That's right folks, I just got my first pearly whites, a pair of them in the lower central incisor region. I am now entering a whole new arena of mastication possibilities. Bring on that candy, dagnabbit!
But don't get the wrong idea, dental hygiene is a primary concern. I just got these babies, and I plan to take good care of them. My aunt Susan will be so proud of me!
That's right, folks, I'm growing up tout de suite, exploring and learning new things every day.
I have to say, baths have gotten a mite easier:
Also, I've lately been allowed to try some new foods, rice, and barley and oatmeal. I prefer the oatmeal.
I've also developed a taste for gypsy jazz guitar. The other day while my Manny and I were hanging out in the living room, there was a TV documentary on gypsy jazz guitarist Django Reinhardt. As the credits started to roll they showed a film clip, and the song that was played in that clip, I'm told it's called J'attendrai, held me completely mesmerized the whole time it played.
So the Manny and I looked at the YouTube, and there we found the very same clip. Presented here for your listening pleasure, legendary guitarist Django Reinhardt and the Quintette of the Hot Club of France, with Stephane Grappelli on violin. The song in question -- that beautiful and buoyant song -- begins at 1:30. Enjoy.
Interesting thing about Django Reinhardt, at the age of 18 he was seriously injured in a fire, which paralyzed two fingers on his left hand. But like ballplayer Mordecai "Three Finger" Brown before him, whose injury to his pitching hand led to a devastating curve ball and a Hall of Fame career, Django's paralyzed fingers, rather than destroying any chance he had to play the guitar, led him to create a new, distinctive and influential picking style.
I only mention this because, while there have been some whispers, I firmly believe that my newfound preference for chewing my own foot will not be a hindrance in whatever future endeavors I choose to pursue. The world remains my oyster. And, for the time being, my tasty, tasty foot remains the pearl.
For Easter, we all went on an adventure, the Mamas, my sister Carley and I, to the unmapped Eastern wilds of the land known as Pennsylvania. We were going there to visit a very important person whom I had not yet met -- my brother Casey!
Mama Cyndi was very excited to see Casey...
...and he was happy to see me. Here he is reading to me from the epic poem Squishy Turtle and Friends, one of my favorites. I'm fond of its rigid structure of rhyming couplets of iambic quadrameter, although I will admit that on occasion the book's powerful imagery has gotten stuck on a rhythmic rhyming loop in my head, and kept me awake at night.
As I understand it, Easter is the time of year when we mourn a man who was nailed to a tree a long, long time ago for saying how great it would be for people to be nice to each other for a change. And we mark this sad event by painting the ova of common barnyard fowl, placing them in baskets along with chocolate lagomorphs, and wrapping it all in pastel cellophane...
...I might be off a bit in some of the details, but I think that's basically what Easter's all about. But in truth, I was just happy that it gave me an opportunity to spend time around people who like me, and whom I really like, too.
I was fortunate enough to receive several lovely gifts to mark this springtimey holiday, and some of them you can see here:
I very much enjoy the hardcover volume on trucks. The illustrations are vibrant, and the book's usage of an onomatopoeic subtheme as comic counterpoint to the primary narrative thrust is deft and satisfying.
My Manny, on the other hand, seems oddly enthusiastic about the peculiar fish on my shirt. I mean, to an almost unhealthy degree he likes my pufferfish shirt. I imagine we'll spend quite a few summer weekday afternoons together, that shirt and I. Most likely in public places. And that's fine by me, all I ask is that I be allowed to take my ducky along, too:
And while I don't want to belabor the point, I would like to state for the record that once more I have not been offered any candy, despite it being available in abundance as of late. So now, as an act of gently subversive protest, here is the late, great Mississippi John Hurt singing his Candy Man Blues at the 1963 Newport Folk Festival:
