"We're giving Pilate two days to dismantle the entire apparatus of the Roman Imperialist State." - Reg, The Life of Brian

The Boy, contemplating the reflecting pond paid for by your oil dollars. His comment? "How deep is that?" I love The Boy.

It was a rainy, hot weekend in Houston. Actually, the horror stories that I’ve heard about Houston being hotter and sweatier than Rosie O’Donnell’s armpits are not at all true – Houston is much more like Jodie Foster’s armpit. Perhaps even Julianne Moore’s armpit. I’m sensing a trend here. Do you still dream about sweating of the lambs, Clarice?

So, what do you do with a perfectly nice Saturday, when you really don’t want to face working on the house again? In my case I spent a good chunk of the morning with The Boy, watching DIY® network. The Mrs. got up and said, “What’s the plan?”

Given the general lethargy of the room, the gravity field emanating from the couch soon dragged her down, too. Fast forward two hours and an episode of “Man Caves”. (Man Caves is a show about big fat former NFL™ defensive lineman Tony Siragusa renovating houses.) The Mrs. awoke.

The Mrs. confronted me. “I though you had all sorts of plans of what you wanted to do this weekend.”

I nodded.

“Did they somehow all distill themselves into sleeping on the couch all weekend? I got dressed and ready to go, and, hmmph. Nothing.”

I grasped for an excuse, no matter how feeble and Clinton-like. “Umm, honey, I was going to go to the store. Buy some more O’Doul’s.”

I could see by her expression that me wandering off to purchase more near-beer wasn’t what she was looking for. I went through a litany of the potential things we could do, and she nodded. Within ten minutes we were loaded into the Wildermobile® and off.

Another ten minutes, and The Mrs. was wondering, umm, exactly where were we going?

“The Houston Museum of Natural Science.”

“I thought we were going to the Antiquarium.”

I had but one (true) defense. “I have no idea where the Antiquarium is. I know where the museum is.”

We found the parking lot for the museum. We disengaged our personal restraint devices and headed . . . well, we headed toward a clump of trees.

“Where do you think it is?” I asked.

“Well, the sign was on that corner,” The Mrs. responded. We proceeded to walk, and saw a gentleman walking out of (what appeared to be) the main mass of museum.


Sam Houston points the way to the entrance. We went the other way. Stupid us. Never NOT trust a statue.

“That must be the entrance,” The Mrs. said.

“Nope. No wheelchair ramp.” I pointed at Pugsley, strapped into his adamantium stroller (adamantium being the only metal strong enough to support him at his current weight) and said, “Do you want to lift him up those stairs?”

I saw The Mrs. face turn pale. No one wants to pick Pugsley up, since he weighs more per unit volume than anything but adamantium. We kept walking, but saw what was, obviously, the back of the building. We turned around, primarily because The Mrs. had my ear in her hand, which is a really effective navigational aid for her. I just wish The Mrs. wouldn’t say “gee” and “haw” so much.

Anyhow, we managed to heft Pugsley up the stairs to get inside, and found out we were at the back entrance. We stopped at the McDonald’s® inside the main museum hall and fed Pugsley. Hey, a boy’s gotta eat. And if it’s Pugsley, well, let’s just say the most dangerous place in the world is between that boy and a steak.

We ate, and then I bought tickets and we went inside to see the Romans.


Doesn't Jupiter look a lot like Jim Morrison?

Let’s just say, I enjoyed the exhibit (very much), but it would have been much better if Judas Priest had been singing songs about Rome in a mini-concert while we perused ancient hunks of rock. You know, ancient rockers singing about ancient rock. Would have been neat.

We finally got out of moldy old Rome, and left. The Mrs., The Boy and Pugsley all had fun. The Romans weren’t so much different from us, with the exception that they didn’t have DVD’s.

We walked out into the Jodie Foster armpit that is Houston, and a general calm descended over us. Not a bad Saturday.

Tonight’s post brought to you by the wine Shiraz, the letter Judas Priest, and the beer Negra Modelo. (Did I say I was giving up drinking? No. I just like near-beer, too.)