Tuesday, December 31, 2002
Bo now has a blog. I sat there as he made it. 'Tis quite cool, if blogger would put it up as opposed to running error messages. Ahhhh.
Saw "Catch Me If You Can" tonight with Bo, Brakensiek, and Jason. Very good, I should say, very good. Leonardo is winning me over, and Tom Hanks is, well, Tom Hanks. It was Spielberg but it didn't have that cockiness to it. Or, if it did, I've become used to it. Everyone in it was good. Martin Sheen played a schmuck real well, but that's like complimenting Heidi Fleiss on playing a hooker.
This was one of the first times I had gotten out of the house in quite a while. Starting to feel like a break from school and not like a mere holiday from school where we can cram in Christmas. I'm beginning to relax, which is good, because I've needed to do it for such a long time. Since first semester freshman year, actually. It's felt good to be reading and watching DVDs (Sopranos' First Season is killer).
I have fallen in love with Mike Royko this past week, as I have been reading a book of his columns. The man could write sarcasm and do it in a way to call you to action. Some of the best "reductio ad absurdem" out there. And, he's great at writing love/hate columns on Chicago. Should I go on any more about him, I will only sound like more of a high school freshman girl who is in love with the hot social studies teacher, much like that "Saved By The Bell" episode where Zack and Slater team up to fight off that Tony guy.
Dad's birthday was tonight (before midnight, that is). It was warm enough to barbecue, and Michael was still here. Kerry drove up on Sunday to get Michael but decided to stay for Dad's birthday. We had chocolate cake, even, but the main event of the evening was making ginger bread houses. Dad's was a mix between a synogogue and a spot for the underground railroad, and on top of his was a sign that said "Visit Branson" or something to that effect. John made a gingerbread house of horrors, which included an impaled snowman, a melted snowman and an "offed" Santa. Those were the two best, I should say.
Less than 21 hours left for 2002. It's been a crazy one. A good one, not a bad one, at spots a blah one, and of course a frustrating one. A good one, though. One to learn from. Not boring, even if blah. Good filler. Eh, screw it, the year will get its own post.
Night, folks. Happy New Year. 2002, your life is marked, but I shalt prepare thy eulogy, and even read it to you pre-mortum. How cool is that?
Saw "Catch Me If You Can" tonight with Bo, Brakensiek, and Jason. Very good, I should say, very good. Leonardo is winning me over, and Tom Hanks is, well, Tom Hanks. It was Spielberg but it didn't have that cockiness to it. Or, if it did, I've become used to it. Everyone in it was good. Martin Sheen played a schmuck real well, but that's like complimenting Heidi Fleiss on playing a hooker.
This was one of the first times I had gotten out of the house in quite a while. Starting to feel like a break from school and not like a mere holiday from school where we can cram in Christmas. I'm beginning to relax, which is good, because I've needed to do it for such a long time. Since first semester freshman year, actually. It's felt good to be reading and watching DVDs (Sopranos' First Season is killer).
I have fallen in love with Mike Royko this past week, as I have been reading a book of his columns. The man could write sarcasm and do it in a way to call you to action. Some of the best "reductio ad absurdem" out there. And, he's great at writing love/hate columns on Chicago. Should I go on any more about him, I will only sound like more of a high school freshman girl who is in love with the hot social studies teacher, much like that "Saved By The Bell" episode where Zack and Slater team up to fight off that Tony guy.
Dad's birthday was tonight (before midnight, that is). It was warm enough to barbecue, and Michael was still here. Kerry drove up on Sunday to get Michael but decided to stay for Dad's birthday. We had chocolate cake, even, but the main event of the evening was making ginger bread houses. Dad's was a mix between a synogogue and a spot for the underground railroad, and on top of his was a sign that said "Visit Branson" or something to that effect. John made a gingerbread house of horrors, which included an impaled snowman, a melted snowman and an "offed" Santa. Those were the two best, I should say.
Less than 21 hours left for 2002. It's been a crazy one. A good one, not a bad one, at spots a blah one, and of course a frustrating one. A good one, though. One to learn from. Not boring, even if blah. Good filler. Eh, screw it, the year will get its own post.
Night, folks. Happy New Year. 2002, your life is marked, but I shalt prepare thy eulogy, and even read it to you pre-mortum. How cool is that?
Monday, December 30, 2002
My dad was 8 when his father had a cerebral hemorrhage after they had gone to a ball game together.
Today he turns 59.
