Where the middle "C" is silent

We left Woodstock on Friday for my sister's in Connecticut. The trip was easy enough, and I sat in back with Samson to help keep him occupied (and serve as a sunblocker because I broke the little shade in a fit of pique when it wouldn't retract properly, thereby leaving no question as to where young Samson gets his temper [or predilection for throwing things] from).

Sam got to take the inaugural bath in Aunt Mo and Uncle Greg's newly remodeled bathroom, and we had a nice quiet Friday night with Chinese food and a movie and Samson sleeping soundly by seven [how's that for alliteration?].

Kind of a nice break after the crowds at Thanksgiving. It really was great to see everyone, but all the attention and stimulation had Samson spinning like a top at the end of the day.

On Saturday we went to Duchess for lunch [trust me, the Big D cheeseburger is the way to go] and then to the nicest library on the planet. Their kids' section is bigger than our house, and it is probably nicer than half of the children's museums we've been to (it is certainly nicer than our house).

In keeping with our track record at the library, disaster struck. Maybe it was the Duchess, or perhaps some cosmic confluence of post-Thanksgiving dining and too many snacky things, but Samson took the mother of all poos in the "Little Farm" section of the kids area.

Little Farm, indeed.

Sadly, and I'm amazed that this hasn't happened before, neither of us checked the diaper bag before leaving the house, and so in actuality, the bag was a lie. No diapers. Just bag. Lots of snacks, two wallets, two cell phones, a sippy cup, a fleet of matchbox cars, and other assorted toys/distractions, but nary a diaper or wipe to be found. I felt a little like Richard III, except with Huggies, not horses.

Vicki and my sister headed out on foot to the nearest pharmacy [there were no other kids of similar size to Samson from whose parents we could "borrow" a diaper], while Greg and I played with King Stinky.

I'm not sure if the various people who crossed our path as we played thought that Sam had "two daddies" or were considering reporting us for child abuse because of Samson's Bhopal-like sillage, but just about everybody gave us a wide berth during those 20 or so minutes before the cavalry arrived and we could change the little man.

Interestingly enough, he was totally unfazed by the whole thing.

Which is either really Zen or really gross. I'm just not sure which.

On the bus

Sometime around the middle of last week, Samson started saying "bus." But he doesn't just say it, he cries it out from the depths of his soul. He's like a little Paul Revere warning his countrymen of an impending British attack. Except it's just Vicki and me. And buses on our street.

The last letter gets extra emphasis and sibilance so that what you hear is more like "BUSSSSSSS."

Of course he can't say "truck," so basically anything bigger than our Subaru gets tagged with the bus moniker. You can imagine how often we heard this from the backseat while traveling on I-95. Strangely enough, it never gets old.

We drove home on Saturday night, figuring that he could sleep the whole way since we'd be on the road in the dark and during his normal bedtime hours.

Somewhere in southern Connecticut, we passed a bus depot. Thank God Sam was sleeping or he might have exploded.

Early snow

On Thursday morning, we awoke to find three inches of snow on the ground. I don't know that Samson had any idea what was going on, but he definitely got caught up in how excited his mom and I were at the sight of snow. And then we remembered: We have not yet bought him snow boots. Or mittens. The mittens was a total oversight, and I take full responsibility. As for the boots, he's not walking yet, so we thought we could wait a bit.

I mean, it's not like we'd planned a snowshoeing trek and forgotten his boots.

In any event, we were able to borrow mittens (thank you, Lucas). And Vicki improvised with some plastic bags and rubber bands over his snow pants. Hardly the stuff of Norman Rockwell prints or L.L. Bean catalogue shots, but effective nonetheless.

As it turned out, he was much too happy in his cousin Lucas' sled to want to even try walking in the snow. You can't see from this picture, but he's smiling.


Uncle Greg tried to get Sam to taste some snow, but he was more interested in the plow coming up the road.

Truckin'

We hit the road tomorrow morning for the annual feast and family get-together in Woodstock, NY.

Always a crowd at the table, and always a great time. Except for the brown acid.

This will be Samson's first trip to Woodstock as we were at my sister's in Connecticut last year. It's good to get back to the tradition, and I know Samson will have fun with his cousin Lucas.

There are few things as entertaining as watching two toddlers play around each other. The degree of busy-ness is unparalleled; they're like little beavers --- minus the engineering skills.

