At the conclusion of the game, my sister ran over to where my family was sitting.

My sister: “Did you see my four home runs!?!”

Me: “Yes I did. Well, actually, you had four singles. Because there were multiple fielding and throwing errors committed by the defense, you were able to score on each hit. Just so you know, those aren’t considered “home runs”. Technically, you had four singles and the defense committed eleven errors while you ran the bases. That’s how it should be scored.”

My sister: “Whatever, you’re just jealous.”

Me: “I can assure you that I am not.”

My Dad (glaring at me): “No, those were some great hits Sweetheart. All of them were home runs.”

And so it goes. Mercifully, that was the last girls’ softball game I ever attended.

As we left the ballpark, I thought of my parents, willfully sitting in the stands watching every single game. My dad wasn’t reading a newspaper during the game. He wasn’t sipping from a flask either. Instead, he had a pencil and a little piece of paper and was keeping track of all my sister’s at-bats. He legitimately cared about what was going on in the field. I simply couldn’t wrap my head around that.

I have a feeling that is about to change. While this episode happened almost ten years ago, I found myself thinking about it again this week. You see, we found out on Tuesday that the bun currently roasting in my wife’s oven is a female bun. In other words, we’re having a little girl.

I started this post with the story about high school softball for a reason. I’m slowly finding out that the prospect of having a girl makes you think about things like this. It’s weird, to say the least. This is on top of the usual worries dads face, you know, about having to one day threaten a high school boy with physical violence, having to put off retirement for another year to pay for a wedding, and having to deal with a son-in-law that spends an inexorable amount of time playing video games and dressing up like Star Wars characters.

I’m not looking forward to any of these things, but they are in my immediate future. I’m starting to think that this is how my Dad was able to enjoy himself at softball games. Instead of putting asterisks next to the “home runs” being hit, he was simply happy to spend time with his daughter and put off worrying about things like the possibility of a future prom date pulling into his driveway with a windowless van. Ah, fatherhood…

With that said, here are a few answers to some FAQs:

A girl, huh?
Yes indeed.

How do you feel about that?
I’m warming up to the idea. On the one hand, it will be an entirely new experience from having a boy. I’m sure I will gain a lot of new perspective on life in general in this process. And, I think gray hair can be a dignified look on a man.

Any ideas for a name yet?
Actually, “Prudence” has a nice ring to it.

Truthfully, I haven’t given it much thought. Because we are having a girl, it likely means I won’t be able to revive the effort to name our child “Lando Calrissian Ring.”

How is your wife doing?
Excellent question. As soon as she’s done insulating the crawl space, I’ll ask her.

When is the due date?
March 17th. I’m banking that the hospital will be serving green beers in the cafeteria.

How is little Charlie taking the news?
As you would expect, Charlie is taking it like a man.

C’mon… Did you pull off a snipe?
I won’t lie, it actually took me two shots this time. I don’t know what happened. Maybe I didn’t properly account for wind direction or the humidity. Sometimes, in the murkiness of battle, miscalculations can occur. However, I made sure to track the flight path of the first round, and adjusted accordingly on my next shot. As you might expect, my second shot went dead-center through the ovum. Mission Accomplished, time for extraction.

Someday, I can envision a lecture with my son beginning with those words.

Like the dad from TeenWolf, I will one day be forced to council my teenage son on how to manage his superpowers. I’ll tell him that it’s ok to use these powers to excel at sports, provided he doesn’t become a ball-hog. I will say that it’s ok for him to maybe get even with a bully, as long as he doesn’t cripple the guy or something. And it’s ok to impress a girl with your powers, but just make sure she loves the real you. Finally, I will tell him to maintain his dignity, and to not be seen “surfing” or doing handstands on top of a buddy’s minivan around town. Hopefully he’ll get the message.

These are the things I’ve been thinking about since I discovered my one-year old son possesses superhuman strength.

The other day, he grabbed onto a heavy chair in our kitchen. He pulled it away from the counter, and pushed it across the floor with ease. This chair happens to be twice as tall as he is, and easily weighs twice his body weight. And then it dawned on me. There is no way I could perform a comparable feat, pushing around an object over twelve feet tall and weighing close to 400 pounds.

This is just one example. He routinely pushes, lifts, pulls and topples items around the house that are gigantic relative to his size. And being a baby, he doesn’t know that he shouldn’t be able to manhandle these items. He quite literally doesn’t know his own strength.

