Papa Don't Teach

Where the Wild Art Is

2009-01-01T07:45:00.000-08:00

...

Somewhere on a Desert Highway . . .

2008-12-31T14:27:00.000-08:00

...

The TA rumbles off on her
Schwinn Roadster 12-inch Trike

The Best Tricycle in the Whole World

The TA Takes Manhattan

2008-12-31T06:52:00.000-08:00

...

eff 1994–2000

"Balloon Dog" (Yellow)
1994 - 2000
Jeff Koons

Once upon a time, I wheeled a drowsing TA through Boston's nap-inducing MFA. The TA enjoyed some much needed Z-time, while Papa meandered aimlessly about Monet's Haystacks. She cooed when I held her up to a Miro (who doesn't?) and scrunched up her face at a late Picasso (who hasn't at one point?). Of course, all that ended the day I tucked her in the Baby Bjorn to check out the David Hockney exhibit and she squealed and squirmed up a storm, angling for a handful of 20th Century Pop art.

The museum guards were not amused.

These days, I just cut her loose and let her dash wildly through the corridors of Western culture. If she knocks over a 4000-year-old example of Greek statuary, well, that's what running shoes are for. Until then, I say, "The bigger the museum, the better." And few do bigger and better than NYC and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. High atop the Met, you will find the spacious and toddler friendly Iris and B. Gerald Cantor Roof Garden. Cantor, who once hawked hot dogs outside of Yankee Stadium as a lad, was a paragon of self-improvement. Not only did he ditch the House That Ruth Built for uptown, he amassed one of the world's finest collections of Rodin's sculpture; one of which is always on the roof. (Note: Rodin's sculpture is only slightly more expensive than the sandwiches served at the rooftop cafe.)

The Jeff Koons rooftop exhibit is perfect for kids. Unlike much head-scratching, video-centric contemporary art that results from the perfect storm of A) a trust-fund, B) way too much free time, and C) public revenge against Mom and Dad, Koons' art is as playful as it is insightful. Koons has a way of appropriating Milan Kundera's coprophilic conception of 20th century "kitch" and making it winsome and childlike.

Like a kid, he makes everything new again for the rest of us.

The TA warily approaches "Sacred Heart (Red/Gold)"

I have no idea what she's doing here.

The TA confronts the 18 ½-foot-tall Coloring Book.
"Is coloring inside the lines just a lie we tell ourselves?"

Taking him by the hand,
the TA interprets Koons' sly mockery of the
"youth-obsessed infantilism of modern culture and society"
to an uncertain Cousin X.

Rejecting glib polymers and abstractions,
the TA contemplates the concrete beauty
that is the New York skyline.

Full speed ahead through the halls of the Met.
(A TA's view of Canova's"Perseus with Head of Medusa.")

Afterwards, we took in
Central Park on a Sunday afternoon.
Few things are more perfect than this.

Getting dizzy on the swings!

Momma had to pull an overexcited Daddy back through the open car window
when he hollered, "Can David Brooks come out and play?"

The TA Turns 3

2008-11-10T16:10:00.000-08:00

Hiking to the Highland Center at Crawford Notch, NH

all those years ago.

My Daughter, the Woodland Fairy

2008-11-01T05:44:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween, folks.
(Photos courtesy of the TA's Mom)

I Love You With All My Mi - i - i - ight!

2008-10-13T03:16:00.000-07:00

The TA captured on a camera phone . . . and the classic Frances England video

Toddlers For Obama

2008-10-07T07:25:00.000-07:00

For some of us, democracy can't wait.

Today, my daughter participated in history. We made the trip together to Barack Obama's regional field office in Nashua, NH.

I have read bedtime stories to her -- Goodnight Moon and The Runaway Bunny (ever a joy all around). I have read Walt Whitman (cooing in her cradle endlessly rocking) and Georg Trakl (ok, some definite nose crinkling there). And I have always made a point to read something from the New York Times to her at breakfast. She may not grasp international monetary policy (which I guess is alright, apparently those in charge don't understand it either), but I'll wager she can identify more politicians than any dithering undecided. She certainly knows who Hillary is. For a week, she marched around house repeating, "President TA . . . Why not?"

She giggled every time she tried to pronounce 'Huckabee'. She is the same two-year-old girl who screamed "Obama!" every time we saw a video of Kennedy at a podium when we visited the JFK Museum earlier in the year. Who knows? She may go all John Birch on me when she's a rebellious teen. But today, as a family, this is all about her future.