The blog has been light on photos lately, so I'll try to get some pics to post after the holiday.

What would Michael Landon do?

When the time comes, I fear we may need to send Samson to school with two lunches and double milk money. He's like a magnet for toddler bullies. At Madelyn's party, I had noticed that while Samson was playing with some Sesame Street toy, a particular little girl was watching and waiting for the right moment to move in. You know how on those National Geographic specials, when you get that bucolic image of a zebra peacefully munching some grass and then the camera pans and you see a lion standing by patiently? It was sort of like that, except the zebra was wearing overalls and the lion was in a princess dress. Anyway, she made quick work of Samson, despite my best, measured Dad voice saying: "Can you both play with that toy? Can you share that with him?" Clearly she could not.

There's not much you can do in those situations --- especially when it's a kid you don't know. Because this little girl was Hitler-youth blonde and had icy blue eyes, I was reminded of Nellie Olsen. [Side note: I spent hours as a kid being forced to watch Little House on the Prairie; it didn't quite rise to the level of the Ludavico technique, but it has obviously had some lasting (and possibly unintended) consequences.]

In any event, I thought about how Pa would always counsel his kids to be good and kind and not fight with the Olsen kids, because even though they (the Ingalls) were just poor farmers and couldn't afford fancy calico clothes or vacations in Mancato, they still had dignity and were good, God-fearing people.

[Second side note: I have always been slightly suspicious of kids who are too blonde and blue-eyed. And no this is not an ironic statement. For the record, we are strawberry blondes in our house, and Samson's eyes are cerulean].

In any event, I maneuvered Samson away from Nellie in search of toys she didn't want to play/hit my child with. And I thought about how funny it is that parenthood gives one such a personal stake in interactions between kids that they themselves probably remember for only a few seconds and then totally forget. I also thought of the wisdom of Pa Ingalls in trying to keep his family above the fray.

Later on, when Samson was playing in the basement, he was standing and holding on to a keyboard toy Nellie was seated at and playing with. He wasn't trying to touch the toy or take over, he just needs something to hold onto for support while standing. I stood off to the side and watched Samson smile at her. And then I watched Nellie look at him and put her hand to his little shoulder and give him a good, hard shove.

He made his way over to me, not happy but not in tears. I picked him up and walked back over to the toy and Nellie. And I thought "What would Michael Landon do?"

So I leaned down and said, in my best Dad voice: "You know you really should share that toy. He wasn't trying to take it from you; he's just not as big as you are, and he needs help to stand up. Also, Santa's dead."

Ok, I didn't really say that last part.

At least, as far as you know.

Side effects may include...

Samson is on a course of Motrin and amoxicillin for his ear infection. So far, so good. Sleeping just fine; back to his old chipper self.

We were at Samson's friend Madelyn's 2nd birthday party on Saturday. They live about an hour and a half away, and we figured it would be a good test run for the Thanksgiving trip to NY later this week. He slept most of the way, which was great, and awoke ready to play with the legion of toddlers assembled to honor Madelyn.

He was having a grand old time, although I can tell that the no-walking thing is starting to frustrate him --- especially in a room full of "big kids," all of whom can walk. I took him upstairs to change his diaper and noticed a big pink spot. Now I am not one of those dads with hard and fast rules on pink and boys, but pink in the diaper, regardless of gender, is never a good thing.

So we called his pediatrician, who indicated that indeed, discolored pee can be a side effect of either motrin or amoxicillin. Why this wouldn't be on the label, I can't imagine.

Pills designed to help you sleep come with warnings not to take them before driving or operating heavy machinery, but medicine for infants that could make them pee in Wonka colors somehow doesn't merit a line?

Weird.

Up all night

Work has been busy; I had a paper due; I had a fractured molar that needed a crown (and required several visits to the dentist); and Samson has an ear infection.

Just wanted to get that all out there as a way of letting you know I haven't forgotten the blog; I just haven't had much time.

First things first: our usual Monday night trip to the library was totally uneventful until we got to the parking gate and I realized I had no cash in my wallet. The fee was 75 cents, and I had 35 in the ashtray of the car. The attendant gave me one of those "I can't help you" looks, and so I backed up the car, parked, got Samson back out of his carseat, and walked a few blocks to a 7-Eleven to use the ATM.

Mind you, it was a nice night out [this was before the cold front moved in], and it was totally my fault for not checking my wallet before using the library's garage. That said, did the guy in the booth really think I was trying to game him out of 40 cents? He probably that in coins on the floor of the booth. Not to mention the fact that he had to break a twenty, and I probably cleaned him out of all of his small bills. The moral of the story, of course, is this: park on the street. Also, the library may lend you its books, but make no mistake, parking is not free.

Truthfully, Samson and I kind of enjoyed the additional adventure; he was pretty mesmerized by the whirling slurpee machine.

Fast forward to the end of the week. The night before last, Samson woke up at 3:30 or so and was crying and totally listless. He couldn't get settled, and when Vicki brought him into bed with us he just lay on her like a little rag doll. Totally out of character.

Last night, he was running a fever and woke up at 2. He hadn't eaten much, and we thought, in addition to some Tylenol, we'd give him some food. So off we go to the kitchen at 2:30, and of course, he totally perks up. Not just eating but naming and taking inventory of everything in the kitchen ---the clock, apples, my nose, the tea kettle...

A long time ago, I read Bruce Chatwin's book the Songlines, which chronicles his walk across the Australian Outback following the ancient Aboriginal dreaming tracks. In the Aboriginal creation myth, in the dreamtime the ancestors walked across the land and sang the things they saw, thereby bringing them into being. I don't completely get it either, but Samson was in total Aboriginal mode last night, which was actually really sweet.

In any event, Vicki took him to the doctor this morning, and indeed the cold he was getting over has turned into an ear infection. So he'll need some rest and have to take some antibiotics, but he should be right as rain in a few days.

I'm glad we got the diagnosis. For one, because it breaks my heart to see him hurting. Also, given his behavior lately --- alternately crying and happy, withdrawn and clingy, hungry and fasting, obsessed with the phone and uninterested in communicating with us --- I was afraid he'd become possessed by the spirit of a teenage girl.

I'm really glad it's not that.

And yes, I've probably just pushed some karmic envelope that guarantees no more XY chromosome carriers born into our house, but it's good to know he's ok and on the mend.

Saturday in the park with Sam

Way better than Sunday in the park with George. Trust me.

There was an arts festival at Quiet Waters State Park yesterday, and we got to hear some music and check out some local artists' work. The park extends down to the South River, so we were able to take Samson down there to look at the sailboats and, in what would be the highlight of his day, climb the hill that overlooks the dog beach.

Mind you, he still can't walk on his own, but something about this hill made him want to climb. And climb. And climb again. He would get to the top and simply turn around and start back down, walking in a kind of Mr. Magoo-like frenzy until we reached the trail's edge --- at which point he probably would have kept right on walking into the river had Vicki or I not been holding his hands.

Today we figured that it might be a good idea, since he's really starting to want to walk, to get him a real pair of shoes. Those Robeez are cute and all, but they're more like slippers than shoes. Slippers with dumptrucks on them, sure, but still no hard sole. So we went today and learned that young Samson has a wide foot. This news came just moments after I wondered aloud why a kids' store would stock wide sizes, as noted on their display. Apparently our little guy has Fred Flintstone feet.

In any event, he's now got these cool brown boots, size 3 1/2. Wide.

He's also got a new game to play while in his carseat. We'll have to start double-knotting.

ps: I almost forgot: It never got above 55 degrees yesterday, and while we were with Samson and enjoying his forced march, there were only a few dogs playing in the water.

There was also a kid, probably nine years old, who was soaked from jumping into the water after these dogs --- none of whom, it turned out, were his.

When the beach emptied of its canine cohort, just this kid and his dad and sister were left, and I heard the Dad say, "C'mon Kyle, you're soaked. Let's head back to the car and get you warmed up."

Vicki doesn't believe me, but I know what I heard.

Coffee shops vs toddlers

Thought I'd pass this along. I'm not sure what to think about the article [you'll need to complete free registration at NYTimes.com to read it], but it's worth reading.

On the one hand, I agree with the business owners and patrons who are frustrated by parents who seem to feel that the price of coffee and a muffin entitles them to community daycare (i.e., Here's my ill-mannered progeny, mind watching him while I drink this latte and read the paper? I'll be in the back). Even worse, in my mind, are the sit-down correcters --- those parents who call in plays from the sidelines rather than actually getting up from their coffee and paper to stop their child from kindling a small fire near the magazine rack.

On the other hand, some of the incidents recounted in the piece, particularly the one from the self-described feminist bookstore that asked a breastfeeding mother to leave, seem to defy both belief and common-sense.

Of course it's no fun to have to listen to a toddler crying while you drink your coffee. But it's also no fun to have to listen to some middle management investment banker master-of-the-universe-type declaim how drunk he was the night before on his cell phone. However, nobody seems to be putting up signs about this.

I worked for a while at a coffee bar, which is a great spot for observing the human condition. Among the more pernicious effects of the show Friends --- aside from the apparent nosferatu nature of the Joey character [this guy has been on TV almost as long as Cronkite at this point] --- would have to be the idea that coffee shops are places to spend a whole day.

In the world of television, this is pretty benign because it means a bunch of telegenic twenty-somethings hanging out and essentially extending dorm life into the "real world."

In the actual "real world," as anyone who has ever worn an apron and made espresso drinks for 8-hour shifts can tell you, what this translates to is a kind of day camp for the socially retarded, who come, spend $1.50 on coffee, dismantle the entire Sunday Times without purchasing it, and generally prove Newton's first law.

I'll take unruly toddlers over these people any day.

Science!

I spent half of my day yesterday at the dentist re-enacting scenes from Marathon Man (actually, not really, my dentist is very nice, but she still managed to leave me in a good deal of pain for the next 12 hours).

I got back to the office only to find that my parking lot was full, which left me on my own to find parking on the street. Frustrating, to say the least. Not to mention the fact that there are a dozen or so spots that remain empty and reserved for God knows who. I pointed this out to the parking lot attendant, but, as I learned, it's extremely difficult to convey sarcasm when half of your face is paralyzed by novocaine.

In any event, Samson continues to produce enough snot to merit his own Garbage Pail Kid card, but he is otherwise doing just fine. Yesterday he and his crew went to the Science Center. I haven't had much time to write lately, so I wanted to at least post some photos from their little field trip.

And yes, I'm jealous. The most interesting thing that happened at my office yesterday was a fire drill. Don't get me wrong, it was nice to be outside in the autumn sunshine, but I would much rather have been playing in the water tables with Sam and co.

The song (unfortunately) remains the same

Samson has some kind of stomach bug. Poor little guy; I came home to find him curled up on Vicki looking absolutely pathetic. And yet, despite his low-grade fever and general malaise, he still felt compelled to point out the cat to me and gravely intone: "tatt." Even when he's not sick, he's not even close to walking. I think he's focusing all of his energy on acting as our in-house narrator.

Vicki has class on Monday nights, and I knew Samson was pretty much ready for bed by 5:30, so we went into his room to read some books and sing a few songs. He's pretty good about sitting still and reading, but there are times when only a song seems to have the power to calm him down. Especially when he is overtired or sick. Then, nothing seems to settle him like a good refrain of the "Down by the station" song. Unfortunately, it's a two-verse song, which means that on a night like this, I could conceivably sing it over 100 times. Which, especially when he's not feeling well, is the least I can do. And he has started singing along during the "puff, puff, toot, toot" part. I wish you could hear his little voice and see the look on his face as he waits for the line to come around. Absolutely priceless.

Even so, as I was singing to him, I was thinking tonight of an interview I'd heard with Robert Plant and Jimmy Page. They were talking about how they'd stand backstage before a show and try to convince each other to play "Stairway to Heaven" reggae-style just to mix things up a bit.

They never did, of course.

And a reggae-version of "Down by the station" is just too ridiculous to even consider, but I think you understand what I'm saying.

Advice from the homefront

File this under "found art." I got an e-mail from Vicki this morning with the subject line: Advice.

Samson pooped.
A lot.
We are unexpectedly out of wipes.
Toilet paper doesn't work well on sticky poo stuck to bottom.
Spit doesn't moisten toilet paper enough.
Antibacterial gel makes his bottom cold.
Aquaphor makes his bottom sticky.
Holding him over the sink half-naked to wash him clean makes both of us
very unhappy.

Advice: don't ever run out of wipes.

Lexicon

Samson has added a new word to his repertoire: baby.

This is probably the first word that doesn't require being related to him to interpret, and as you can imagine, we're very proud. It is hilarious to watch him, as I did last night, point to a child who is roughly his age, give a kind of sideways wave, and proclaim "bay-bee."

Guys night out

Vicki is a little under the weather, so I skipped class tonight to come home and help out. What she really needed was some rest, so Samson and I went out to eat. It was awesome; we had Chipotle, and miracle of miracles, no food ended up on the floor. Maybe we just need to eat all our meals there. I bet Uncle Greg would join us...

I want very much to teach my son to be kind, to be compassionate and patient. I bring this up because the woman in front of us on line, when placing her order, was offered a choice of pinto or black beans, and she asked which ones were which. The guy behind the counter, to his credit, simply pointed to the pintos, identified them as such, and then pointed to the black beans and did likewise. Now, I know that pinto is not among Crayola's chosen 64, but it seems like the black bean identification would be somewhat intuitive.

In any event, I resisted the temptation to be "helpful," for Samson's sake, so high fives all around. What do I mean by helpful, you ask?

When I was still working downtown, I got in an elevator one evening and pressed the button for the first floor. On the next floor, someone I didn't know got in and pressed the same button (which was already lit from my having pressed it) several times. He did so after a stop on the next floor, when nobody got on, and the door had closed again. I offered --- helpfully I thought --- this observation: "that button doesn't get any brighter." No response, but a half-scowl for my elevator tip.

I think it's worth noting that my father's joy at becoming a grandfather was probably matched only by the prospect of watching the karmic wise guy wheel begin a new revolution.

Halloween recap

I convinced Vicki to cut her class last night so we could take Samson trick-or-treating with his friends Jake and O, the giraffe and frog, respectively. Our little plush menagerie hit all of three houses before the boys collectively gave up, but I think given the circumstances (time change, strangers in their faces, not being able to eat what they got), we did just fine.

Poor Samson is probably glad to see Halloween come and go; he's worn that lion costume more than he's worn some of his pajamas at this point.

And the fact that he hated wearing the lion headpiece might actually be a blessing in disguise. His feline headgear antipathy might just save us a voice mail like this in the future: "Hi Mom and Dad. Just wanted to call with some good news: I've gotten the lead in a dinner theater revival of Cats! I'm Rum-Tum-Tugger. Isn't that fantastic? I'll send you guys comp tickets once we're out of rehearsal. Also, when you come you should try the prime rib --- it's very good."

What's in a name?

Samson had a Halloween parade on Friday at the little gym he goes to, and I got to go and witness 30 or so kids ranging in age from 1 to 3 in their costumes wandering around a padded room with trampolines and uneven bars. It was total chaos, right down to "The Monster Mash" playing in the background.

Actually, it was terrific; the staff were great with the kids, and most of the parents seemed pretty in tune with what their kids were doing and where they were --- always a big concern for me since Samson is usually one of the only nonwalkers at events like these.

As we made our way around the gym and Samson generally got to climb everything in sight, he got stepped on by a kid wearing a Monster's Inc. costume. He wasn't hurt; in fact, I'm not sure he even noticed, but I heard the kid's mom say, "Be careful, Kyle; watch out for the baby."

Of course, Samson is practically hyperthermic in his little lion costume from all the climbing, and he's smiling up at Kyle the baby stomper, who is standing, unrepentant, watching me to see if he should step around Sam or on him.

I picked Samson up and ended the suspense. The goodness and trust in that little smile is enough to break your heart.

But it also got me thinking. I've only known a few Kyles in my life, and their track record is uniformly unimpressive. When I was three, Kyle who lived down the block used to put dog poo on a stick and chase all the neighborhood kids threatening "Cocky!" I still hate that word, even when it's used appropriately (i.e., adjectivally) and not in stick-wielding poo context.

In junior high, there was a Kyle who had seen Fast Times and had some kind of Saul on the road to Damascus moment. Almost overnight, he went from a pretty unremarkable kid who blended in with the rest of the eighth grade to a Jeff Spicoli mini-me. Had we grown up in Venice (that's Dogtown to you, Kyle), that might have been an almost inevitable transition. But on Long Island?

And while the whole thing can't be blamed on him, Kyle MacLachlan certainly didn't do much to help keep Dune from being simultaneously bad and incomprehensible. He's also got "The Flintstones" and "Showgirls" on his resume. I rest my case.

Now I know someone out there knows a Kyle who is cool. But this Kyle is different you'll say; he's a good guy.

To which I say, good for you: Start an I love Kyle blog.

But my theory stands. Unless some guy named Kyle comes up and steps on it, smears it with dog poo, calls me "bud," and then kills some Harkonnens using only his mind.

Then it's a fact.

Not quite the gas face

Thank you to the four people who remember the song by 3rd Bass. The rest of you can catch the vapors.

So what's up with that goofy smile on Samson's face? Pop rocks. Or, more accurately, pop rock. We had an 80s style Halloween party and still have some candy left over. Vicki thought Sam might get a kick out of having a pop rock on his tongue. I think she was right. He was a little confused at first, but how can you go wrong with carbonation and sugar?

A sight rarer than Sasquatch

Samson James in a hat. This almost never happens.

And when it does, just like with Sasquatch, there's almost never a camera handy.

Of course he threw this hat to the ground almost immediately after the photo was taken, but minor victories are victories nonetheless.

32 feet per second per second

It was bound to happen sooner or later: Samson fell off the bed. I got a voice mail at work from Vicki, who had sat him on our bed while trying to get dressed. Why not put him on the floor, you ask. Because he's started trying to climb into our dresser --- a trick I'm pretty sure he learned from the cat. [That's all we need is some kind of collaborationist initiative between the two little mammals in our house.]

She was half-pantsed and moving toward him when he moved to the edge and loosed the surly bonds. Poor little guy. Apparently he bounced right back (no pun intended) and was content to continue watching his Teletubbies from the floor. I almost feel worse for Vicki; I know I wouldn't want to have to witness Samson as physics experiment.

I can still vaguely recall being about 2 and climbing on the Winnie the Pooh in my crib to see what would happen if I really leaned over the edge. I am also unable to fly.

Veritas

We made a quick trip to the library last night to return some books and check out some new ones. Samson got to play at the train table for a little bit, but he kept taking the train and banging it on the table, which drew some stern looks from the children's librarian so we moved on.

The gated toddler room, scene of previous strange encounters, did not disappoint last night. Although there were no feral two-year-olds or random outbursts of book licking. Last night's encounter came courtesy of the other adult in the area. This dad was sitting watching his son play on the slide and struck up a conversation with me about how great it was that the library had this area for kids, etc. All of which I replied to politely, but I'll be honest, I'm not really big on talking to strangers. Particularly strange men in rooms with little kids. I know, I know, he was the kid's dad, but even so.

I've long wished there were some universal hand sign for "please stop talking to me, you're making me uncomfortable." Kind of like the choking sign but infinitely more useful on a daily basis.

In any event, there was no way out of conversation with this guy, who looked like a combination of Buddy Holly and Michael Douglas in "Falling Down." He asked how old Samson was, and I said 13 months. He said his son was 2. He asked if Samson could walk, and I replied no. He then asked about crawling, and I said yes. Then, in what was a capstone to an already awkward conversation, he took out a picture of his son from his wallet to show me what his son looked like at 13 months. Mind you, this was the same son who was standing not four feet from us.

At this point, Samson is getting hungry and tired, and I'm just trying to grab some books without looking like I'm obviously trying to get away from this guy. I'm sure a more careful selection would not have yielded a book about vegetable soup, but it does have lots of bright colors. And besides, it could have been worse.

So we're finally ready to go, and the guy asks me what Sam's name is. For the briefest of moments, I actually thought about saying "Diego" because the guy was just so weird. But I could just picture Vicki at the library in the near future and this guy coming up to her and saying "oh, you must be Diego's mom."

So I told the truth, and damn the luck, his son's name is Sam as well. So we got to talk about that, and Samson versus Samuel [no contest, it's Samson in a walk every time].

If not for Vicki, I'm almost sure I would have lied. I once spent a year at my old gym answering to the name "Chris" because I'd missed the window of opportunity to inform a guy who worked out there that my name was not, in fact, Chris. I would actually sign up for the cardio machine with the name "Christian." [For some reason, I never felt like a Christopher].

But, of course, it might also have confused Samson. There's no telling what he recalls at this point. Which is not good, because in the middle of singing the "Itsy Bitsy Spider" in the car yesterday this Chevy Gigundo (or whatever their school-bus sized SUV is called) cut us off. Without thinking, and in mid-song, I said "hey thanks, assface." Let's hope that's not something he thinks is part of the song.

In any event, we finally got through the gate and to the check out counter. I felt like Andy Dufresne.