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Nudged by spacejack, I cough up a diary.
It's not a particularly inspired diary, I know. Don't complain. There are children in Korea with no Internet diaries at all. Finish your body copy or they'll be no pudding.
Ahem.
{ Popsicles | Yams | Littlestars | Cheeseburgers }
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Popsicles
The amazing thing about little girls called Popsicle is the way their brains continue to unfold in surprising bursts, revealing layers of complexity usually associated with more advanced lifeforms than toddlers -- like pseudo-naive AI programmes in movies or Jesus.
It's easy to see their bodies stretch. They're long and skinny. They change shape over a period of months, with surges -- punctuated equilibria in which little girls called Popsicle have difficulty sleeping, or being polite.
It's also easy to forget how the visible morphological hyjinx are happening in parallel with comparable jumps in cognitive kung-fu. But then they demonstrate a lick of deductive reasoning that would impress you in a peer, or you get the scrumdiddlyumptious fun of vicariously enjoying the awe as they synthesize new realizations out of component ideas. Boing!
Popsicles are wont to sing ballads in real-time about what they are doing, and to impress their Papas later on by recalling the melodies employed.
Popsicles are curious about many subjects, and they demand your assistance in uncovering answers through the Internet. These subjects include but are not limited to: how organs are repaired in surgery and why gloves must be worn, why there are black tubes and boxes and "round dirty fings" under the hood of the car, why we cannot perceive the rotation of this planet, that people in different countries speak different languages or speak English with different accents, what the big red swirl on Jupiter is, and how electricity gets into lamps to make light so we can read a bedtime story.
Experiments in defiance continue. Parental counter-measures return volley to act for the enforcement of peace and a sufficiently shored up respect for beloved leaders.
Also, with regard to Battlestar Galactica, I would also like to say that I didn't like it when Starbuck's baby-of-lies fell down the stairs and hit her head on New Caprica, because she looked too much like my Popsicle for my viewing comfort. Fucking Cylons.
Yams
Babies called Yam are a high-energy, high-speed, quick-tempered child for today's modern lifestyle. Happy but wilful, demonstrative of differences of opinion, strong like ox, fast like eel. You too can own a baby called Yam for the low, low price of just eighteen hours a day!
Popsicles and Yams combine well. They wrestle and giggle.
Baby Yams have many teeth, and sometimes their scrotums turn bright red with savage teething rashes. And then for some masochistic reason the babies try to grab their balls and pull them off, which is the last thing you should do. Especially if you have a rash.
Baby Yams are very cute, which is the chiefest weapon of their arsenal.
Some users may experiences restlessness, paranoia, stress, sensitivity to noise and interrupted sleep. If symptoms persist, suck it up. Only seventeen more years til university.
Recently upgraded features inlude: "baby-do-it" moments of effective self-feeding, a "gimmie five" breakthrough, walking around holding just one parental hand, how to open the French door to make a supersonic crawling dash for the yard, that dogs are load-bearing mammals, that whatever's on your plate is probably more delicious than mine, and the recognition that slapstick is funny.
It's the weekend, so I got up at five o'clock in the morning with my very own Baby Yam. If he consents to a short nap soon I may be able to watch my Battlestar Galactica in peace for a spell, once Azureus goes "bing." Cross your fingers for me.
Later on: toast.
Littlestars
Littlestars can keep on trucking even given remarkable shortages of rest or peace. They teach choirs, kickbox, provide domestic accounting/laundry/catering service, keep dogs, aerobicize, and perform vigilant, caring, and nearly constant daycare.
(I tell you, it's enough to make you feel positively male.)
If properly maintained, Littlestars generate prodigious quantities of affability, insight and comic relief, and are known sources of support, sass and sexaliciousness. Experiencing some moisture or rigidness is normal and expected.
Occasional pigheadedness can be curbed with flowers, chocolate and steak. Consult your Littlestar documentation for details. Some conditions may apply.
Littlestars are known to adore their brand new MacBooks, and we all hope this will mark a new era of musical freedom for Littlestars everywhere.
Cheeseburgers
I've tuckered myself into a corner by trying to keep up with a daily posting schedule of new fiction on my weblog, so starting next month I'll be relaxing the schedule to just three posts a week. Maybe I can chew that. I'll let you know after the bite.
I'm getting fat. I want to try speedwalking when I get my new iPod tie-clip or whatnot, which I ordered ages ago as my prize for getting a bonus from work (Littlestar got a PlayStation 2 because she's a Guitar Hero). Unlike Apollo on Battlestar Galactica, my fat is not the product of special effects. It's the genuine result of spending my life sitting.
Starting Sunday I'll be spending around two hours a day sitting in a new used vehicle, instead of my old new used vehicle. Littlestar will get the Volvo 850 Turbo for family transport convenience and safety, and I'll be driving a wee Mini Cooper. Life imitates art.
Work has been a bit stupid lately. We need new software in the art department and we're now in Month Four of the acquisition stage. I know, I know -- ordering software is easy. But for some reason I do not dary speculate about the Vice President of Very Important Things would rather put us on to more research, host more budget prioritizing meetings, and discuss the same things over and over again rather than risk action. She's an obstacle generating machine. As soon as you think you've jumped all the hurdles and passed the last trial -- she invents a new one, delivered with a sweet smile. Fucking Cylons.
The Vice President of Getting Shit Done has been rallying for the cause, but she has a lot on her own plate and thus has been a bit overwhelmed lately. She took a few days off last week. Good for her.
This basically means our capabilities in the art department have decayed to the point where we have no functional package for creating 3D animation. Despite this alarming situation, the President of the United States of Paycheques continues to ask us to produce media featuring lots of glitzy 3D animated effects. The impossibility of fulfilling these requests as conceived has been explained to him several times, and he's a bright fellow so I'm not sure what the disconnect is. The following week he asks again, and then we all have another budget meeting to assess our timeline for software spending.
And then life goes on, pretty much the way it has this last age.
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