And I hypothesize that, as he gets older, he’ll only get stronger. Whereas now he can manipulate items twice his body weight, in a few years it will be five or six or even ten times his body weight. He’ll have full-on insect strength.

Now, as far as superpowers are concerned, insect strength is a good one to have, as it lends itself well to superhero pseudonyms. While comic book characters have already claimed the best names, there are still lots of options out there. For instance, he could craft an appropriate costume and go by the name “Locust-Man” and bring forth the ultimate famine… on crime.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, as crime fighting is years in the future. My biggest concern will be his formative years. While I initially looked at his gifts with great excitement, figuring that I will no longer have to watch “World’s Strongest Man” competitions on ESPN to witness feats of strength, I now realize the difficulties I will encounter in raising this boy.

At only one year of age, he is already physically stronger than my wife, and routinely overpowers her during bath time or diaper changes. I used to laugh at these spectacles at first, but now I have sobered up to the fact that my days as an authority figure are numbered.

If I attempt to take a toy away from him, will he instead rip my arm out of the socket? The first time I tell him to clean his room, will he hoist the family car over his head and heave it at me?

Despite these fears, I am committed to raising my son in a house of discipline. Ideally, with the right counseling, I can teach Charlie to use his gifts for the betterment of mankind, and not the pursuit of evil. I just need to find some type of Cryptonite to help maintain discipline, as I don’t think he’ll respond well to being grounded.

Anyway, while the words “Dada” and “Mama” certainly make his parents proud, I worry about how far these words will actually take him in life. For instance, I certainly doubt the word “Dada” will impress anyone in a job interview. So, I’ve decided to start teaching him some of my favorite words that will assist him in all facets of life…

Words to use in a job interview:
Spearhead
Catalyst
Pinnacle
Veritable
Impetus

Words to use in an office meeting:
Exhaustive
Spreadsheet (use it as a verb, as in “Let me spreadsheet the proposal and get back to you.”)
Due-diligence
Sidestep
Conduit

Words to use when making a deal:
Collateral
Non-negotiable
Accountable
Dealbreaker
Timeline

Words to express dissatisfaction (I have many of these):
Outrage
Perfect (once he has mastered the use of sarcasm)
Finally (once he has mastered the use of sarcasm)
Hassle
Standard
Typical
Headache
UN-believable
UN-acceptable (Please note, I know that “unbelievable” and “unacceptable” are not spelled with multiple capital letters or hyphens. I’m trying to illustrate how they should be pronounced.)

Words to describe someone untrustworthy:
Gypsy
Charlatan
Rapscallion
Shifty-eyed
UN-reliable

Words to use to charm a lady:
Fortuitous
Indeed
Impetuous
Inquire

And there are dozens of other words that I’ll be introducing shortly. I’ve told Charlie many times that having these words as part of his vocabulary will be the catalyst to spearheading a veritable conduit to the pinnacle of success in life. Charlie agrees fully, as he always responds with an enthusiastic “Dada!” at the end of my sermon…. which, I’m pretty sure is his word for expressing approval.

Unseen Obstacles: On most nights, my wife goes to bed much earlier than I do. However, before going to sleep, she likes to take a moment to craft an assortment of booby traps in the pathway between the bedroom door and my side of the bed. And when I come to bed, I must trek through her obstacle course in the dark. And naturally, just like an unsuspecting burglar in a Home Alone movie, I walk blindly into each household booby trap and suffer a nightly barrage of cartoonish blows to the groin and head before reaching the bed. Sometimes her traps are simple, like traversing through 14 pairs of shoes on the ground, all with the heels turned upwards. Other times, she may place an open suitcase in my path, positioned in a way for the lid to instantly clamp down on my leg like a grizzly trap when stepped on. And sometimes, she’ll put our lamps and nightstands in weird places and reconfigure the walls of our bedroom so that I crash into them. Of course, most nights I am usually stumbling to bed completely drunk, so that could be part of the problem as well.

Defensive Stance: My wife is a hard-nosed defender. When sleeping, she crowds my side of the bed and positions herself to not allow me any movement whatsoever. I am seriously stymied. In basketball terminology, we would refer to this as a defensive lockdown. And as the rules state, once a defender has established position, any contact made by the opposition is clearly an offensive foul. Consequently, because of her lockdown, I can’t rollover or move my arm without drawing contact. I think she hopes is that I’ll eventually foul-out and be ejected from the bed.

