One Ping Only...

So, the boot stays on for another week. I was kinda expecting it, so it's not a huge deal. I still showed the scar off to anyone who wanted to see it on Saturday night.

Speaking of Saturday night, I hope the camera where all the pictures are stored never winds up in the wrong hands. I'll never be able to run for president if that happens. More accurately, my nut sack won't be able to. I don't think my face is in any of those pictures.

If someone does happen to find it, I have a pretty good memory of which 'stem' belongs to which improviser, so I should be able to translate for you.

PIB this weekend. Counting the days...

NO WHAMMIES!

Big day today. Go to the Doc to get the Achilles looked at. If all goes well, I'm hoping to be able to ditch Das Boot for good. Just in time for a certain bachelor party this weekend and some late season golf. Of course, Physical Therapy follows, which isn't great, but it'll be better than my entire summer of non-physical, immobilization therapy.

Plus I would get to show off the brand new zipper scar I got in my ankle. Thankfully, it's on the inside of the foot so it didn't ruin my kick ass Frat Tat.

Expensive weekend

This is what I bought on Saturday.
It replaces this: This is what I bought on Sunday: It replaces this:

Touristas go home

We played tourist on Sunday. Millennium Park. It's a neat place. It burns 4 or 5 hours, and it's free. Gotta love it. The kids sure did.

My little hippy loved dancing in the band shell

Jack spent his time working the bean.
And I hobbled around on one foot trying to keep them from getting kidnapped.

Life in the fast lane

Summer keeps sliding by...

One of the crazy things about living as an adult in the town you grew up is that you tend to see people from your past. High School bullies now belly up to the bar with you. The hot chick from down the block now waits on you at the Breakfast Joint(not so hot anymore, wow). The burnout from shop class is now selling you a new car. Weird stuff like that. Not bad, but certainly different.

I spent all 14 innings of last night's Sox game slugging back tequila with people I promised myself I'd never talk to again.

I'm not old, I'll be 34 next month, but sometimes I feel like such a DAD, dig? I know I'm a dad, and have been for awhile, but sometimes I feel like MY dad. Get it?

I wish I had the writing ability to put how this feels into words, but I don't. Suburbia is weird.