He felt he had to fill his dad's shoes. Big shoes to fill. Doc treated many people, both American-born and immigrants alike, whether they had the money or not. He was known by all the families and the tavern-keepers. All these people lined up to attend his funeral.
Left were Dorothy, his wife, and Leo Jr., his son. Leo Jr. didn't go by Leo Jr., though; he was "Butch," much like his father had been "Mike." Butch overheard one of the parish priests telling his mother that if Butch became too much trouble for her, the church would take him in as orphan. I'm sure she was polite in response, saying, "Go to hell" without saying that at all. She was fiercely charming. Raised Protestant.
Still, that's a scary thing to hear at any age, especially at his father's funeral, where people were telling him to suck it up and not cry. He listened. He didn't cry as he took on after school and night jobs to cover his and Dodo's bills. He didn't cry when he went to the Pinewood Derby with the neighbor's father. He didn't cry when he only got to see his mother in spurts because she was working days at a department store to supplement the money she was making as a night nurse.
He didn't cry. Period. He could have, though. He should have been allowed to. I can only imagine his loneliness and isolation. He wasn't really like other kids, but he shouldn't have been expected to be. He had friends, though, and continues to be revered among his peers. Dad's one of the guys. But he's a man.
He grew up quicker than he should have. His childhood serves as testimony to the fact that the 1950s were run by an outdated notion of grieving, children, and the family process. His life and family serve as testimony that he didn't have to be enslaved by such foolish notions.
He had five children. Each of us owe him the world. He didn't necessarily tell us in great lengths how much we meant to him. He told us, though, by working to send us to schools that pleased him. He would bring us home magazines or articles that indicated he knew exactly what interested us. He would split chicken pieces with me after Mass. Before Mass ended, especially during the boring parts, he would play rock, paper, scissors with us. He would say Rosaries and Devotions to Our Blessed Mother when any of us would be sick or in the hospital. His father taught him that. And he has taught us that.
He's a dad I brag about incessantly. I talk about him to friends and the majority of them are patient about it. They dig him, too, enough that my friends have invited him out with us. Last week, he went with me and two of my best friends to see "Gangs of New York." The four of us fit quite well.
He's going to get at least one phone call from one of my friends wishing him a happy birthday. And why not?
Dad's one of the guys.
Today he turns 59.
He felt he had to fill his dad's shoes. Big shoes to fill. Doc treated many people, both American-born and immigrants alike, whether they had the money or not. He was known by all the families and the tavern-keepers. All these people lined up to attend his funeral.
Left were Dorothy, his wife, and Leo Jr., his son. Leo Jr. didn't go by Leo Jr., though; he was "Butch," much like his father had been "Mike." Butch overheard one of the parish priests telling his mother that if Butch became too much trouble for her, the church would take him in as orphan. I'm sure she was polite in response, saying, "Go to hell" without saying that at all. She was fiercely charming. Raised Protestant.
Still, that's a scary thing to hear at any age, especially at his father's funeral, where people were telling him to suck it up and not cry. He listened. He didn't cry as he took on after school and night jobs to cover his and Dodo's bills. He didn't cry when he went to the Pinewood Derby with the neighbor's father. He didn't cry when he only got to see his mother in spurts because she was working days at a department store to supplement the money she was making as a night nurse.
He didn't cry. Period. He could have, though. He should have been allowed to. I can only imagine his loneliness and isolation. He wasn't really like other kids, but he shouldn't have been expected to be. He had friends, though, and continues to be revered among his peers. Dad's one of the guys. But he's a man.
He grew up quicker than he should have. His childhood serves as testimony to the fact that the 1950s were run by an outdated notion of grieving, children, and the family process. His life and family serve as testimony that he didn't have to be enslaved by such foolish notions.
He had five children. Each of us owe him the world. He didn't necessarily tell us in great lengths how much we meant to him. He told us, though, by working to send us to schools that pleased him. He would bring us home magazines or articles that indicated he knew exactly what interested us. He would split chicken pieces with me after Mass. Before Mass ended, especially during the boring parts, he would play rock, paper, scissors with us. He would say Rosaries and Devotions to Our Blessed Mother when any of us would be sick or in the hospital. His father taught him that. And he has taught us that.
He's a dad I brag about incessantly. I talk about him to friends and the majority of them are patient about it. They dig him, too, enough that my friends have invited him out with us. Last week, he went with me and two of my best friends to see "Gangs of New York." The four of us fit quite well.
He's going to get at least one phone call from one of my friends wishing him a happy birthday. And why not?
Dad's one of the guys.
