SHAME ON THE TIMES: A SLATE article that agrees with me -- that the Duke "rape" case has been a crock from the get-go, and that the NYT is an aider and abetter of lies -- is here.

BROTHERS: Despite Licky's drool-bead on his chin, this is a pretty cute shot. These two get a real kick out of each other, when they're not actually kicking each other. The picture tells a good story. C.J. is a big, sweet kid. Licky is a little dynamo who thinks he's the big brother. Makes for interesting days. 

UNCLE FUN: Yours truly gets a guest-shot with young Otto. The kid was thrilled, trust me.

 

THE LONELY FIRST BASEMAN: A great shot of my little #11 tending first base in his first year of real t-ball. Maybe not great in the concentration department yet, but he sure knows how to get dirty. 

 

JUST LIKE THE GRATEFUL DEAD: My two little drummer boys played a welcome concert for baby Otto last night. C.J., the older one, has some serious skills for four years old. I may have to buy him -- and me -- a real live drum set soon. 

 

'ELLO OTTO: The march of the male hormones continued in the Hess family this past weekend, as Otto Walter Hess made his happy human debut midday on Saturday.

Weighing in at a miniscule 6 lbs., 3 oz. (which happens to be exact same birth weight as your still-petite-to-this-day favorite blogger), this hirsute young "he" emerged happy, pleasantly pink, and possessed of some serious mutton chops. More than one family member suggested the lad looked like a Young Elvis, albeit with Old Elvis' energy level. Circumsions do that to you, I guess. God knows I'd take a heck of a nap after somebody snipped off a piece of my...

Nevermind.

A hearty congrats to my brother Casey and my sister-in-law Paula, the proud parents, as they enter the land of sleepless joy.

IN A WORD, PATHETIC: For reasons known to God alone, I woke up this morning with a raging headache, a sour stomach, and a sense of impending doom.

Granted, the sky was oppressive with rain, the barometer seemed to be playing jumprope in my skull, and I did drink three beers before bed, albeit after plenty of pasta, bread, salad, and cookies.

But I slept like seven hours. Straight. I ain't sick. And I've felt as good as a forty-year-old parent of two younguns under five can feel of late. Still, morning came and bitchslapped me awake like I insulted her. Why?

Who cares why. I hurt. And then the kids intervened...

Licky grabbed up C.J.'s fake vomit thingamajig and brought it over to me.

"Salchicha!" he squeaked, using the Spanish word for his favorite food, sausage. He thrust it in my face and mangled it against my mouth. "Salchicha!"

I really felt sick. Sick sick sick. "No, Licky!"

"Salchicha," he cried out, and then scrunched up the fake spew and shoved it in his mouth.

I am going to frickin' boot. Oh, God...

He continued to gnaw on the rubber upchuck as I fled to the bathroom.

I managed to compose myself, gulping deep breaths of air. Eileen rustled the miscreants into the car and they left for a grocery store or an amusement park or something. Didn't quite catch it.

Not long after they left I ran back into the bathroom. Something was coming...

"Aaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh! Hooooooooaaaaaaah! Hwup! Hwup! Hoaaaaaaaah!"

I dry-heaved like ten times, but nothing came up. I sweated. I was cold. And then it was over. No boot, so time to scoot. I stood up...

...and I crumpled. Holy crap. In all the dry heaving I had thrown my back out. I balanced the top half of my body back onto the bottom half, and stepped gingerly back to the bed. My back was in full spasms.

Lord have mercy. My wife drank the same three cans of Miller Lite I did. And here I was considering some kind of Kevorkanian intervention, while she was off with the little monsters. Was it the beer? I wasn't even buzzed. Some weird viral invader?

Again, who knows.

Now I'm propped up at my Starbucks, trying to gather my brain and my digestive track and my back back into some semblance of working order.

I did skip my coffee yesterday, which I almost never do. Maybe I should get down on my knees and say sorry to the God of Starbucks. Something. Caffeine rehab?

So the morning's off to a rough start.

RIDING FREE: Last week at our park, C.J. came up to me with a strident request. "Daddy, take my training wheels off."

Okay, fine, I thought. The boy's only four years, four months old. But if he wants 'em off, well then, off they'll come. It'll be good for him to learn about falling and, even more important, about getting back up.

First try the kid zooms across the park, no prob, no wrecks. He can do it. (Granted, there was a minor crash a few days later. "Daddy, I crashed the pole and hurt my wee-wee.")

After his Wild Ride he is exultant. And he has another request:

"Daddy, now I want a trophy."

"A what?"

"A trophy, for being a big rider."

"Okey-doke."

So we went online and found a trophy shop. He picked out the one he wanted. "That big one!" And he helped me write the inscription:

"C.J. Hess Rides a Bike Without Training Wheels, August 15, 2006."

It showed up in the mail yesterday, and it hasn't been out of his hands since.

I wonder if it'll be in his dorm room or office someday.

COFFEE FLOWING UNDERGROUND: I've decided "Once In a Lifetime" is Talking Heads' best song, not that you asked.

I'm sitting in a Starbucks, about an hour before leaving for the airport with little Mikey (now 20 months and wild and senseless), and it hits me that probably the two most interesting record releases in recent memory are a product of the Starbucks/HearMusic alliance. There's an 80's-ish compilation with the Heads, New Order, Bowie, Echo, etc., and then there's also this great Marley comp. Well done. And the coffee ain't bad either.