The boy’s first haircut.  No tears, no screaming–but then, barbers no longer let blood and saw bones, so I suppose he got off lucky.

This time.

Is it difficult to erase stone?

He's either going to be a knight...

Or a jester...

Or, a mermaid.

You can see why I’m rooting for one of the first two.

(From left-to-right: Henry, Ma Kettle, Lollipop Guild, Cleophus)

Softee’s, like, famous!

When the members of Softee walked into the room, I immediately played my hand and tried to join the band by offering up my almost magical harmonica skills.

“I’m sorry,” Steph informed me.  “You have to be pretty to join.  Duh.”

“Also,” Mimi added, “–and please don’t take this personally, because you’ve got red hair, and red hair rocks the Casbah–you can’t actually play, you know, music.”

“I didn’t know it worked like that,” I said.  “I just thought that you all being talented with La Musica was a coincidence.  I thought it was about being on stage and having star power.  I thought it was…”

“Yes?” Sarah prompted.

“… being able to shine!”

Flora looked at me, pity filling her eyes.  “That’s not pity,” she protested.  “it’s just really dusty in here.”

With the realization that, at most, all I would ever be with Softee was a part-time roadie, I thought it best to soldier on with the interview.

“Thanks for coming by, ladies.  I know you’ve been busy with the music scene and having to go to the grocery store at midnight, hair swept up and giant, dark sunglasses hiding your face so you won’t be recognized and swamped by fans, so I appreciate the little time you carved out for me today.”

“You promised us twenty clams, each,” Steph reminded me.  I whimpered a bit.  Of all the Softee gals, Steph is the one you least want to tick off.  Do you recall Jim Croce’s cautionary tale of Jim?  Well, Slim came to town and pulled on Superman’s cape; he spit into the wind, he pulled the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and Steph is his child.  I once made the mistake of snickering at the torrid affair she had with Michael McDonald (of Sprint commercial fame… and, I hear he was in a band), but she heard me, sidled up next to me with nary a sound and whispered, “I’ll cut you.”  She shreds her guitar with effortless style, and one day I fear she will shred me.

“Twenty bucks.  Right.”

As Steph silently mouthed, ‘I’ll cut you’, I tried to move the conversation forward with a safe question.  “So, who are your influences?”

“Mostly Bruce,” Mimi said.

“Bruce?”

“Lee.”  Oh.  Long before Mimi sat behind the skins and kept the beat for the band, she extensively toured Europe and Asia on the Movie Karate Circuit. Unlike other martial arts competitions where such piddling things as physics help determine movements, the Movie Karate Circuit caters to those fighters who jump, twirl and dive through the air without annoying constraints such as gravity. Lithe and fearsome, Mimi ruled the circuit for years, dispatching each would-be challenger with impossible jumps, unbelievable runs across the surface of lakes and ponds, and a single chopstick as her only weapon.  She called her style, “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Valley”.  She once tried to lend her talents to Hollywood (you can see her considerable skills in action in that ’80s cinema classic, American Ninja, where she played the role of Michael Dudikoff playing the role of a ninja), but quickly grew weary of the fame and adoration and moved to the Midwest to escape her throng of fans and ninja assassins.

“Good choice,” I said.  “How about you, Flora?”

“Waldo.”

“As in Where Is?”

“Yes.”  At first thought this is a surprising answer, but after a few moments readers will likely remember the scandal-sheet sensation of a few years ago–brought to light after nosy paparazzi photographed Flora leaving Waldo’s house in the wee hours of a weekday morning.  The news and accompanying pictures devastated Waldo’s wife, Dora the Explorer (traveling at the time), who briefly went insane, confusing Flora with one of Dora’s constant traveling companions: “Swiper, no swiping. Swiper, no swiping. Swiper, no swiping!”

“I was set up!” Flora exclaimed. “Think about it.  How did the photographer even find Waldo’s place?”

“Where’s Waldo now?” I asked.

“Google Maps, I think.  I don’t want to talk about it.”

I understood.  Past relationships, man, they’re a drag.  “How about you, Sarah?  Who influenced you the most?”

Sarah looked at me with those piercing, glowing red eyes.  “Are you the Keymaster?”

“Not that I know of.  Hey, Sarah, what is it?  What happened?”

