We are going to the Macy's Thanksgiving parade this year, dadgummit. Last year, we were both so tired that - get this - we turned on the TV and watched the parade from our apartment... sitting on a couch that was not ONE block from where the parade was marching. Granted, we had just been unlawfully evicted and we were as tired and ticked as we could be, but still, not happening this year. No sir. I shall not be a couch potato humbug this year. Just call me Mr. Festive. Or Sexy Beast. Whichever one, all the same to me.
However, I've never been much of a parade man. I get bored mighty easy and parades have never been my tingling bliss. I am convinced that I will like this parade. If I am ever going to like a parade, this will be the tester, for sure. Tomorrow, while Amber is knee deep in her final rehearsals for Oliver, I will be accompanying my good friends to watch the balloons get blown-up (inflated, not destroyed grenade-style, unfortunately) over by the Museum of Natural History.
I do like balloons. Not so much this kind, more like this kind, or this kind.