The Night Auditor: I have been awakened many times by my wife talking in her sleep, usually asking an accounting question like “Why doesn’t the general ledger match the data in the cost report?” Fantastic. She is conducting an audit in her sleep again. With a marriage of an actuary and an accountant, you can say that there is always a dull moment in our house.

The Alarm Clock: My wife ambitiously sets her alarm for very early in the morning. Unfortunately, she rarely has the same ambition needed to actually get out of bed when it goes off. Perhaps one day a month she’ll actually get up with her alarm. The other days she simply hits the “snooze” button, and I am treated to a completely unnecessary wake-up, an hour before I need to get out of bed. While being awakened prematurely is never enjoyable, I try to put the extra hour to constructive use. For instance, I can spend the hour endlessly rolling around, desperately trying to get back to sleep. In addition, I have an extra hour now to stew about how much I dread going to work everyday. Needless to say, both of these options are great ways to start the day.

Tall Tales: In the morning, I get a rundown of the agonizing events my wife had to endure the night before. Her tales of hardship center around things like getting up to console a crying baby, or having to cope with the theft of blankets by her husband. Of course, I can usually manage to sleep through the sounds of a crying baby so there is no way to know if her account is totally fabricated. We’ll just assume it is. As for the blankets, while I would love to point out her many annoying sleeping habits, I am usually too delirious from exhaustion to muster a defense for myself.

As you can imagine, I look forward to the day when it is socially acceptable for a married couple to sleep in bunk beds. And just in case that day does arrive, let me get this in print: I call bottom.

Therefore, I initially focused my car search on used limousines. I really liked the aspect of privacy glass and the abundance of luxurious amenities. Also, the option of being able to raise a barrier walling off the driver at the passengers’ discretion was particularly desirable. I was all set to buy one, actually. Unfortunately, my wife refused to wear a chauffeur’s outfit, which ultimately killed the allure for me.

My next choice was a giant motor home. Obviously, the ability to run errands in a fully functioning home on wheels was enticing. I even found a really fuel-efficient model that got upwards of six miles to the gallon, highway. It all seemed like a great deal until I realized I couldn’t find a motor home with a basement, thus making it impossible to include a mobile Zillionaire’s Lounge as well. No thanks.

Finally, I arrived at the next best choice: A minivan.

Now, put your prejudices aside and please keep in mind the following:

1. I don’t ever plan on driving the van.
2. I don’t ever plan on riding in the passenger seat either.

No, I will reside solely in the way back. While traveling, I will be sitting in one of several leather seats that fully recline and offer ottomans to rest my feet on. I will be enjoying ample legroom, headroom and armrests. I will be utilizing the many cupholders and adjusting my own climate settings in the back. I will be watching DVD’s, playing video games or sleeping comfortably. And I will be doing all of these things while my wife does the driving. I only wish the van had a fireplace option, just so it would create the experience of riding around in a living room on wheels.

Are you ready for the icing on the minivan purchase? I asked for a vibrating/heat massage pad that plugs into a cigarette lighter for Christmas. Ideally, I will be doing all of the above while simultaneously getting a Swedish massage.

Surprisingly, my wife is completely in favor of this arrangement. Let’s examine how a minivan purchase benefits her:

1. With me isolated in the back, she has complete control of the radio and thermostat, luxuries as yet unknown to her.
2. Disengaged in the back, I will be unable to critique her driving, or that of other motorists.
3. Provided I am awake, I’ll be able to keep a semi-watchful eye on our son while we travel.

As you can see, the minivan truly makes everyone happy. It is roomy and comfortable like a motor home. It is even black, with privacy windows, closely resembling a limousine. And to be on the safe side, just in case she changes her mind, I got my wife a chauffeur’s outfit for Christmas.

If you’d like to see pictures of the Grocery-Getter II, check out my wife’s blog.

However, there are unavoidable occasions when I find myself forced to drive my wife’s car: The Grocery-Getter I. As you might expect, I try and avoid these instances at all costs.

The Grocery-Getter I is a 2000 Honda Civic. It’s about as powerful as a riding lawnmower, and due to its dark green color, actually looks like one too. If you were to somehow put a mower deck on her car, you would be hard pressed to distinguish it from a John Deere. Seriously, whenever I find myself behind the wheel, I have to fight the urge to pull over every half mile to empty the grass catcher. Needless to say, it is not cool to be seen in. I honestly feel like “The Waterboy” when driving down the freeway.

Of course, that’s only the beginning. The biggest problem I face in driving my wife’s car is simply dealing with all the unnatural seat and accessory settings in place. For instance, the first thing you notice when you get into the Grocery-Getter is that you can’t actually get in. Unless you are a circus contortionist, you’ll find that it is physically impossible to enter her low-riding car with no headroom, which has the steering wheel set so close to the seat that it crushes your pelvis upon entry.

It gets better. If you do happen to limbo inside, you’ll find that the rearview mirror points at the floor mats. It’s funny to think that from my wife’s perspective, this view would be considered normal. It reminds me of when you wear someone else’s glasses, and you openly marvel about the extent of their impaired vision.

Also, you can never plan on getting very far in the Grocery-Getter I. First off, it is guaranteed that the gas tank will be bone dry. It’s a good thing this car gets good gas mileage, as it pretty much has to go months between re-fillings on the occasions I actually drive it. In fact, my wife has never once bothered to put gas in her car. I’m convinced that she thinks she drives a solar-powered car.

It should also be noted that her car is generally nine months overdue for an oil change. No amount of stickers on the windshield seems to prevent this phenomenon. On top of that, it is unlikely that jumper cables, tools or a flashlight can be found in the trunk. Of course, it is not for my lack of planning. I made her a toolbox of emergency supplies to keep in her trunk at all times. Unfortunately, there was a slight misunderstanding. When I told my wife that she needed to have these items in her car “at all times,” she thought I meant “absolutely never.”

To be fair, once you finally get behind the wheel, it is actually kind of fun to drive my wife’s Civic. In fact, driving her car is the closest thing to playing MarioKart in real life. On the freeway, it feels like you could just zip underneath 18-wheelers or accelerate through oil slicks. Whenever someone passes me in the Grocery-Getter (which is often), I must always resist the impulse to hit buttons on the console hoping to shoot banana peels or turtle shells at them.

That being said, it honestly doesn’t surprise me that Honda Civics are routinely among the most commonly stolen vehicles in the country. I’m pretty sure it is mostly due to MarioKart junkies seeking the ultimate fix.

While the Grocery-Getter I has its merits, we are nevertheless in the market for a Grocery-Getter II. And of course, I will provide an update on how this progresses. Meanwhile, we are considering alternatives to simply trading in the Civic. I’m thinking about tossing the keys to my son Charlie. He’s seven months old, and next year he’ll want to drive a Big Wheel around the neighborhood. I think The Grocery-Getter I will provide roughly the same experience.

And, she would definitely appreciate your vote for District Court Judge, position 4.

And finally, please also consider her for the 9th Legislative District House Seat #2.

Ok, technically, she isn’t knowingly running for any of those offices. When I filled out my absentee ballot today, I noticed there were a handful of races that were either unopposed or featured candidates that I had never heard of. So, I decided to list my wife as a write-in candidate for those positions.

But then, when I actually had to mark my vote, I determined that she was too inexperienced and generally unqualified to hold office. And thusly, I voted against her in all three races.

In a few days, the results will come out, and my wife will be the first ever write-in candidate to not even get the vote of the person that wrote her in. And, she’ll likely finish dead last in three different races, with a grand total of zero votes. Clearly, she needs your support.

I feel bad for her, but I made the right decision. In each race, I voted for the best candidate. I’m proud to say that I voted my conscience, and didn’t let any personal feelings get in the way. This is how our democracy is supposed to function.

Even though we are first time parents, my wife and I have pretty much established our parenting roles. For instance, my wife is Charlie’s primary caregiver. She is also his secondary caregiver. I, on the other hand, am his caregiver of last resort. After family, friends, neighbors, strangers, local clergy, government agencies, boy scouts, girl scouts, vagrants and all other potential caregivers have been exhausted, only then am I called upon to change his diaper.

However, I do have an important role in his upbringing. I am Charlie’s primary fun-giver. I am the jester, the minstrel, the amusement park, and the Gravitron all rolled into one. In short, my parenting skills consist of a never-ending Improvisational Comedy Show. I will do virtually anything to get him to smile. Sometimes, I’ll even pretend to eat a poopy diaper, just to get a laugh. Really, I have no shame in this regard.

