"You realize that in Zen terms everything in the universe is just molecules, don't you? Ying and yong, ping and pong, mmm?" - Eddie, Ab Fab

 

Sam Houston is really huge. Really, really huge. He was, unfortunately, smaller than King Kong, but still managed to defeat him using his super-powered Masonic cane. Sam Houston was so powerful he would have probably even defeated Mothra, if it hadn’t been rained out in the third inning. Around the base of the statue, various people bought bricks with their names on them, including Dan Rather and George W. Bush (the only place you’ll find those two together, I’m sure, and Nobel Prize© winner Lech Walesa (a personal hero). If you hadn’t noticed, my e-mails to Stockholm have gone thus far unrequited.

A long drive is either a way to get closer and bond with your family, or to learn to hate each other with a passion not seen outside of the passion involved in hating movies starring Mickey Rourke.

In our case, Zen was satisfied: it was both love and hate.

The backseat was a jungle of juvenile jousting, with The Boy and Pugsley each initiating and retaliating hostilities – it was like watching the news involving Spike Lee and Clint Eastwood sniping at each other. Don’t know about you, but I’d be really scared of antagonizing Dirty Harry®. First he’ll mock you, then he’ll save a million dollar trial with a $1.39 worth of lead and powder. It was noisy, and frankly, I antagonized my big brother the same way.

Finally The Mrs. snapped.

“You,” The Mrs. said, pointing at The Boy, “put on your headphones and shut up.”

“You,” The Mrs. said, pointing at Pugsley, “do whatever it is you do in that smug little mind of yours.”

The Boy dutifully put on his headphones and began listening to a mixture of vintage Judas Priest® (which, for some reason, he insisted I put on the mp3 player), kid songs, and mp3’s of a radio host talking about ghosts and exorcism. The Boy is all about eclectic.

Pugsley began doing, well, he began doing whatever three-year-olds do on a long boring car trip.

The Mrs. and I talked far and wide, about philosophy, about love, about money, and about my hairy ears.

Both The Mrs. and I had read the Scottish Play (if you know Shakespeare, you know we’re talking about the one where the guy named Mac kills the king, etc.). Early on, I had read in the Shakespeare liner notes where “fop-eared” meant that one had hairy ears, generally a sign of low-bred villainy.

I had noticed that my ears were a bit hairy. Since this was going to be (yeah, after 11 years of marriage) the first time that I had met these particular relatives of The Mrs. at the family reunion, she intoned,

“Yea, verily, anon, gaze upon yon fop-eared villain cozening upon near yon potatoe salade.”

Thankfully, Holiday Inn Express® has a free razor that I used to shorn the fop-eared look. The Mrs. knitted a nice sweater out of the foppishness. She’s crafty that way.

Anyhow, we finally got to the hotel, and The Boy wanted to go swimming. The pool was smaller than the one we have at home, yet he was drawn to it, mainly because I think he was bored out of his skull. I put on my swimsuit (Pugsley steadfastly refused to go) and we headed on down.

The Mrs. and I formerly owned a hot tub, which we abandoned in Alaska. The pool had a nearby hot-tub, and I jumped in. Ahhh . . .

Don’t know about you, but I’d turn down a pool any day for a hot tub. Hot tubs are evocative of music, conversation, and, well, beer drinking. Pools? Fun, but not nearly as cerebral. I think that Einstein would have had a hot tub, but Paris Hilton has a pool. Need I say anymore?

Again, Zen is satisfied, Albert and Paris. Yen and Yang. Sort of.