Our Eve

Overheard by Dan on the streets of NYC, “There is no holding hands in Times Square, if we get separated, we’ll meet again in heaven.” Our Eve was quieter than the one presented last night on TV, but it was also much drier. It did rain here and quite a bit, but that was well done my midnight. I know this, because we all managed to make it to the witching hour. We did see some fireworks, just not the ones pictured. Ours were of the local, neighborhood variety.

Unexpectedly, Dan stayed in for the night. I was surprised and a bit unprepared, but there was more than enough supper for the three of us. As the out-of-town impresario, Dan held the remote for the night’s entertainment. Befitting the only member of our household having his own IMDb page, he began with a series of lectures from movie dialect coach Erik Singer. Singer’s talks included voice coach analysis of famous actors speaking with an accent not their own. He also deconstructed fictional “constructed languages,” such as Klingon and Dothraki.

For the feature film, Dan chose Avengers: Infinity Wars. This Marvel superhero movie includes a cast of thousands, so I was always asking Dan, “Who’s that?” Meanwhile, Anne the biblioklept, read Dan’s book, Hope Never Dies. This non-Marvel superhero story, features two buds, two out-of-work civil servants, Joe and Barack, now chaffing at the lack of action. A suspicious death launches this dynamic duo into the role of amateur sleuths. These two parallel tales concluded at about the same time, just before the night’s big countdown got interesting. 

All that Glitters

Tablecloth, Milky Way, Marguerita Mergentime, 1939

Anne’s yarn-a-month club gift box states that she “crafts so hard that she sweats glitter,” which really makes a mess, especially in-between the sheets. Glitter in bed is worse than beach sand, if you ask me. Still, I was intrigued by Caity Weaver’s New York Times article about glitter. In it she waxes poetic, while describing a glitter factory’s appearance that she visited for her story:

…which looked like an industrial manufacturing plant colonized by pixies. The concrete floor was finely coated with what appeared to be crushed moonbeams. The forklift winked with shiny crimson flecks.

I was actually more intrigued with the underlying science. There wasn’t all that much in her article, trade secrets precluded many disclosures, but one could read between the lines. I’ve had some similar experience that guides my guesses on how glitter is made. Those processes were even more closely guarded than gold.

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Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, the day that the boys practice pugilism. We got out and about today. First, lunch and Literati, which I kept wanting to call Illuminati. Anne and I walked home from there, the boys taking the car, having more boxing yet to do.

Lunch was at the Blue Tractor, which was not as good as Grizzly’s, even though Grizzly’s serves the beer brewed at the Tractor, but more about that later. The luncheon clientele consisted primarily of families with small children. The table next to us had two couples, with between them four children in high chairs, plus one still strapped to mom. Anne observed that everyone was taking their kids out to lunch, which we were too, but I also observed that our boys were bigger and could probably take anyone else’s there. Boxing Day, don’t you know.

Ordering there was somewhat difficult. The first beer selection that Dave chose, they were out of. So too for the first beer that Dan ordered and again for Dave’s second attempt. They were also out of the food that I first ordered and the same for Dave. We did all eventually get food and drink, but when it came time to pay the bill, both the first and second pens handed to me were out of ink. 

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Back to the glitterati. On the way home, Anne told me a glitter related joke. It is a little bit racy, but here it goes:

A woman getting ready for her GYN appointment, first took a washcloth to her lady parts. Her doctor upon examination commented, “Wow, you really did something special.” “Thank you for noticing,” she replied. Returning home, she was immediately queried by her teenage daughter, “Mom have you seen the washcloth that I used to clean off my glitter makeup?”  

The Bro Code

Central Park Street Lamp

We picked Dan up at the airport last night and we’ll retrieve Dave from there tonight. Earlier this month the boys teamed up to win a Warhammer 40K tournament in Williamsburg. They had sent a photo of themselves, celebrating their victory and I wrote about it then. I’ve since learned how they pulled off this win. This tournament had a theme, which was the Bro Code. This machismo set of rules was first developed for Neil Patrick Harris, on the TV show, How I Met Your Mother. For this tourney, teams of two competed in a set of three games. The boys only won two of their three, which is normally not enough to win everything, but each game also had a selection of “Bro Code” objectives and they did quite well in meeting those. The kicker came after all the games were played. Each team took a trivia quiz and were judged on how closely their answers matched each other. The guys scored quite well on this test. When it was revealed that two brothers had won, organizers of the tournament took it as evidence that their tourney truly reflected the values of the Bro Code.

In other meaningless nonsense, I am proud to declare that for the first time ever, I have successfully mastered the Little Drummer Boy challenge. For all you hipsters out there, this challenge is a contest of honor, where from Thanksgiving to Christmas Eve one attempts to go through life without hearing any part of this song. I have played and lost every year, since first hearing of this game, but like the boys, I am now victorious! Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!