Twas the Night Before...

Contrary to popular belief, I am a Kansas high-school graduate! That’s K-12 baby! (even then I was rather anti-establishment)

It’s one of those gray and somber days where the all objects are united under the ubiquitous cloak of a long, cool shadow. Old man winter has chosen Louisiana (along with most of the south!) to rest his aching bones for Christmas. I’ve even received word via email that snowflakes are falling on Texas.

We just got back from a Christmas special at church which was aptly titled, Unwrapped. Northshore, the church my parents practically built (they are the guys behind the guy) is very contemporary and the special, which featured interpretive dance and even Dave Matthews music, was as well.

On the way home, as we raved about the extraordinary dancing, my dad bogusly claimed he was responsible for the graceful choreography. I knew it! There was a certain elegance I detected but couldn’t quite put my finger on... I’ve resolved to refer to my dad from now on as Michael Flatley. On second thought, perhaps Andrew Lloyd Webber might suit him more aptly. My brothers, who are quite the dancers themselves (we call them "the company"), agree wholeheartedly.

There are many joys that come along with being the older brother of triplets. Some are obvious: lots of hugs and kisses, abundance of snuggle time, and plenty of cute pictures that melt the heart of those even cuter Texas girls.



Some are not so obvious, like those few moments just before bed when I tip toe into their room to tuck them in one last time. Suffice it to say they are angels (their waking state is another matter altogether) as they lay safely, dreaming probably of a Pokeman. Well, that’s sort of an umbrella dream. In all reality, their dreams are most likely beautifully dissimilar. Though if I had to guess...

Bill: In a Billy the Kid inspired scenario, he travels the mean streets of New Orleans looking for masked bandits and various rapscallions of the sort. He is a neo-cowboy, not to be trifled with and the unfortunate vagabonds who cross his path will learn just that. The hard way. When Bill’s fateful bullets meet their mark the perpetrator is immediately turned into a Reece's Peanut Butter Cup. Of course, many are killed and therefore many Peanut Butter Cups consumed, but Bill’s six year old metabolism keeps him quick on his feet and even quicker on the draw.

Austin: After strapping on his jet pack, this little Buzz Light Year extraordinaire explores the galaxy in an effort to "find gold and collect jewels." Along the way he dispenses of pirates and villainous chinchillas, who despite having soft fur, want to steal his jet pack to use for evil purposes (hide gold and destroy jewels). The ultimate threat, however, is the evil Zurg who looks surprisingly like his big brother Michael, whose main tactic of offense is pinching, also surprisingly similar to his big brother Michael. It’s sort of a cautionary tale with implicit warnings against Marxism and endorsements for laissez-faire economics.

John: Girls, girls, girls.

Editors note: I swear, I don’t plan these blogs. In fact, today’s was supposed to be about some reflections I had on Noam Chomsky’s 9/11 and the inherent fallibility of linguists turned NIT professors turned old turned senile turned pseudo-political aficionado turned senile once more. Needless to say, there was something of a digression.