Purple Park

First order of business was to secure some sidewalk chalk. A bucket of the stuff.

Stuff-Mart, turns out, is stocking Crayola buckets for three-something. Deal, game on.



Em had begged off of this expedition on the basis that it was the American Idol finale. I almost forced her to come anyway, because it's stupid to sit in front of a TV on an evening this nice when you haven't been together as a family in a week. But then I recalled how my Dad's overreaching efforts to control my media consumption had driven that consumption.

As in, Balance Time. A lot of the things you fight with your parents about growing up, you eventually realize they were right. But Balance Time was just stupid. The theory was that KISS and AC/DC were corrupting my morals and addling my brain. To counteract the poison, for every hour I listened to music of my choosing, I was required to listen to an hour of KUDL, an easy listening station even my Dad, if he was honest, would have had to admit was both dull and annoying.



If I wasn't going to kiss Ozzy's ring before, Balance Time cinched it.

As terrible as American Idol is, I can't afford to have Em worship it out of sheer contrariness.



For the record, my problem with American Idol is they have these people doing covers, and not even covers of their own choosing. A legit act would have its own material. The contest would be open (as the music industry actually is) to different combinations of instruments, different sorts of singers, and the band that has chemistry. Ozzy's first two solo albums are not great because he's a versatile lounge-type singer. They're great because in Randy Rhodes, he stumbled on maybe the best guitarist for that genre ever. Or, to take a different example, where would the Pogues fit in the American Idol scheme of things? Mighty Mighty Bosstones? Dicky might make the out-takes audition show.



Sorry, Idol fans, but I liked the show better when it was called The Gong Show. We'll be right back with more STUFF!

Digression. I know, it's an illness with me.

Me and Mo got our sidewalk chalk and I asked her what park she wanted to take our weird little act to. Veteran's Park? The park by the Catholic church (I don't know the name of this park)? Go out to the school?



'Purple,' she said. And I knew what she meant. The park by the Catholic church, with it's purple and yellow playground equipment.

I still need to learn the name of that park.



As I was setting up, I heard some kids who live in the duplex nearest this park say, 'The Rocket Guy is here.'



I get a lot more launches in when there are honyocks dying to chase down my recoveries. The down side, a little girl bringing back Tony G. crushed him when she was crawling under a fence by putting her weight on the hand that held him. She didn't know, but that put him into retirement.



And then there's kids wanting to push the button. I'm happy to share up to a point, but the kids seem to outnumber even a theoretical number of launches.

Still, it's cool. And I wonder if I could ever get back to a point where I'd run just for the sheer hell of it. Where it'd take more effort to not run.



Mo had fun, too. Pushed the button once. Spent most of her time trying to deface the entire park with chalk. And some time seeing if she could achieve escape velocity on the swings.