Sunday, December 29, 2002
2002 Annual Convergence of White People Who Moved to the Suburbs From the City to Get Away From the Black People Goes Off Without Hitch
They came out in droves. In the few days before Christmas, people in suburbia came together in strip mall parking lots. From the morning rush hour to dinner time past dark, they clogged the roads and lots—and they did it together.
The 2002 Annual Convergence of White People Who Moved to the Suburbs From the City to Get Away From the Black People went off without a hitch this past week.
Event locations included parking lots, roads, stores and lines throughout St. Charles and St. Louis Counties.
Activities included waiting in parking lots for lights to go through four or five cycles before leaving. As we sat together waiting for the lights to let us lurch forward, we were infected with friendliness not seen any other time of the year. Drivers kindly waited a second or two before honking their horns. Wrists extended to flip the bird were clad in X-mas jewelry. One woman even took the time to stop mid-intersection to mouth something at me on Christmas Eve. I couldn’t hear what it was, but the crimson in her face matched her green sweatshirt quite nicely.
"Learn to fucking drive!" one person encouraged another convergence attendee.
The suburbs have proven to be a nice alternative to the city. They don’t have strip malls in the city, just individual mom and pop stores. They don’t have too many people there anymore. Besides, those people can’t afford cars anyway. The parking lots would have been less crowded, and thus less bonding time between lights.
Does anyone know how the 2002 Annual Convergence of People Who Stayed Near the Black People in the City went? Not important, just curious. I don't think they have much of a turnout, anyway.
I’m really glad we all got to spend time together for the holidays. Sometimes I get disillusioned with life in non-holiday time. I hate to admit it, but I sometimes even get jaded with the suburbs. It really takes a bonding situation like this to let me know why we all moved out here.
Saturday, December 28, 2002
Something's got to give.
A scientific research company claimed on Friday that it has created the first human clone-- a 7 pound baby girl named Eve. Clonaid was founded by a group of people claiming that life descends from extraterrestrials. The leader of this group is a former journalist who now calls himself "Rael" and sports a white suit and a hairdo hard to describe.
There are several people Rael will have to answer to if he is right -- if Clonaid has cloned a human. He'll have to answer to President Bush, who calls this claim "deeply troubling." He might have to answer to Roberta Combs, president of the Christian Coalition. Combs and her group are not pleased, calling the claim, if true, "an aberration" that "shows a total lack of respect for life and must be prevented."
Something's going to give. If Rael doesn't have to answer to these people and their sentiments, then baby Eve most certainly will. She'll have to answer to it on the schoolyard. She won't be directly answering to Bush, of course, but to the children of the people who voted for him. She'll be forced to answer to the preacher's son, the hippie's granddaughter, and the science teacher. And the preacher himself, and the hippie, too. If any kid was destined to have an isolated existence, it's this kid. The only person in recent memory whose life of isolation could rival that of Eve's was, well, Jesus Christ.
Of course, the world her generation is facing now is no Eden. In New Jersey, it was reported that two children opened their new Barney sing-along book and found a pornographic picture of a man and woman naked. The children were ages 4 and 7.
Rael says Eve's got the potential to be "healthy and beautiful." Whew. Does that mean she won't be part of the 70 percent of young women afflicted with eating disorders? She's going to be healthy and beautiful. She then may not have to deal with eating disorders.
But her peers might, and if not eating disorders, something: rising divorce rates, depression, severe psychological disorders, unemployment. Something has got to give.
But at least we've cloned someone. We have brought a person back into the world in clone form. Whew. Cross that one off the list. Next on the list? Creating a world worth bringing someone into. Cloned or not.
A scientific research company claimed on Friday that it has created the first human clone-- a 7 pound baby girl named Eve. Clonaid was founded by a group of people claiming that life descends from extraterrestrials. The leader of this group is a former journalist who now calls himself "Rael" and sports a white suit and a hairdo hard to describe.
There are several people Rael will have to answer to if he is right -- if Clonaid has cloned a human. He'll have to answer to President Bush, who calls this claim "deeply troubling." He might have to answer to Roberta Combs, president of the Christian Coalition. Combs and her group are not pleased, calling the claim, if true, "an aberration" that "shows a total lack of respect for life and must be prevented."
Something's going to give. If Rael doesn't have to answer to these people and their sentiments, then baby Eve most certainly will. She'll have to answer to it on the schoolyard. She won't be directly answering to Bush, of course, but to the children of the people who voted for him. She'll be forced to answer to the preacher's son, the hippie's granddaughter, and the science teacher. And the preacher himself, and the hippie, too. If any kid was destined to have an isolated existence, it's this kid. The only person in recent memory whose life of isolation could rival that of Eve's was, well, Jesus Christ.