Progressive-palooza!

One could argue the "U-SAVE" sign fits in just fine with the others.

I didn't snap any pictures inside the office, but the people were all very nice and indulged the TA when she repeatedly demanded, "But, where's Obama?" The nice volunteer man explained that the good Senator was in Nashville, Tennessee for his debate that evening. The TA looked up at me and asked, "Can we go to Nashville?"

I admit, I was tempted.

We scored a lawn sign and some sundry swag. Then we were back on the road to strike a blow for democracy in our corner of the world.

Direct democracy.

Grabbing the sign from the trunk, the TA takes matters into her own hands.

She wasn't exactly sure where to plant the sign.
She wandered around the yard asking, "Where does this go?"

That's one small yard sign for a TA,
one giant leap for toddlerkind.

Thomas Jefferson would be pleased.
Afterward, we celebrated with peanut butter and jelly,
then took crayons to Maureen Dowd's latest column.

After Apple Picking

2008-09-27T12:56:00.000-07:00

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

Robert Frost

. . . And the Living is Easy

2008-07-28T06:19:00.000-07:00

The TA Loves a Parade

2008-05-29T04:47:00.000-07:00

Update from Cannes

2008-05-23T05:16:00.001-07:00

The TA's brief cameo in "Good Will Hunting."

All the Colors of the Rainbow

2008-05-02T06:23:00.000-07:00

The TA stares down a jolly red crayon sporting Mickey Mouse hands.

Road Trip! The Crayola Factory, in Easton, Pennsylvania. is dedicated to all budding artists, or any kid who likes showing that coloring book who's boss. In terms of DIY creativity, it runs a rainbow of rings around Disney World.

While manufacturing plants for Binney and Smith's Crayola Crayons are scattered throughout the Lehigh Valley, the Crayola Factory allows kids to immerse themselves in a sorts of creative activity involving crayons, washable markers, chalk, watercolors, finger paints, and interactive video. All without the bother of messy clean-up or those annoying factory-mandated hairnets.

But there's more! Upstairs you'll find the National Canal Museum at Two Rivers Landing. You see, Easton straddles the historic confluence of the "Prussian Blue" Delaware River (separating the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania from the state of New Jersey - for which generations of Pennsylvanians are eternally grateful) and the "Wild Blue Yonder" Lehigh River. In fact, the first crayon ever manufactured and guided through a complex series of canal locks by donkeys of "Raw Siena" who ate carrots of "Outrageous Orange" was handcrafted by one Thadeus G. Pencilhoffer in 1868. Pencilhoffer was a colorful character. Despite a bleak and colorless childhood on a Dutch settlement just east of . . . .

History. Schmistory.

Where are all the crayons?

The TA loads up on ammo at patented crayon kiosk.

Crayon-palooza!
The TA dives into an overflowing bin of crayons.
Seated to her immediate right is her cousin, herein known as "Cousin X."

The TA sharpens her wallpaper writing skills.

Rocking out to the Interactive Video Color Simulator.

One mess I'm not cleaning up.

The World's Largest Crayon.
15 Feet. 16 inches in diameter. 1,500 pounds.
Derived from 123,000 blue "leftolas" donated by kids around the world,
Crayon-zilla is capable of drawing a ten-mile line or coloring in a football field.
The Coloring Book for would probably take out entire Northwest Forest.

The TA scampers into the injection mold for Crayon-zilla.

The TA channels Charles Strickland in "The Moon and Sixpence"

She dropped everything and said,
"I must paint."

Later, The TA and Cousin X share a precious moment by the garbage cans.
Anne Geddes would be rightfully quite horrified.

From our hotel window in lovely Newark, NJ, Dad spies our next adventure.

"I don't yike Muppets. I yike Badfinger."

2008-04-21T03:18:00.000-07:00

Attack of the 20-foot Wabbit

2008-04-06T05:29:00.000-07:00

How does a toddler get to Symphony Hall?

Practice. Practice. Practice.

The TA visited Tanglewood to hear the BSO, but getting her into Symphony Hall was a personal best for this toddler-toting Papa.

I had a choice. Drop $85 to watch the TA squirm through fifteen notes of Mendelssohn and weather the whithering scowls of inveterate subscribers, or pack up the entire family for the 10th Annual WCRB Classic Cartoon Festival.

