Trying to tally up the 700 Clubbers still paying Pat's bills

I probably should stay away from ever mentioning my dreams in this blog. Dream analysis isn't one of my strengths and those that are good at it are, well, let's just say we never really see eye-to-eye on questions of mental health. But I had a dream last night that had me chuckling and confused when I rolled out of bed early this morning to check just what sort of damage Maya had done to her diaper in the nighttime silence. So if you'll indulge me for a moment...in my dream I was talking to Maya who was seated in her multi-colored pre-electronic circular play station. After trying to goad her into responding to some of the monosyllabic bunk I was spouting (you know the whole "baby", "mama", "daddy", "Favre" routine), she then did. But her voice was not her own - it was that of what I'd characterize as a pleasant male voice with a sort of mid-twenties, New Yawky, vaguely-Jewish dialect, that spoke in very analytical grad-studentish terms about not only what she thought of our place (nice enough, for the time being) but us as parents (engaging and talented, but still growing in the role). I shit you not. It went on from there as most dreams do and I won't bore you with the details. But I thought you might appreciate knowing just what's bouncing around in my head thanks to this whole parenthood gig.

In terms of Maya's head - or more specifically, her mouth - you can definitely see two teeth peeeking through the surface. Cool. She's like a crazy lab experiment that we get to monitor and occasionally wheel around the neighborhood for peer reviews. Tomorrow we head to Seattle to show her off to old and new friends alike. New parents are self-involved dorks and we're no exception - always talking about the new operating system and what new features have been added to the hardware. In that light, expect plenty of pics from our old stomping grounds in GrungeCity with Maya featured in the mix.

As usual I'm a bit behind the curve in analyzing just how ballsy and insane Pat Robertson sounded in calling for Hugo Chavez's assassination on his "The 700 Club" Monday. No one will ever call his statements anything but ballsy or insane, often at the same time. But it got me thinking on a total tangent - just what does the "700" in his self-deemed "club" actually mean? Didn't take long to find out using the brilliance of Wikipedia - apparently Robertson named the program for the first telethon he did which aimed for 700 wackos contributing $10/month to support his televised ministry. So now I'm trying to scrub that tidbit from my brain to use for more worthy information. Yet it led me to ponder - how many of those 700 original contributers are still alive? I remember my Swedish Grandma Jenny giving money to those televangelists, but she passed on to the big smorgasboard in the sky way back around the time I was learning to drive. So who's left? Nothing of value was found on the 700 Club website (understatement of the Century). Well, except for a recipe for Pat's protein pancakes that look to be straight from guilt-free heaven. But I want everyone to know I'm on the case and have sent a "prayer request" to Pat to find out wassup wit his 700s. Check back for updates when I hear back with my prayer order.

These are the sort of things I get to pursue when Maya's napping. Rock on.