Of course, the world her generation is facing now is no Eden. In New Jersey, it was reported that two children opened their new Barney sing-along book and found a pornographic picture of a man and woman naked. The children were ages 4 and 7.
Rael says Eve's got the potential to be "healthy and beautiful." Whew. Does that mean she won't be part of the 70 percent of young women afflicted with eating disorders? She's going to be healthy and beautiful. She then may not have to deal with eating disorders.
But her peers might, and if not eating disorders, something: rising divorce rates, depression, severe psychological disorders, unemployment. Something has got to give.
But at least we've cloned someone. We have brought a person back into the world in clone form. Whew. Cross that one off the list. Next on the list? Creating a world worth bringing someone into. Cloned or not.
When you look at my brother's hair, there are spots that look blonde. In reality, these are patches where the grey has mixed with his natural brown. Either way, it's kind of neat looking.
He's much too young to have grey hair, and as much as he does. He's 32. He'll point out to you that he'll be 33 in April. Still, too young to have so much grey hair. It's not like he has a whole lot. You can't tell unless you look closely. Real closely. He hides it well. Real well.
Was it genetic? Maybe. Dad's hair is nearly all grey or white now, but there are still fierce spots of black. Mom is just a few years younger than Dad and she has hardly any grey hair. She hides hers even better than John does. She doesn't die her hair. You just have to look real closely if you want to see it, but then you start paying attention to other things and forget about the few grey hairs.
Was it stress? Maybe. Quite possible, actually. He started with the grey hairs at 14. I'm sure Brian and I didn't help it, nor did my parents. My nephew has maybe added a few, but probably he's actually just added some color for him. (Whether this was with a magic marker while John was sleeping, I do not know).
I'm 21. I've known less stress than just about anyone in my family. We all have been blessed with many gifts and situations, but comparitively speaking, I have had the cakewalk by far. I have not known any hometown other than Ladue, have not known Dad in any other job than attorney, and have had the fortune/luck/blessing of being able to finish at every school where I have started. I have had few worries, except for the potential "B" I could have earned here or there. Maybe a C. Other than that, no real worries. I have had it made.
I've not counted any grey hairs I have earned. At least, not that are on my own head. I wish I could look at my family and say the same for them. They have been happy, but some definitely happier than others. They have all had their bad days, but you have to look closely. Real closely. They hide them well. Real well.
He's much too young to have grey hair, and as much as he does. He's 32. He'll point out to you that he'll be 33 in April. Still, too young to have so much grey hair. It's not like he has a whole lot. You can't tell unless you look closely. Real closely. He hides it well. Real well.
Was it genetic? Maybe. Dad's hair is nearly all grey or white now, but there are still fierce spots of black. Mom is just a few years younger than Dad and she has hardly any grey hair. She hides hers even better than John does. She doesn't die her hair. You just have to look real closely if you want to see it, but then you start paying attention to other things and forget about the few grey hairs.
Was it stress? Maybe. Quite possible, actually. He started with the grey hairs at 14. I'm sure Brian and I didn't help it, nor did my parents. My nephew has maybe added a few, but probably he's actually just added some color for him. (Whether this was with a magic marker while John was sleeping, I do not know).
I'm 21. I've known less stress than just about anyone in my family. We all have been blessed with many gifts and situations, but comparitively speaking, I have had the cakewalk by far. I have not known any hometown other than Ladue, have not known Dad in any other job than attorney, and have had the fortune/luck/blessing of being able to finish at every school where I have started. I have had few worries, except for the potential "B" I could have earned here or there. Maybe a C. Other than that, no real worries. I have had it made.
I've not counted any grey hairs I have earned. At least, not that are on my own head. I wish I could look at my family and say the same for them. They have been happy, but some definitely happier than others. They have all had their bad days, but you have to look closely. Real closely. They hide them well. Real well.
Wednesday, December 25, 2002
Merry Christmas! Hope everyone is having a good one, all while remembering the reason for the season. Capitalism. Duh.
My nephew is quite the dude. We were sitting at the dinner table tonight, having a righteous Mama G Turkey dinner, when my sister said to Michael, "Sing the Smashing Pumpkins for Uncle Brian, Uncle John and Uncle Patrick." He started singing a blues song instead and so Kerry said we'd maybe just have to wait. But then the little squirt darted into the kitchen, screaming, "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage!" And of course he said it in 4-year-old speak, which made it that much funnier. We were all loving it, especially my dad. He was just sitting there saying to himself, "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage... That's a great song!"
