For Father’s Day, Kevin went and jumped out an airplane. I am not sure what the fascination is, but he is the third one in my family to do it. As for me, I can’t even stand at the top of the Matterhorn without getting extremely dizzy, let alone jump out of a perfectly good airplane.
I am convinced that our upstairs neighbor is working for a porn web site. Really. One of the disadvantages (or advantages if you are a pervert) to living downstairs from someone is that occasionally you end up listening to them having sex. Now, this has happened in every apartment that I have lived in where there has been someone else upstairs (Thankfully in Davis, my bedroom was above the living room). Normally, sex alone is not enough to think that the person – in this case a female – works for a porn site. I have noticed that whenever she gets to the point of screaming certain phrases out (i.e. give it to me now, ohh yeah, etc.) and finishing, it is always less than 5 minutes before the top of the hour. Her most frequent sessions end right before noon. It has become a game to me, where I join in and start yelling back at her. Next stop: I will start blasting the Bloodhound Gang’s hit song “The Bad Touch” (You and me baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals So let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel).