Separated at Birth: Part 1

What do you think, a young Orson Welles, right before Citizen Kane? Right? Yeah? I see it!

Radio Flyer: NASCAR Edition

Sometimes I hit speeds of 3 and even 4 miles per hour on my Radio Flyer. It depends on if Mum pushes me the length of the house (which I call Daytona), or just the width (that's Talladega). Here I am on Talladega coming in for a pit stop in the kitchen. I was having trouble with my intake manifold. I thought Dad, my crew chief, had those port openings in the cylinder head taken care of, but I guess not.

Garcon! Garcon!

Mah peeees! Day are tasteeng quite unseasoned, you know? Nud vary tasdee! Purrhaps I could gid som ketchup tu dreezle un tup, eh?

My Schoenhut Piano

I compose at my piano most afternoons. Some of my influences are Stravinsky and Prokofiev, but more recently I have been listening to composers such as John Cage and others who push down on any keys randomly, or push down on numerous keys at the same time in different rhythmic patterns. Recently, the sonic effect of pushing down three random black keys and four random white keys has really interested me, so I have spent the last two weeks exploring that. I like to keep my notes, sheet music, and completed compositions in my ladybug backpack that you see in the photo.

My Schoenhut produces a lovely tone, even though it is only 14 inches high and was purchased second hand.

Teeth are Fun

Teeth are fun
I have ten of thum

I bite burger buns
and gnaw Fig Newtons

I try to chew pennies
and the placemat at Denny's

When Mum helps me brush at night
I purse my lips and hold them closed tight

Teeth are fun
Here comes another one!

God Save the Kinks!

Dad's in trouble. Mum is going to kill him. He just bought a 1970 Kinks single of "God's Children" that was only released in the UK. He told me how much it was and I couldn't believe it. But then he told me it is one of his top five favorite Kinks songs OF ALL TIME! (or at least right now) so that makes a big difference, because the others are "Sweet Lady Genevieve", "Big Sky", "Oklahoma USA", and ", and "I'm in Disgrace" and that is some pretty sweet company. We dance to those songs together at night right after my bath.

I hate to see what happens when he buys that 1975 Japanese import of "I'm in Disgrace". He should really think about saving it up for a new car. Ol' Blue is not going to run forever.

1,000 Touchdown Passes

That's my Dad's friend Kevin. Dad threw, like, a thousand touchdown passes to Kevin when they played football together in high school. And Kevin scored, ah, like 200 touchdowns. And that was all in a couple of years! I kept asking them why they didn't play in the NFL and they said they prefer to watch it on TV.

Here they are passing me around like a football.

I can go to the Prom when I'm 21...

That's what Dad said to me as he tucked me in last night. "They're all swine among the pearls, Elsa, swine among the pearls..." he kept muttering. This morning he asked if he could post this poem.

Song To Be Sung by the Father of Infant Female Children

by Ogden Nash

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise, my blood runs cold
When little boys go by.
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry.
No matter how they tarry,
Eventually they marry.
And, swine among the pearls,
They marry little girls.

Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
With parents who feed and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes, I loathe with loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless.
This bachelor child in his carriage
Gives never a thought to marriage,
But a person can hardly say knife
Before he will hunt him a wife.

I never see an infant (male),
A-sleeping in the sun,
Without I turn a trifle pale
And think is he the one?
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls,
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls,
And holy matrimony.
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.

Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk,
And quietly sucks his thumbs.
His cheeks are roses painted on silk,
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But alas the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond, or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for the kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
Is diapered still
Will want to marry My daughter Jill.

Oh sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohengrins!
I'll open all his safety pins,
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring,
And Tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry somebody else's daughter.