Mr. Boy passed his Board of Review last night and is officially an Eagle Scout. He beat out his father (Star Scout) and grandfather (Life Scout).
The actual presentation won’t be until the end of the month but we’ll sing his praises here and now. With twenty-one merit badges, no less. The soon to be high school graduate will be enrolling at Texas A&M University in the fall.
Somewhere nearby Mrs. Charm is smiling.
That’s Mr. B.’s dilemma. Go to Texas A&M, which has accepted him, or do the UT Austin CAP program at UT Tyler?
UT Austin didn’t accept him but their CAP program did. It requires a year at another UT System school like UT Tyler, achievement of a minimum 3.2 average (on a 4.0 scale) and subsequent transfer to Austin. So is it the bird-in-the-hand or the bird in the bush? Stay tuned.
I used to razz Mr. Boy about wearing shorts in the winter. Still do on occasion. But he’s got nothing on the two cute middle-school girls I saw climbing Hart hill the other morning in 38 degree weather. They had on very short shorts. I couldn’t enjoy the view I felt so sorry for them.
…at Mr. B’s high school this morning. This one stopped from climbing over a third-floor railing into an atrium. The last one succeeded a few weeks ago. A senior. Getting tense out there as college application deadlines approach.
Headspace is Mr. Boy’s new 10-minute companion: Guided meditation from a smooth-talking English Tibetan monk whose $250 million company is looking to grow way beyond its already millions-of-users base.
The idea for Mr. B. is to find relief from stress, more patience and general peace of mind. I haven’t noticed an increase in patience but these are early days. And he’s using the “take 10” free version of the downloadable mindfulness app through earbuds on his iPhone.
If I do see an increase in patience, I’ll spring for the subscriber fee of $6.24 a month for a two-year deal. It’ll be well worth it for me, as well as for him.
For one thing, I knew I could get the juicy details off the Web without bothering to waste ninety minutes of my life, much of it listening to Harpy Hillary lie her way through an obfuscating forest of mildewed cliches.
Another reason is that I didn’t expect the so-called moderator—an NBC drone who would only pretend to be objective—to treat Trump fairly and from what I’ve read so far he didn’t. He sucked up to the Harpy at every opportunity and he even out-Candied Candy Crowley contradicting Trump a few times. He became the third debater. He ought to be ashamed. But he already works for NBC.
But primarily I know who I’m voting for and it’s not Queen Cankles—whom it is being said looked drugged up with a vapid Miss America smile and probably was wearing a wire—and her scummy husband The Groper. Nothing she says or, for that matter, whatever Trump says is going to change my mind.
As James Taranto of the Wall Street Journal put it, all Trump had to do was prove himself to be sane. And the polls are already doing it for him. The Hildabeast had to prove herself trustworthy and she couldn’t possibly do that in ninety minutes. Especially not when decades as a lying, crooked pol and the wife of a lying, crooked pol have proven otherwise to all but her most diehard supporters.
Althouse, who did watch, said: “Overall, I’ll just say that was very unpleasant and I’m glad it’s over. I switched it off without stopping to listen to any of the spin.”
And Mr. B. who watched some of it in between doing his homework: “You were right, it was boring.”