Here's the scene at last night's dinner: me, my fiancee, and my fifteen-year-old son sat around the table eating spaghetti and salad. It's gotta be painful for the boy, having dinner conversation with two English teachers. My son tells us about his day at school . . .
Boy: "In English class, we read some stuff about a guy named John Edwards, and then we had to illustrate his work as a summary."
Me: "I see. And how did you enjoy Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God?"
Boy: (blinking, either in awe or in shock--he hadn't mentioned the title or the content) "How do you do that?"
A little later, he got to watch Teacher vs. Teacher:
Fiancee: "You said you were feeling feverish earlier. Do you feel any better?"
Me: "Temperature-wise, no. I still feel hot."
Fiancee: "Do you have a thermometer?"
Me: "Yes, but its calibration is all off. It's an ear thermometer. An aural thermometer, if you will."
Fiancee: (with a courtesy laugh) "Well, maybe we should get a regular thermometer. An oral thermometer, if you will."
(I actually think this was lost on the boy, but we enjoyed it.)
Then Fiancee and the boy got into it:
Boy: "I'm doing okay in English now. I've go the whole 'English' thing under control."
Fiancee: "So if I were to obfuscate the connotation of this discourse . . . "
Boy: (pause; then, to self) "Crappo."
Ah, the bonding of dinnertime.
Observations, rants, and plausible
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
deniability from a person who refuses
to be a prisoner of his own world.
The Village
I AM WRITING!
My Screenplay -- Draft Three
I'm currently reading:
On my Kindle 2
I'm listening to:
iTunes Radio
I'm driving:
The Honda FCX Clarity
