The Best Stuff

Us kids are gearing up for our big adventure of taking Dad to see the WWII Memorial. Rooms are booked, plane tickets purchased, wheelchair rented, and new clothes are ready. My sister got him all new clothes for the trip and when she came in with the bags, he thought they were full of school clothes for my sister's grandson. "For me?" The guy hardly ever receives anything, but is always himself giving gifts: he is the endless supplier of caps, mugs, and pocket-knives. He can't pass up these bargains if he thinks somebody in the family could use them. While I used to think it odd that he could spend an hour in a grocery store, come out with a single can of Vienna sausage, and excitedly bid us all come share it, I've long since got a hold of his Depression-Era mentality that makes little things mean so much. So, thanks for all the stuff, Dad.

On another personal note, my old squad-member Mike has deployed to the 'Stan. That he'll be the soldier that gets twenty packages to the other guys' one is evidenced in the fact that he's kept in monthly contact with me for the past 11 years. He keeps all his friends.

If you want something that amuses, check out Tim Blair's Big Imperialist American Refrigerator thread. That so many witty commenters could converge in one place is really something. The best blogger, the best commenters: my all-time favorite blog.