Tough Kid. Loves his family and his Grandmother. He's a smart enough operator to do just fine in ths world. I hate to make his parents fearful, but Erik has a style of charm that reminds me of my own. Oh Hell, all three Nephews do. Be afraid, be a little afraid.
This little boy, Donovan Mitchell Simmons, is the most recent addition to the Mitchel, Simmons, Hogan clan as it ever expands. He looks so much like his mother, my little sister Rachel (the best one of us all) that it sometimes makes me cry. Happy, happy tears for the memories of my youngest sister and now youngest nephew as they grow and giggle and glower and get their way.
I hope Mark knows how lucky he is and how much our rather scary, in your face with love family cares for him and his family. Mark makes me proud, Rachel makes me proud...give me six months and I could make Donovan a star...Thruncles are all powrfull.
So, since my repeated, enthused recommitals to this DAILY (not weekly, periodcally, only when my life isn't threatened, or I'm just too DEPRESSED to type) DAILY rededications to making BLOG entries, I willl show how low I'm willing to stoop for content.
I've had Bronchitis and Pneumonia for ten days. Lately, I've been bringing up a variety of sticky, gooey, chunky goobers that, when assembled, will surely be as large as the MONOLITH from 2001: A Space Odyssey...word.
I've decided to post them for now on this site. Should anyone see a resemblemce to, say any popular deity or his mom or even persons as tacky as Pop Culture icons. How hard could it be for me to hack a lougee that resembles currently pregnant Britney Spears,,,she looks like Hell, if Hell had stopped at two DENNEYS for Breakfast.
I will hack religious sputum. I will hack religious sputum. I know I can. I know I can.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
It may be me but doesn't it look like angels are driving calamari out of Heaven. What did squids do to piss God off that bad?
In the Nov 15, 1914 Edition of Our Sunday Visitor, (a Catholic publication), the following question was addressed on page 3 in the section titled Bureau of Information:
Is it true that the words of the Apocalypse in the 13th Chapter, 18th verse refer to the Pope?
The words referred to are these "Here is wisdom. He that hath understanding, let him count the number of the beast. For it is a the number of a man: and the number of him is six hundred sixty-six." The title of the Pope in Rome is Vicarius Filii Dei. This is inscribed on his mitre[*]; and if you take the letters of his title which represent Latin numerals (printed large) and add them together they come to 666.
V I C A R I V S F I L I I D E I
5 1 100 1 5 1 50 1 1 500 1
Add these together and the result will be 666.
This "argument" was submitted to Rev. Ernest R. Hull, and answered in the following manner: "Almost every eminent man in Christendom, who has enjoyed the privilege of possessing enemies, has had his name turned and twisted till they could get the number 666 out of it. In past history there have been numberless beasts or Anti-Christs, all of whose names counted up to 666. I fancy that my own name, especially in Latin form, might give the number of the beast:
E R N E S T V S R E G I N A L D V S H V L L
5 1 50 500 5 5 50 50 =666
Quod erat demonstrandum, namely, that Rev. Ernest R. Hull is Anti-Christ, or the Beast of the Apocalypse!"
Perhaps a little ingenuity with your name will show that you are the beast of the Apocalypse too.
The point is: 666 means everything and nothing at all. It's easy to do Antichrist math because we know the total. You don't even need to be very clever to come up with a nominee for Beast. Judging from the people who read REVELATIONS and see tomorrow, clever could be a handicap. You have to be deluded enough to update your Apocalyptic Timeline without shame. Luckilly the "End of the Earth is at Hand" crowd isn't over burdened by shame either.
Monday, June 05, 2006
And then suddenly it becomes clear. There isn't anyone In Charge.
So now straight people can marry their own rape victims. What next? Pets?
It was a Love that was worth serving 7 1/2 years of Felony Rape for.
I'm emailing my Congressman. Let's keep this blessed union between a Man/boy and a Woman/Sex Criminal.
A couple of weeks ago, when last I blogged, I was convinced my heart attack and angioplasty was going to be a series of one liners. I mean who gives himself a stent for his 42nd birthday? Three weeks, three more stents and a two weeks of crushing depression (the last one spent locked up in a psych ward) later, the riffs aren't what I thought they'd be.
Don't get me wrong, I am the youngest member of my cardiac rehab group by twenty years. Dear God, I'm cardiac "chicken." My man-breasts are larger than Mrs. Johnson, but dammit, they sit higher. I know because I heard the old guys comparing us at the water cooler between spirited walks.
See, hilarious! I'll be here all week...but then that's the scary part, isn't it?