On a cool gray Saturday, over 4000 fans of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and Wile E. Coyote descend on Symphony Hall to benefit the Brain Injury Association of Massachusetts. The initial idea is to introduce kids to classical music, but it's also an excuse for adults and kids alike to laugh in the dark at some joyfully violent fare (all in the name of high culture, of course). For many people, Looney Tunes are their introduction to classical music. Who doesn't have the swirling whimsy of Carl Stalling hardwired to their childhood? That introduction may end there too, but I grew up in a house where Beethoven was as common as baseball. So for the TA, classical music is her introduction to Porky Pig.

But there's more! Face painting. Jugglers. Clowns. Magicians. The Bonne Bell Manicure Station. An "instrument petting zoo." A dunking tank for cranky BSO subscribers who hate Arnold Scheonberg (okay, I made that one up). Beyond the giddy pop culture of Bugs Bunny et al., there are instances of genuine high culture. The Boston Youth Symphony Orchestra’s Young People’s String Orchestra and the Handel & Haydn Youth Chorus are on stage as well.

Mama snapped this portrait of the TA's purple wontons and Dad's moccasins.
I have no idea what the person with the poor taste in footwear is doing in this family portrait.

For a while, it was all about the sonorous beauty
of classical music and the rich history of
Major Henry L. Higginson's Symphony Hall.
Until this guy showed up.
From that point, the entire focus of the day changed forever.

The TA stalks "Titty tat" through the corridors of Symphony Hall.
It was almost like something out of "Phantom of the Opera."
Almost.

We eventual cornered the the cat outside the door of Symphony Hall. I think he (she?) was trying to sneak a smoke, but apparently couldn't work it with those fuzzy paws. From the foyer, the TA shrieked when she saw him, so out the door we went. I almost died when it looked like Sylvester was going to remove his head (all I could see was years of therapy for the kid). But we cornered the cat (and Tweety!), and Mama snapped a priceless shot of the great toddling hunter in the arms of her prey on the steps of Symphony Hall.

I would share it, but you can clearly see someone inside Tweety's costume through the black screen of his nine-inch-high eyes. And and we all know, this blog is all about protecting Tweety's anonymity.

Go ahead. Say it.
"I thought I thaw a putty tat."

The TA runs free around the Reflecting Pool
of the Boston Christian Science Center.

On the way home, she snoozed to Brahms
(and Elliot Smith).

Where the Wild Books Are

2008-03-18T11:00:00.000-07:00

What do kids really love?

Because I am the TA's dad (and she is my TA), I want to say that she loves books.

And the TA would no doubt agree she adores books. Lots of 'em. And preferably scattered everywhere. Books at bedtime. Waterproof books in the tub. Coloring books in the diaper bag. Board books underfoot in the kitchen.

But who is kidding whom?

The truth is that TA's one true love is not books, but stairs. Lots of stairs. Stairs to go up. Stairs to come down. Stairs to run toward with open arms. Stairs to stare at lovingly before ascending and descending infinitum.

But because I'm the Dad, we started our day not in pursuit of stairs, but in pursuit of books. And when it comes to books, Barefoot Books, in Cambridge MA, is probably the coolest bookstore on the planet. Titles like Alligator Alphabet, Counting Cockatoos, Zoe and Her Zebra, and, of course, Bear's Busy Family are staples of the TA's expanding library. Although maybe exploding library would best explain the scene in her room. Let's just say the Dewey decimal system is nonstarter.

Barefoot Books is street level (i.e., no stairs), but she was thrilled all the same.

The TA runs wild through the offerings of Barefoot Books.
For whatever reason, she kept grabbing titles in Spanish
and asking me to read them to her.
What did I do?
El punto en cuadros y arregla cosas!
(Point at pictures and make things up!)

In the end, we bought Yoga Pretzels for the TA to share with Mama, and some African Wildlife Finger Puppets for her to pass the time en route to our next stop.

The venerable Grolier Poetry Book Shop in Harvard Square is renowned both for being the oldest bookstore in America devoted exclusively to poetry and for its epic struggles to remain open. The public may be indifferent to poetry, but Grolier is a hidden jewel.

Spacious as a phone booth, but boundless in her offerings, Grolier is worth the trip from anywhere on the planet. We discovered a copy of Rodney Jones' "The Kingdom of the Instant" and were on our way. Later, I read some poems to the TA, while she provided interpretation with assistance from Ms. Giraffe and Mr. Lion.

The next stop was Harvard Yard. It's a short walk across the street, and it gave me an excuse to cut the TA loose for a romp.