“I am Zuul.  I am the Gatekeeper.  We must prepare for the coming of Gozer.”

“Okay, I’ll help you.  Should we make some dip or something?”

“He is the Destructor.”

“Really?  Can’t wait to meet him.”

Luckily, I had my proton pack stashed behind my chair, so I grabbed it, fired it up and roasted all of the Softee girls (you can’t be too careful when it comes to interdimensional, god-like travelers–could have infected the whole group).  Don’t worry, though, they should be scrubbed clean and ready for their VIP playdate at Starlight on the 26th.

“Thanks for coming, ladies,” I told the sizzling containment box at my feet.  “We’ll have to do this again.”

Rosey Grier, unfortunate, disillusioned man, was wrong about his most famous song, but that’s okay.  A lot of people are wrong about many things; and me, I’m right about most everything.  That’s okay, too.  But, despite Rosey’s misunderstanding, I have to admit that although my desktop (computer-wise and plain ol’) is adorned with photos of Auggy smiling and laughing, my favorite pictures are the ones where we catch him scrunching his cute face up for a monster of a wail.

Sorry, buddy.  Love ya’ lots and all, but right now your baby-sized frustrations make me chuckle.  And who wouldn’t laugh with delight at the following?

Poor kiddo.  You’re stuck with me.

Because, you know, Dad’s hurt feelings are what’s really keeping me from banging Mom.

(I Heart Jocasta)

My last post indicated my recent seduction into the addictive world of Apple games.  First, it was an innocent, nostalgic game of Oregon Trail.  But then, soon after, I was sucked into the crime-filled world of Where In The World Is Carmen Sandiego? (Turns out she was hiding along the Oregon Trail.  The bitch died of a snake bite.)  Now I’m stuck playing Fraction Munchers–quite possibly the first Apple IIe/gs game I can remember playing.  For those of you who don’t know the game, it’s exactly like Pac-Man.  Only, you don’t collect any dots, there are no power-ups, you don’t get chased by ghosts, there are fractions (lots of ’em–but don’t get them confused with whole numbers), and you’re not a little, yellow, half-eaten pizza pie.

So, while I’m busy doing that, here’s a couple of photos.  One of me, and the other of Auggy.  People say he looks more like me than he does his Ma, but I think they’re saying that only because we’re both white and we’re both the cutest people, evah.

Next post: The Harrowing World of  Fraction Munchers.

See that thar, Charlie Brown? That’s my baby pumpkin vine, Mortimer. As implied, he’s new to this world, so let’s all take a moment and make him feel welcome. He’s going to be pumpkins, lots of them, even going so far as to be the pumpkin.

Yes, that’s right. The Great Pumpkin. (Suck it, Linus.)

See, I’ve planted pumpkins three times this year. The first time, I was full of hope; I’d started my new gourd-awful hobby with a vegetable medley in my heart and an extra kick to my step. Unfortunately, a wild pack of dogs (which looked absolutely nothing like the three we own… nothing) trampled both the patch and my hopes. So, a week later, after shedding tears, hair and dignity, The Insta-Princess soothed my emotional wounds and convinced me to try again.

But the pack came back.

Despite my fiendishly clever fencing system of small stakes and nylon string, the dogs actually had the audacity to jump over my makeshift barrier and trample my pumpkins again. I reached for my gun. (I have two… both of which I’ve never fired–much less loaded–and both of which are kept because they’re antiques.) The Insta-Princess stopped me in my rage when she pointed out I was inserting the bullets from the wrong end. “And I’m pretty sure that’s not even the rifle. It looks like a curtain rod.”

Week Three: I plant new seeds. But do I stick with one kind? Oh, no, in a shout-out to my desperation, I planted regular field pumpkins, the namby-pamby French kind (“Kids! It’s just like the pumpkin from Cinderella!”), and the really frickin’ huge kind that can grow to over 500 pounds. See, what you’re supposed to do is to whittle down the growing pumpkin sprouts to three to a hill. Not me, I’m leaving all twenty of them in. They can fight their way to the top, even Mortimer; it’ll teach him to be strong, to not take life for granted, to be the best goddamned pumpkin he can be.

And the dogs, like Linus, can suck it.

Alright, I admit it. He’s a keeper:

And only two months, too. Imagine the wattage his cuteness will generate when he’s old enough to date.