Worried, disturbed, unsettled, and wary of a possible Vice President who named her kids Track, Bristol, Willow, Piper and Trig, we pack up some "Sprite" and the frisbee, and we head for the hills, which is to say, we cross the street into Central Park and seek the consolation of wisdom from the cult of disco-crazed bloggers on Bear Hill.
I am sitting next to Dr. Jeff who has brought with him a gift for me that necessitates an on-the-spot scientific demonstration illustrating the meaning of meniscus. The gift is a sealed-for-sterility calibrated pipet (Pipette is the name of our first daughter.) Dr. Jeff sucks up some "Sprite" into the pipet and I learn to read the amount from the lowest point of the concave surface (meniscus) of the Sprite. Adjacent lessons about capillary action and the dreaded parallax error are had. (Parallax is the name of our first son.) When taking measurements, the parallax error may be avoided by the bobbling of one's head as if you were one of those dashboard hula girl figurines. I think the idea is to take an average or to never attempt to read a calibrated pipet unless you are in a taxi moving over the distempered pavement of Lexington Avenue.
There are dogs among us, one of which appears to be possessed by a demon and fixated on Little David. I could not bear to photograph the ensuing recreation of the demonic conception in Rosemary's Baby in which Paul and Tom chant while Little David is mounted as Mia Farrow. (You have to click on this one.)
The other dog is interested in a bag of chicken jerky tenders the consumption of which by humans is considered. Briefly. (Jerky is the name of our second son.)
Later on, someone learns a lesson about not trying to play Frisbee after having enjoyed too much "Sprite".
The Frisbee game, coupled with an earlier visit to the gym, does me in. I'm sure I have hyponatremia but I am clueless as to how one ought to calculate the correct amount of sodium needed to replenish the body after exercise and perspiration. I am reduced to seatbound inertia for the rest of our time on the hill (Eyenursha is the name of our second daughter.)
Plans are made for a reconvening of the group late in the evening at Nowhere (bar on 14th Street that hosts a regularly scheduled retroish event called "Double headed disco". Tonight is their offshoot called "Double headed disco sucks" meaning we will hear non-disco music from the same era.) At the bar, we meet BJ and discuss our plans for the upcoming trip to Ptown. We also discuss the fact that many gay men prefer to watch straight porn because the men seem more "natural". BJ and C deride this, saying that they simply cannot ignore the presence of elongated and red-lacquered fingernails wrapped around a straight man's dick and the visual framework of thick lipstick, foundation, mascara, eye shadow and streaked blonde hair servicing the same appendage. They marvel at the fact that straight men can actually endure this let alone enjoy it. I suggest that straight men prefer the cosmetically overwrought ministrations because it allows them to further objectify the source of their stimulation. That is not a woman. It's just some sort of painted appliance. This would certainly explain kabuki. (Our fifth child, adopted in Thailand, is named Porn.)