But as Charlie has matured, I’ve tried to change my act to become a little more sophisticated. Mercifully, instead of slapstick humor, or sight gags involving soiled diapers, I’ve come up with some new games that are a little more refined…

Here is a partial list of some of Charlie’s favorite routines…

Get to the Chopper: At six months old, Charlie can’t crawl yet, so I invented this game to hopefully inspire him to gain locomotion. Left on the living room carpet on his stomach, he is totally stationary. In this game, we are both commandos at war in the jungle. It goes something like this:

I start by shooting my imaginary machine gun from behind some cover… usually a couch or recliner. On my stomach, I slither over to where Charlie is laying. (This act alone causes huge laughs…)

Me: “Charlie, we’ve got to get out of here. We just called in an air strike; this whole jungle is about to be firebombed! There are still foot soldiers around, so we need to crawl on our bellies 300 yards to be airlifted out of here!”

Even though our lives are at stake, Charlie is laughing through all of this. At this point, I begin to crawl away to escape to the chopper. After traversing a few yards across our living room, I turn and notice Charlie, while smiling, isn’t following me.

Me: “Charlie, are you hit? Look, I’m not gonna leave a man behind to die in this jungle! You’ve got to CRAWL soldier! Let’s move!”

He’s wearing a big smile, and is kicking his feet wildly, but he’s not crawling. I wriggle back to his position.

Me (now using a Swartzenegger voice): “Come with me if you want to live. Let’s go!!! Now!!! Get to the Chopper!!!”

Since I can’t leave a comrade behind, I scoop him up and carry him out of the jungle to safety. My reward is a Congressional Medal of Honor and some big laughs.

Blue 42 (aka highchair football): Essentially, the game works like this: Charlie is positioned in his high chair in the kitchen. Unbeknownst to him, we are actually in the midst of a football game. I put my arm around his chair, we huddle up and I call the next play, sometimes diagramming it on the tray in front of him. With the play clock dwindling, I clap my hands loudly to signal the breaking of the huddle.

Then, I get down into a three-point stance, ready to hike an imaginary football. Charlie is lined up opposite me, smiling in anticipation. At this point, I go into a loud, protracted snap count:

Me: “Ready! Set! Crack down! Deep Rover! Blue 42! Blue 42! Hut One! Hut two! Hike!!!”

I use a loud, hard count, trying to tempt the opposition to jump offsides. Charlie laughs through all of this. I then snap the ball. Only now, I’m somehow on defense, and I proceed to rush into Charlie who has now switched to being the quarterback on the other team. I grab his feet, pretending to sack him, and naturally follow it up with a celebration of some kind. More laughs.

To recap, we both initially are on the same team as we discuss the play call in the huddle. Then, I’m on offense, and he’s on defense while I prepare to hike it. But once I snap the ball, we change sides again. Oh, and the entire game lasts this one play. I know, from a football standpoint, it makes absolutely no sense. Thankfully, my wife understands as much about football as Charlie does, so she doesn’t toss any penalty flags during any of this. But, Charlie loves it this way, so this is how highchair football is played.

Ventriloquist dummy game: Truthfully, this game is more for my amusement than Charlie’s. This is where I manipulate his chin and then offer poignant commentary, in a child-like voice for his mother to hear.

“Mommy, please stop neglecting Daddy’s needs.”
“Mommy, why are you so cranky all the time?”
“Mommy, it’s almost noon, do you plan on taking a shower today?”

And so on…

Feats of Disgusting Behavior: Just like his dad, deep down, Charlie has a very lowbrow sense of humor. A belch or farting noise will unfailingly get him to laugh. I’m pretty sure kicks to the groin would work too, but I haven’t wanted to demonstrate that to find out. That’s why I’m super pumped for “Jackass: Number Two.” I think it’s the perfect movie for us to enjoy as father and son.

As with all of these games, the effort involved is worth it for a smile or belly laugh. It’s all in a day’s work for the primary fun-giver.

My wife went to the mall today, because she needed to buy birthday gifts for both my mom and my sister. Three hours later, she returned home.

Remarkably, she didn’t buy anything for my mom or sister. Nothing. Not a single thing.

However, she did manage to buy several things for herself. (Not a surprise, as I knew this was the real impetus for the shopping trip.)

