That Indian weddings are long. Or rather, I’m learning that currently. Damn, but its long. Very interesting, and a damn sight more colorful than western style deals.
Its strange as hell that this is my oldest cousin up there in such a strange trip.
The little Indian kids just succeeded in stealing the shoes of my Army recruiter cousin in law, after it was explained to him that they were supposed to do this. I thought things were going to turn ugly…
In our last adventure, there was chaos and dissention before the wedding… Well, not really, but I WAS at Walmart, and that sucked. We did the Christian wedding this morning, and it went off without a hitch, once the panic of finding the freakin hotel where the thing is held subsided. Now we’re getting ready for the Indian one, which to me is the event of the day.
Gotta go, there’s some kind of event with a red pillow, and I’ve lost Pigpen.
Today us Cemestos Gardenites went up to my old homeplace. It’s in the 37873 zipcode area for all you enquiring minds.
At some point or another, while sitting out on the front porch, my dad and I were talking when the subject of Responsibility and Lifestyle came up. That is a big, generic subject heading that basically translates into: people drive gas guzzling cars too big for everyone’s own good. I don’t think we solved any problems, but it was good to talk with my dad. I don’t get to sit with him so much as I would like to.
He is the sort of man who is able to fix things. He can figure out how make things work. He taught himself how to make baskets. But these aren’t just any crappy, old fruit baskets. No, he goes out into the woods and cuts down a tree. Then drags it back and makes a couple baskets.
Anyway. He said, "you know people are surprised when I tell them I don’t give basket weaving lessons." I know, don’t email me news of your disappointment. Then Dad goes on to say, "People can’t seem to do anything unless they go to a class and learn how to first." Silence.
That comment struck me like a baseball bat. What? Is there such a predicament as being educated to death?
What if my Dad is right? (I think he is, by the way.) How did we get to this point? What if our education system is a big machine that just produces more students?
All this time I thought I’d been taught to be original and think for myself. Now, I’m going to have to go back to school.
Its like drinking a milkshake through a coffee stirrer. I’ve always been a stream of thought writer, but this little assed keyboard has me funnelling that thought a little thin. It also tends to make my already disappointing spelling and grammar worse.
However, it also is liberating to be able to pull this bastard out and get something down. It seems lately I’ve been sitting down to this site with a completely empty mind, where previously that would be the only time my mind wasn’t empty.
That free breakfast was less free than described, and was apparently leftover prison food. Mom and I were going to run out to this evil place to get thread for hemming my pants, but she ditched me for bringing Pigpen along in his futuramas, so I’m eating a congratulatory Mcdonalds biscuit for buying thread like a boy boy.
That’s pathos!