Michael was then had to get back to the table to finish his green beans and corn if he wanted any of Grandma Janie's square cookie. Quite the task, and my sis had to keep prodding him. Funny thing is, he kept playing with it, so my sister said, "We don't play with our food." Well, Brian then came back in the room and began hopping like a frog, to which Mike said, "Unlce Brian, we aren't playing now!" OMG, so funny, not gonna lie.
The CDs and such for Christmas are on their way to being complete..... Got my sister's almost done and then time for a Christmas themed one and then a Ben Folds Live burning, then some wrapping, and my ass is off to bed.
One last funny thing, though, and this comes courtesy of Derek "MFBayne" Bayne. Quite the dude. The subject matter of said anecdote is Derek's brother, Brett, who is also quite the dude. Brett got Mr. Bayne a gift certificate to a cigar shop and signed it, "From your wigger son Brett." What balls!
But yeah, Merry Christmas everyone. Hope you all have a good one, and make time for prayer, reflection, meditation and/or what you do. I was telling Luke that I was at Mass tonight and could focus on anything but what I should have been thinking about. I don't like that I can be sitting there on Christ's birthday looking at Him on the Cross and not be able to think of anything but, "Okay, so I have to wrap this, and finish this...." I can only imagine that I am not alone on this one. Happens, eh?
My nephew is quite the dude. We were sitting at the dinner table tonight, having a righteous Mama G Turkey dinner, when my sister said to Michael, "Sing the Smashing Pumpkins for Uncle Brian, Uncle John and Uncle Patrick." He started singing a blues song instead and so Kerry said we'd maybe just have to wait. But then the little squirt darted into the kitchen, screaming, "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage!" And of course he said it in 4-year-old speak, which made it that much funnier. We were all loving it, especially my dad. He was just sitting there saying to himself, "Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage... That's a great song!"
Michael was then had to get back to the table to finish his green beans and corn if he wanted any of Grandma Janie's square cookie. Quite the task, and my sis had to keep prodding him. Funny thing is, he kept playing with it, so my sister said, "We don't play with our food." Well, Brian then came back in the room and began hopping like a frog, to which Mike said, "Unlce Brian, we aren't playing now!" OMG, so funny, not gonna lie.
The CDs and such for Christmas are on their way to being complete..... Got my sister's almost done and then time for a Christmas themed one and then a Ben Folds Live burning, then some wrapping, and my ass is off to bed.
One last funny thing, though, and this comes courtesy of Derek "MFBayne" Bayne. Quite the dude. The subject matter of said anecdote is Derek's brother, Brett, who is also quite the dude. Brett got Mr. Bayne a gift certificate to a cigar shop and signed it, "From your wigger son Brett." What balls!
But yeah, Merry Christmas everyone. Hope you all have a good one, and make time for prayer, reflection, meditation and/or what you do. I was telling Luke that I was at Mass tonight and could focus on anything but what I should have been thinking about. I don't like that I can be sitting there on Christ's birthday looking at Him on the Cross and not be able to think of anything but, "Okay, so I have to wrap this, and finish this...." I can only imagine that I am not alone on this one. Happens, eh?
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
R.I.P. Joe Strummer, 1952-2002
Tis Christmas Eve. Happy Tidings to one and all.
Just got a ride home from Bo, in the Durango. Evidence that I am back home. Here in St. Louis. We watched "Eddie Izzard: Dressed to Kill," which I got him on DVD for Christmas. He gave me "More Naughty Than Nice," a Harlequin book not unlike the type my cousin writes. I'm not sure what effect reading this book will have on me but it's funny nonetheless. I wrapped Bo's gift in copies of "The Greek Chronicle" with Joe Alonzo on the cover. He found it a stitch. We stayed in my driveway talking and then he left to go back to St. Chuck, but I told him I was going to be like him and make him call when he got in so I knew he was safe. He did. He's safe. :)
Lurch turned 21 yesterday, so we went to Dave & Buster's. He didn't take any liquid advantage of his age tonight, because he did last night, to the tune of 13 shots, 1 "Mind Eraser" and a shitload of beer. What a dude.
The past few days have been packed with homecomings, reunions and good-byes. Said goodbye to one of the best friends I have ever known as well as to one hella cool Michael J. Fox lookalike former Missourian T.A. Both were hard, but I haven't let either sink in just yet.
