Sunday, April 22, 2007

the politest response to the birthday song is, we now realize, MOO

Hello. Welcome to the post about my party. Am I blowing your mind? I'm not right side up. Believe it. Read it and weep. Eat it and reap. Balloon? You have the floor.

I am the first balloon that Finn ever saw. I blew his mind and strained his neck. That is all.

I am the cake. Your trash-talking was futile. I prevailed. He forfeited. The game was over before it began.

Oh, he poked me a little. He marred my icing slightly.

But Mother, Father, your hopes of a faceplant were in vain. I am too big! Too intimidating! A baby's face could get lost and never seen again in my pillowy depths. Finn was wise, he knew this. I do not call him a coward. He refrained.

Smile on, parents. My demise was orderly and dignified yet.

Cake, I have to stop you there. You were going to go on. I, a man, must intervene. A man is someone who is in the 1 and over demographic. I am in that demographic. Party? Thoughts?

I am the party. I'm...going well! I'm....I wasn't planning on speaking. I...? It was...right, I...I was fun. I was had by all. ? A good time! Oh, damn it. I didn't know I was going to be speaking.

Thank you, party, for taking a stab at public speaking. You were fine. I, the man, the baby, was also awesome leading up to my birthday, in addition to on it. Behold it, me, awesomeness. Of.


I am the baby. Now a toddler, now a man. Thank you for looking at me, thank you for thinking about me and speaking about me.

Yours totally goddamned UPSIDE DOWN
and old and blowing your mind,

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

smorgasbord with really only one (totally adorable) thing in it

He's still a baby. You still count him in months for a few more days. Until Friday. Finnington J. Picklesby III. The J is for Jupiter.

He is working like a dog on talking. Animals are the main thing he likes to talk about. Kanga. Kooka. Kadalaalala (Koala). Giraffe = ArA. But he'd mostly like you to know that it's kangaroos on his mind. You think he's almost asleep and suddenly he shouts, KANGA! His quote about this morning's breakfast: "Yummy." He's got this red pair of shoes that Bladio Blogio got him, and he's crazy about them. He stares at them and tries to say "shoe". Doo. DOO. Dzhoo. And once, shoe. When I give him bananas, he tries to say mama and banana at the same time. Mamba! Either that or he wants me to do the mambo or the samba and he's mildly confused.

We were getting him ready for bed tonight and he was in his little white velour suit with the feet on it and the little dachsund on the front and he was kicking his feet and laughing and being a wackjob, and it was like a punch in the stomach, thinking of today's (now yesterday's) events. Everyone was someone's erstwhile feet-kicking bunny. It was a horrible time to grasp a corner of it, right before I was supposed to lie down with Finn and soothe him to sleep. It feels wrong to talk about it here and it feels wrong not to. I will leave it at that.

Finn, back to Finn. He likes roasted red pepper hummus, proving that his palate is more adventurous than my own. He's a party dip guy. Hummus, guacamole. No need to refill the chip bowl on Finn's account. He's good to go.

I'm sorry I haven't posted lately. I'm writing my solo show at the moment, and so when I have the urge to write, I am behooved to put my efforts there. It's going well. I keep describing the process like this: it's like my head is a box with a door in the front, and the box is tipped forward, so whenever I open the door to write, material falls out. Boonk. It's not fighting me at all. I'm surprised and very happy. I feel like it's going to be my little Kilroy Was Here, like a big part of me can relax after I do this.

More Finn. He's got this new expression that's like, You are crazy...and I think I like it. He has giant feet. In heavy rotation on his bookshelf at the moment: What Floats? and I Am a Bunny and Found You, Little Wombat! and Sometimes I Like to Curl Up in a Ball.

Coming this weekend for the first time, it's

Finn versus Cake.

Good luck, my boy. If you've inherited anything from me, you won't need any. You will float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

Also, if for any reason this post doesn't have a thing for comments, IT IS TOTALLY A FLUKE. I have never met a comment I didn't like. Almost never. I don't know why Blogger's went all no-comment on me. I didn't ask it to. Is it trying to teach me something? Is there a life lesson in here? I don't want it, Blogger. You're not my real dad.