Legend has it the Widener Library contains 53 miles of books.
This might make Dad's book-loving heart go pitter-pat,
but the TA had other plans.

With an immediate about face, the TA bolts for the Memorial Church

There are few books in a church (actually, just one).
But for the TA, it was all about the stairs.
Twenty-five minutes of her going up and down mercilessly sharp granite steps wore me out.
I tossed her in the backpack, and we wandered towards the Barker Center.

Helen Vendler's office.
It's not every day you can introduce your toddler to a living legend.
Organic chemist. Mathematician. Keats scholar.
The first woman offered an instructorship at Harvard.
Introducing the TA to as many accomplished independent
women as possible can only help.
Unfortunately, she wasn't home.
I wasn't sure what we were going to do if she was home.
Maybe just wave and ask her to sign the TA's
backpack copy of "The Runaway Bunny."

The next stop was Curious George Goes to Wordsworth.
The monkey, of course, needs little introduction.

Of course, the TA simply ignored the books
and insisted instead on marching up and down the stairs
for the next 20 minutes.
(All the while, liberating random monkeys from their pails.)

All in all, it was good trip, but I've been mulling over some possibilities for our next jaunt into the world.

Like maybe a lighthouse . . .

or maybe something further east . . .

or maybe we'll just stay home with a video, while
the TA breaks in her newest toy . . . .

Polar Bear Picnic

2008-01-16T02:22:00.001-08:00

"If you go out in cold today you're sure of big surprise. "

Here's the story. Last week, I told the TA we were "going to see the polar bear." In fact, Papa-O couldn't help but mention it often and repeatedly. He babbled about Polar Bears while making small talk during diapertime. He nattered about Polar Bears while the TA splashed about in the tub. He told her all about Polar Bears while doling out seven types of cheese at out our daily luncheon . . .

"No! Bloo!" ("Pardon me. Blue cheese, please.")

"No! Go!" ("Pardon me. Goat cheese, please.")

"Po beah?" (Request for elaboration on said Polar Bear, herein known as "Po Beah") (And don't be stingy with that cheese while you're at it.)

The Polar Bear in question was/is, of course, Kenda, who resides at the Ecotarium in Worcester, Massachusetts. There is much to see and do at the Ecotarium. The science and nature exhibits are kid friendly. The staff is kid friendly. The cluster of kids in the pre-school play area were also kid friendly (what being kids and all).

Everyone was friendly. Unfortunately, the weather was not. A good amount of snow (and cold) remained from the previous day's storm. This meant that the normally kid-friendly grounds of the Ecotarium (grassy green and resplendent in summer) now resembled parts of downtown Siberia. But, of course, Daddy promised the TA that she was going to see the polar bear, and a twenty-foot stuffed Kodiak in the lobby quite simply wouldn't do.

Normally, anyone wishing to pay a call on Kenda can take a short flight of stairs to the right of the main entrance. But because of the snow, we could either hike the wildlife path along the peremiter of the grounds or stay inside and enjoy a toasty rendition of "Turtle Story Time." The TA enjoyed "Turtle Story Time" for about 45 seconds, then wandered off to the lobby in search of polar bears.

So, outdoors we went.

Snow-covered Stegosaurus roams the frozen tundra of the Ecotarium.

Friendly Conductor and Brakeman wave hello.
Note the plow clearing the tracks of snow.

The train was stopped by a friendly fallen limb.
The Conductor asked if I had a chainsaw.
But I left it in the other diaper bag.

Just another mile to go . . .

Polar Bears?
Just over the ridge, take a right at the frozen remains of George Mallory.
You wouldn't happen to have any mice in that diaper bag, would you?

"Watch them, catch them unawares."

Bear sees us.

Bear gets up and stretches.

Quiet time for Polar Bears.

And that was that. No more Polar Bear. We watched the door of her den for a while. The TA said "Po Beah?" once or twice. Then we got back on the road. Off to another adventure.

Picnic time for Polar Bears

There's one.
(My reliance on gift shops is beginning to concern me.)

Sledding Solo

2008-01-14T10:05:00.000-08:00

Go Fish!

2008-01-14T05:58:00.000-08:00

This sure beats staring at that other pane of glass back home . . .

The New England Aquarium opened in 1969, and any kid under 45 simply can not imagine Boston without it. Historically, the Hub was home to world's first "pure" aquarium. The Boston Aquarial Gardens opened in 1859 by James Ambrose Cutting, a bee-keeper from Vermont who devised a new type of glass that ushered in the first landlocked museum devoted exclusively to all things fishy. The Aquarial Gardens were soon purchased by none other than P.T. Barnum, who soon sent the entire enterprise into a freakish tailspin. The entire story is a great read and can be found at the NEAq website.

