My dad used to (and sometimes still does) look at me with pride and say, "Oh, son of my son," and sometimes continue on to say "...of my son of my son..." and on and on. I never understood it, and it drove me crazy. The other day, he did it again, and after I reminded him once again that it made no sense, I pointed out that Fyodor would certainly qualify as the "Son of my son" for Dad. The "son of my son" rode behind my head just like this for a good two-fifths of the trip up from West Palm Beach. That's my boy!
There are two other things I'd like to say.
1. For those of you who have a myspace, I (Matt, by the way) just signed up for one. If you'd like to see it, it's located at www.myspace.com/mistergoodfella.
2. This evening, we (2 McFalls, 2 Rogantes, Mapache, and myself) decided to watch the movie on the right. To my glee, that movie was Minority Report. However, the first 39 seconds proved too much for my poor sister-in-law, and we decided to watch Dreamer, a touching drama about a young girl's love for her horse. As you can imagine, I found time to post. :)