Archive for August, 2009

LaPorte, Indiana

Thursday, August 6th, 2009

My old college buddy Joe is working on his directorial debut: a documentary called LaPorte, Indiana. I can’t decide whether or not the premise is simple or ambitions.  I suppose it’s both, and that’s what’s so great about it.  I described it as “Peoples Is Peoples: The Movie.”

But don’t take my word for it.  Watch the trailer, and then, if you’re feeling moved to do so, help them finish it.

The Noble Puifin

Wednesday, August 5th, 2009

I painted my brother a housewarming present.  He went through a puffin phase as a kid, which was rekindled in Ireland when we learned that puffin is spelled puifin in Irish.  He also went through a Notre Dame phase, but I don’t think I could paint Touchdown Jesus.


The Best Hands

Tuesday, August 4th, 2009

My brothers used to play a game they called “Hands.”  It involved throwing a foam ball — the “Hands” ball — at each other as hard as possible and seeing who could catch it.  Whoever dropped it the least would declare that they have “The best hands in the family.”

I didn’t play the game much.  I often dropped the ball.

This weekend my family was at a swimming pool and we ended up playing yet another stupid game.  One person would jump in the pool while four others threw an assortment of balls at them.  The goal was to catch one mid-jump.  Mostly, I was just trying to protect the face.

On my turn, a basketball bounced off my pinkie leaving it freakishly dislocated.  While my parents’ friend popped it back into place I joked about how I should have caught the ball, mentioning that I certainly don’t have the best hands in the family.

Driving home that night, I got a call from my dad to see how my pinkie was healing and while we were talking I once again mentioned my lackluster coordination.

Dad: Don’t be so hard on yourself.
Evan: I’m not.  I’m just saying I don’t have the best hands in the family.
Dad: Well… you don’t.  I do.

Livin’ La Vida Loca Whether She Realizes it or Not

Monday, August 3rd, 2009


Joanie and Jon invited us to spend a night with them at a cabin they rented in Michigan and we decided to bring some salmon up there to grill.  I made a makeshift cooler to keep the fish fresh duing the car ride by packing some ice into the Ricky Martin lunchbox I somehow acquired.  And by “acquired,” I mean “bought.”  It was supposed to be a prize for the worst jukebox abuse in my bowling league, but, amazingly, it went unclaimed.

Joanie and Jon’s daughter Natasha, however, became quite enamored with it.  (Who can resist those dreamy eyes and blond highlights?)  She started carrying it around with her everywhere, neatly packing dolls and other belongings into it.  Clearly Ricky deserved a better home than I could offer so I told Natasha she could keep it.