She also bought some things for our son.

She didn’t buy anything for me. (Again, not a surprise.)

And, she bought an outfit for a baby girl.

Of course, we don’t have a girl. None of our friends or family does either.

We honestly don’t know a single gift-worthy person that has a baby girl. In fact, we don’t know a single person who is even expecting a baby girl.

In short, my wife bought an item that is of absolutely no use to anyone we know.

Of course, this fact doesn’t seem to bother her at all. As she points out, eventually, someone we know will have a baby girl and we’ll have a nice gift ready to go. We just need to store this outfit for a year or so until then. Let the waiting game begin.

Does this situation seem ludicrous? Sadly, in the realm of female-logic, preemptively buying a gift for a nonexistent recipient makes perfect sense. Especially when that item is on sale.

For your enjoyment, I’ve outlined a few other layers of absurdity to this purchase:

The outfit she purchased is seasonal attire. Specifically, it’s meant to be worn in the summertime. Also, it is made to fit a baby girl approximately nine months old. To recap, this outfit can be worn during three months of the year, and only if the baby happens to be nine months old at that time and female. I’d say this is a pretty narrow window of usefulness. In fact, I would go so far to say it’s an impractical gift, even for a hypothetical baby.

Let’s look at it another way. For a baby to be nine months old in the summertime, she would have had to be born in October or November. Again, since we don’t know anyone expecting a baby in the next few weeks, we’ll have to shoot for next year to time it right. As it stands now, the best-case scenario for us is to have one of our friends have a baby girl sometime in October or November of 2007. This way, their daughter would be the perfect size to wear it during the summer of 2008. Needless to say, I’m sure glad my wife had the foresight to purchase this item today.

What else? Remember how the original purpose of her shopping trip was to find gifts for my mom and sister? It’s ok if this detail slipped your mind, as my wife forgot too. Anyway, I asked her why she came home empty-handed. It certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. She told me about the multiple items she scrutinized, and the various reasons she had on passing on each one. Somehow, in her judgment, all of those items weren’t sensible purchases. In that regard, it makes buying the baby outfit seem even more remarkable, as it unbelievably managed to satisfy the criteria of a sensible purchase in her mind.

My sister’s birthday is in three days. My mom’s is in about three weeks. Time is short, and I’m a busy, busy man. We have absolutely nothing bought for either of them, yet we have the perfect gift for a female baby that will hopefully be born over a year from now. This, ladies and gentlemen, is my life.

Well, I suppose I should quit whining and just post the outfit on eBay. Hopefully I can recoup 60% of its value. Happy bidding everyone.

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And now that I have a son, I figured it’s never too early to expose him to the untamed wilderness. Since he’s only four months old, I contemplated some sort of warm-up prior to a real camping trip. Originally, I thought about pitching a tent in the back yard, just to see how he survives at night amongst all the dingoes and gypsies that live in our neighborhood.

I decided against it. This isn’t meant to be a vacation. It’s a camping trip. It’s about survival. And ultimately, I decided the only way to transform him into a man is to drop him off in the wilderness alone and let him fend for himself. Well, he won’t be entirely alone. I’ll let him borrow my Rambo knife, you know, the type that stores matches and fishhooks and a compass in the handle.

So he’ll have a survival knife. And of course, we’ll dress him in camo as well. And the rest will be up to him.

Sure, it will be dangerous. Especially since he can’t crawl yet. I think that will really help him build character though. If a cougar attacks, he won’t be able to just run away from his problems. He’s going to have to deal with it head-on. I can feel it already; he’s going to learn some important life lessons on this trip.

It will be cold too. I generally don’t let him play with matches, so he doesn’t have much experience with fire. Consequently, there is a good chance that he might start a forest fire. That’s ok though. I almost look at it as a rite of passage.

Of course, his mother doesn’t know about any of these plans yet. But that’s the idea. I’m already concerned that she’s babying this baby too much as it is. It’s time for him to become a man.

And we’ll begin that process tonight by leaving him alone in the wilderness. And when I see him again in a few days, hopefully he will emerge as the new King of the Forest, unshaven, well-fed and draped in animal pelts, just as I was, 22 years ago.

Here’s a shot of Charlie and I in our respective full-camo attire. On a related note, I’m in the market for a matching baby-sized pair of camouflaged fingerless gloves. If you run across such an item, let me know.