Today, the aquarium boasts a 200,000 gallon cylindrical tank with 52 different viewing windows, a 150,000 gallon penguin exhibit, a free outdoor harbor seal exhibit, whale watching tours, an IMAX Theater, and over 1.5 million visitors a year.

The most famous literary reference to any Boston aquarium, past or present, comes from Robert Lowell's "For the Union Dead."

The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now. Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.

Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;
my hand tingled
to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.

Facelift for the original concrete hull of the aquarium courtesy of Frank Gehry.

Relying on public transportation?
Do what the TA does.
Take the "blue choo-choo" to Aquarium.
Note: Do not press the red panic button located at the end of the car while riding blue choo-choo. This may amuse fellow passengers, but will certainly annoy Mr. Conductor.

The TA attempts to vault the glass and join the penguins.

Staring out from their Styrofoam-outcropping, two African Penguins eye the TA warily.

I could watch Fur Seals for hours,
but when this one unleashed a gruff, high-decibel bark,
the TA literally jumped up in my arms.
We soon moved back inside (to see how the penguins were doing).

"Cowed compliant fish."

The inside of the Aquarium is pretty dark (the fish prefer it that way).

This means most photographs will result in reflections of your own flash
(which sea life probably do not prefer).
On the left, a turtle pops his head out of his shell and yells, "Hey! Pal! Knock it off!"

"Look, honey! A blue lobtser!"
"No No . . . Bee!"
"No, honey. That's a lobster."
"Bee!"
"Look, honey! A bee."
"No No . . . Blue bee!"

An insistent TA persists in joining the penguins.
How exactly would I explain all this to her mother?

Hey!

Jacqueline Custeau!
Come back here!

Afterwards, while standing on the subway platform at State,
I asked the TA if she wanted to go to a bookstore.
She readily agreed, so we went aboveground to Commonwealth Books.
(Photo courtesy of their website.)

Livre Plongee.

A venerable Boston intitution, Commonwealth Books resides beneath the Old South Meeting House. Like certain establishments in Bangkok that will go unmentioned at this time, its wares are displayed aboveground for all to see. Unsuspecting bibliophiles and bookworms are drawn from the sidewalk and find themselves descending into a subterranean vortex of bookish antiquarian debauchery.

Of course, the TA and I made a ("Blue bee!") line downstairs and discovered a first edition of Ford Maddox Ford's "The Last Post." Afterward, we celebrated our opuscular coup with some juice, hopped aboard the "Orange choo-choo" and surprised Mom at her office with an offer of lunch. The lunch date was a much better surprise than my explaining to my wife how the TA had somehow managed to take up residence in a penguin exhibit.

I'm Bunny Bunny, and I approved this post.

TA(K)

2008-01-10T12:02:00.002-08:00

Ask not where I took the TA . . .

The John Fitzgerald Kennedy Presidential Library & Museum needs little introduction. In fact, when I told the TA we were "going to the museum," she said, "O-kay."

Admission is $10 for dads. TAs get in for free. The best thing about visiting a national landmark on a winter weekday is - except for maybe a random busload of tourists - you pretty much get the place all to yourself. In other words, ditch the backpack and cut the kid loose.

The architecture is classic I.M. Pei.

Clean lines of towering glass, steel, and concrete.
And no leaks.

Any Presidential Museum where kids can break into a full gallop gets my vote.
I would suggest a rack of Kennedy-approved footballs
for visitors to toss around.

The TA fishes her juice bottle out of Backpack One.

Like most things in this world, the Kennedy Library was a big hit with the TA. She especially loved all the family photos and home movies. Every time I pointed to a photo and said, "This is Jack," or "That's Bobby," or "There's Honey Fitz," the TA would point to any Kennedy under 10 and yell, "Baby!"

Everything lately is "Mama!" and "Baby!" Last month it was "Shoes."

The TA's Mom loves reading to her daughter from Caroline Kennedy's "A Family of Poems," as well as "The Best-Loved Poems of Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis" Naturally, the TA lit up when she recognized Jacqueline's photo on the museum wall.

"Mama!"

JFK was, of course, "Daddy!"

John and Caroline were both "Baby!' and "Baby!" respectively.

