We’re on our way home from school, “we” being me, Squirt, and his bud Eddy.

SQUIRT: (pressing his face against the car window) Is anybody there right now?

EDDY: No… Oh, wait! Aw. False alarm.

SQUIRT: (disappointed) Aw.

You might think they’re hoping to see a friend, or a cute girl, or a burglary in progress, or maybe even a clown who just happens to be juggling swords of flame while balancing on a unicycle as we drive by.

Nope. You’d be wrong.

What these two fine examples of American youth are hoping to witness is… another act of public urination.

About a month ago they saw one guy relieving himself on the sidewalk, and the hilarity of it carried them through a whole week of carpooling.

Now they examine the same spot every day as we drive by, searching for The Peeing Man (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). Failing to catch anyone else in the act, they are stuck with reminiscing.

SQUIRT: That was the funniest thing. Ever. Ha, ha, ha! I was just looking out the window…

EDDY: Oh, my god, I laughed so hard! Ha, ha, ha! Me, too! Looking out the window!

SQUIRT: I thought he was just standing there, waiting for a bus or something… and then… HA, HA, HA!

EDDY: We see the stream! HA, HA, HA, HA, HA!

Maybe I’d be laughing, too, if I’d seen it for myself. But somehow I doubt it.

Here’s an excellent little timewaster for you… City Jumper. The game is kind of like this Russian guy’s workout regimen, except there’s no techno-music stuff in the background and our jumper is a stick figure who tries to grab seagulls.

Controls are simple: left arrow lets you jump a little. Right arrow lets you jump a lot. Down arrow lets you pause and think things over.

Be careful you don’t crash, otherwise body parts will fly everywhere!

And as my boys keep telling me, I have no game skills. But hey! I’m no quitter! The ironing can wait until I master this!

Via Digg.com.

This tall drink of water is “Bill” G.B. Wren.

He was a Texan, a member of Patton’s Third Army in the 704 Tank Destroyer Battallion during World War II.

He fought in the battles and campaigns of Northern France, Ardennes, Rhineland, and Central Europe. When he came home to the States he caught the eye of a pretty nurse from North Dakota. They married and raised a family.

We don’t know much about his service in Europe as his records were burned in the National Personnel Records fire in 1973, but we do have his discharge papers and a small box of tiny photographs he had developed after returning to the States.

I scanned them all and made up a showcase for them here. Since the photos don’t have any captions on them I could only organize them into logical groups and make guesses as to where they might have been taken.

If anyone can offer us some information regarding the locations shown in the photos, his family would appreciate it very much.

They are not dead who live
In hearts they leave behind.
In those whom they have blessed
They live a life again,
And shall live through the years
Eternal life, and grow
Each day more beautiful

“They Softly Walk” by Hugh Robert Orr

Have a thoughtful Memorial Day, everyone, and as we enjoy our barbecues and days off, never forget the sacrifices made by our men and women in the military.

(The Monday Morning Mojo will return next week.)

You can storm around all you want and huff and puff till the house blows down. I have only one question, Babs, honey: “What have you sold”?

Miss Snark, the Literary Agent to Barbara Bauer.

This is what you call perfect justice. Literary Agent Scam Artist Barbara Bauer hustles a whole lot of writers. Word gets around, and she lands on a list of the 20 Worst Agents.

This list appears all over, including Absolute Write. Bauer cries libel and Absolute Write’s webhost rather stupidly shuts them down without investigating the facts.

Writers everywhere explode with the unfairness of it all. Even Neil Gaiman is getting into the act. Is Ms. Bauer going to try to shut everybody down? I think not!

Today’s Super Sabado explores the question: what is it that motivates people to do the not-so-nice things they do? Is it always money?

Deep stuff, which we will wash down with our usual Margaritas and not-so-usual blue corn chips courtesy of Miklb. (I’d be more eloquent in my thanks, Miklb, but I shouldn’t talk with my mouth full.)

Pass the guac and let’s imagine there are no calories in Mexican food, because oh! How I love the stuff. (Read the rest of “Super Sabado: Hmmph!”)

Volunteering to run a three-day swim meet food concession is like volunteering to throw yourself into a volcano: the rare individuals who make such offers rarely last long enough to do it again.

And then there are those who get talked into volunteering: clueless souls who never even notice the volcano part of the job until they’re sailing into the crater.

“You should never answer your phone,” Abby said. “I stopped answering mine last year. I screen all my calls.”

I considered this and then lit up. “But you always pick up for me!”

“You nut! Of course I pick up your calls. You never ask me to do anything! It’s only a few swim moms I have to avoid.”

Abby was sharing her Swim Team Volunteer Avoidance Secrets with me in case I survived the snack bar long enough to be shanghaied into doing another meet. So far, her tips also included hiding in the car when picking up a swimmer—but only if a booster club board member was nearby.

“You don’t have to avoid ALL the moms,” she explained. “Just the board members. They’re dangerous. You stop for a quick chat and the next thing you know you’re next year’s meet manager.”

“Yikes!” I said.

“Look at me,” said Abby, jabbing her thumb at her chest. “I volunteer when I want, where I want. I choose the job. That’s because I can spot a board member a mile away and I screen all my calls. And I don’t let myself get talked into anything I don’t want to do.”

These insights were extremely informative and I probably should’ve been taking notes, but I was already thinking about how to properly phrase my next question.

“So,” I said, in what I hoped was a non-board memberish fashion. “Are you free on—”

“Forget it. I’ll work Hospitality for you Saturday afternoon, but I don’t ever work the snack bar.”

“You’re on!” I said gratefully, and wrote her name down.

I may be sailing into that crater, but I can recognize a good food concession volunteer when I see one.

This party is over a month away and yet Squirt—the kid who won’t work on a term paper unless it’s due within 24 hours—has already spent hours planning.

SQUIRT: Mom, we’re supposed to bring an unwrapped book, music CD or movie DVD.

BONNIE: So what do you want to bring?

SQUIRT: Well, I thought it over and decided on a book: The Zombie Survival Guide.

BONNIE: I’m not too sure tha—

SQUIRT: I almost went with Gaiman’s Coraline, because, well, it really IS a good book. But you just can’t beat The Zombie Survival Guide for usefulness and practicality.

Ah, the memories. Our first dates: a dinner, a movie, countless quarters dropped into various arcade machines…

Game codes provided by: Myspace Games

Via Best Brain Drain.

WHAT: The last foam dog bed we will ever buy.

I mean it. We’re through. The end, ZIP, Fini.

(Read the rest of “Monday Morning Mojo No. 34″)

It’s fiesta season in the local high schools. And last night Didi’s daughter had a huge party that didn’t break up until 3 am. A huge, LOUD party.

A teenager honks his horn as he leaves Didi’s house and Hubby tosses. Another argues with his girlfriend in the driveway and Hubby grinds his teeth. And then two teens try to see which one of them has the loudest car stereo system. That’s when Hubby starts growling.

Me, I can sleep through almost anything—except Hubby. If Hubby isn’t sleeping, ain’t nobody sleeping.

So you all enjoy the margaritas. I’m going to have one of those Mexican Coffee (yawn) and hopefully I won’t nod off. (Read the rest of “Super Sabado: Too tired to care”)

Tiger found a linkable video of the newscast I mentioned here. Somehow they managed to find one coherent sentence in all my splorking—amazing!

I’m the gal in the glasses at the very end, just before they sign off.

Thanks, Tiger!

P.S.

I’m NOT the lady in the sunglasses. Not that there’s anything wrong with that lady in the sunglasses.