Had lunch with Wilson today and that was a blast: sitting in Sportsman's Park, just a few tables away from Joe Buck. Wilson was so impressed he called Raschke to brag. We ordered identical lunches and droned about the Missourian, B.J., Filak, and the events of Friday night that involved someone whose name rhymes with "Hoodloe." And, we talked about journalism!: why we're in it, how we dig narrative leads, what about Healy we wish we had, etc. It's great to talk to someone else in the field who has such a passion. I love my friends here, but their schtick is mainly theatre, and when you have to explain to some of them who Strom f****** Thurmond is, well, hell no.
Dwelling on sadness be damned, though, for I hung out with Jenn (JJ) last night! Man, oh man, how I love that I can still hang with a friend from Immacolata and have the topic be something so blunt and brash that we have to do the Sign of the Cross periodically so as to cover our bases. She's great-- someone I can talk turkey about the church with, and we totally get each other. We have the same beefs with the Church, mainly women priests, the whole "Leviticus" thang, and the Bernard Law/Boston Archdiocese debacle. We had dinner here (at my parents' house... ooh, weird way to refer to it!!) and then went to Coffee Cartel in the Central West End. Baron and his friends showed up before going to Boxers N' Briefs, all in make-up, wigs and halter tops. Baron made a good lookin' girl, but the others had the attractiveness of Patrick Swayze (let me finish) in "Priscilla, Queen of the Desert." That's the one he was in, right? Or was it "Wong Foo"? Either way, I gotta say "FUGLY!" And guess who we should spot? Jeremy, the "Structure boy" from over the summer. JJ was sitting there and looked up to see him kissing whom we thought was his boyfriend. His ringfinger on his left hand even had a ring! We were proud of ourselves for being able to recognize him.
Finished Christmas shopping in between all this, with enough restraint not to flip the bird at anyone (not my style). However, this big-haired aunt-looking chick at the Kirkwood Wal-Mart, who blitzed around a right turn like the SS, gave me a dirty look, and so I had to speak to her in the confines of my car. "Listen, bitch..." Don't you love how the capitalistic orgy that Christ's birth has been reduced to has caused us to converge in public to act as whores and treat each other like shit?
That's about all I know. I'm burning CDs and such now, but I best be off to bed. It's 4 a.m., do you know where your children are? Better not be with Bernard Law, that's for sure.
Sunday, December 22, 2002
I be bloggin'. Gettin' my blog on. Me + Blog = L.U.V.
Tis a trend, this online diary thing, one which has claimed countless victims: Jill & Coley, Erica, Colleen, Protz, Erin, and Luke.
And now it has me. In honor of the trendiness of said form of communication, I was going to compile the list of "Top Five Trends That Pat's Soul Ganked By," but I could only think of Teva's. Fun sandals, they were. At least I did not give into the Birkenstocks. I could get a pair now and be okay, but back in the days of junior high, it was all about keeping up with the Jones'.
Can I get an "Aw, helllll no!"?
But now I have a blog. Word up. I'm hoping to have one of those sections where you can talk back and what-have-you. Don't know yet.
So yeah, this is it-- thought my first entry should just be an overview (ala Lukers). My future blog entries for the next few days will include stories such as: "Jane and her sons over some bottles of Guinness," "Wilson's Last Night in Town," and other sundry topics. It's been a weird 24 hours, saying goodbye to Wilson and "this is NOT goodbye" to Erica, coming home to the Irish side of the family, and feeling good about journalism and potential ministry stuff. Word up!
Tis a trend, this online diary thing, one which has claimed countless victims: Jill & Coley, Erica, Colleen, Protz, Erin, and Luke.
And now it has me. In honor of the trendiness of said form of communication, I was going to compile the list of "Top Five Trends That Pat's Soul Ganked By," but I could only think of Teva's. Fun sandals, they were. At least I did not give into the Birkenstocks. I could get a pair now and be okay, but back in the days of junior high, it was all about keeping up with the Jones'.
Can I get an "Aw, helllll no!"?
But now I have a blog. Word up. I'm hoping to have one of those sections where you can talk back and what-have-you. Don't know yet.
So yeah, this is it-- thought my first entry should just be an overview (ala Lukers). My future blog entries for the next few days will include stories such as: "Jane and her sons over some bottles of Guinness," "Wilson's Last Night in Town," and other sundry topics. It's been a weird 24 hours, saying goodbye to Wilson and "this is NOT goodbye" to Erica, coming home to the Irish side of the family, and feeling good about journalism and potential ministry stuff. Word up!