"Mama." "Daddy." and "Babies!" in Hyannisport
(with "Oof Oofs" galore).

Every time the TA saw a video of JFK speaking at a podium,
she yelled out, "Obama!"
That's it, young lady!
No more C-Span for you.

A slab of the original Berlin Wall can be found in the JFK Legacy wing.

Madame President!
A word, please!
What do you say to allegations that Lobby-Me Elmo is in the
hip pocket of the baby formula industry?

JFK's golf clubs.
About as active as mine.

My favorites part was Robert F Kennedy's office,
but the result was not my finest moment behind the camera.
You can almost see his children's toys on the front of the desk.

As a result, we did the next best thing.
We hit the gift shop.
We scored an RFK commemorative coffee mug,
as well as some Presidential yogurt and juice from the cafe.

BlahBlah models a retro RFK '68 Button.

Madame President!
Is it true you signed Elmo's pardon in crayon?
Is it your opinion that enforced naps are part of vast right wing conspiracy?

Chariots of Frost

2008-01-09T04:28:00.000-08:00

Much Tougher Than They Appear.

The TA rang in 2008 by watching her dad (and Grampy!) layer up for the 27th annual Hangover Classic 5K in Salisbury MA, otherwise affectionately known as the Black Ice Rambler. The TA has witnessed her dad taunt greatness, and blisters, at a few 5K events before, and once cheered on Grampy when he ran a marathon in Pennslyvania. (That's right. Grampy runs marathons. Dad huffs and puffs at a 5K. Can we move on now?) What I did notice, besides the disquieting sight of polar bears waiting to descend on fallen runners, was the number of jogging strollers. It got me thinking. "Why should the TA watch me freeze from the comfort of Mom's toasty Saab, when she can watch me freeze up-close from an heavily swaddled and insulated jogging stroller?"

On the left, someone has a front row seat to all this ballyhoo and tomfoolery.

With all this in mind, we returned from the race, thawed out, and I dug out my sister's jogging stroller out of the cellar. Then I let it sit in the kitchen for a week. Yesterday, I wiped down the frame, scrubbed all the fabric clean, inflated the tires, and popped the TA in for test ride about the house.

She answered by giving BlahBlah a workout.

Soon, naps were in order for all.

I signed up for another frozen 5K. And this time the TA will make history.

This is going to happen.

The TA shames Dad by beating his personal best across the living room.

BlahBlah puts Elmo through his own paces.

The Trouble With Toys

2007-12-10T12:13:00.001-08:00

Scenes We'd Like To See:
"Stuff-My-Giddy-Innards-With-Fifty-D-Batteries-and-I'll-Drive-
Your-Parents-Criminally-Insane-Elmo" taken into custody by Federal Marshals. Across the country, Moms and Dads breathe a sigh of relief as board books, crayons, and puzzles are restored to (relatively) quieter homes.

Please Stand By . . .

2007-11-16T05:04:00.001-08:00

We are experiencing technical difficulties.

The digital camera is on the fritz.

No, the TA did not dunk it in peanut butter.

Crane Beach Reservation

2007-11-06T18:14:00.001-08:00

My wife took this photo of the TA on the beach with her friend's daughter.

Sox Win! Sox Win!!

2007-10-29T09:01:00.001-07:00

Head of the Charles

2007-10-21T12:46:00.000-07:00

"Merrily, merrily, merrily . . . "

More fun than a barrel full of privileged monkeys, the annual Head of the Charles is always worth the trip. Collegiate rowing dates back to 1843, when it was predominated by folks named Cabot or Kirkland. Today, everyone gets in on the act. All along the 3.2 mile course, over 30,000 fans from Canada to China, South Carolina to California cheer their alma mater. After perenial local favorite Harvard, the biggest round of applause from the Weeks Memorial Bridge went out to Texas.

"I say, Farnsworth."
"Yes, Amory?"
"Hook 'em horns, old chum."
"Indeed."

Admission is free . . . unless, of course, you're rowing.

Fun Rowing Fact: In 1858, Harvard's Charles Eliot passed out silk scarves of crimson to fellow rowers so revelers on the shore could identify the team.
Yale's scull was identified by bobbing martini glasses in its wake.

How do you get to the Newell Boathouse?
Reject MIT's acceptance letter.

John Wingate Weeks Memorial Bridge

The folks at the Reunion Tent search in vain for yachts with school colors.

The TA was fixated on team colors on the oar blades and all those angry coxswains.

What dad sees . . .

What The TA sees.