My mind has been poisoned! I'm stuck with this picture of my brother pushing a lawn-mower on a dewy morning, launching fireworks with his free hand while issuing bubbles from his butt. Shooting the shit, indeed!

And hey, I still have a rail fascination -- but nothing like John Paul and Mojo. They have some kind of mystical relationship with railroading. It's a little scary. More genetics at work, I suppose.

We were, in fact, scheduled to visit the land of the Culver Line today for a fake-Father's Day get-together (we'll be in Ohio in a week). I woke up about 7, did a two-mile run thru the park, showered up, and headed out for a haircut at Tommy's barber shop in Bronxville. Just a haircut; no shave (Steve, feel free to fill in the blanks on that reference). Picked up a bottle of nice chianti (in case we we'd be eating liver and fava beans in Brooklyn) and got home -- only to hear John Paul announce: "I throwed up."

Alane was busy working over the giant wet spot on the carpet, and it was instantly clear we wouldn't be going anywhere today. Both boys had been filling their diapers with Hershey Squirts lately, so I suppose puke shouldn't come as a surprise. Right now, Mojo has fallen asleep on the couch and John Paul is on the floor lounging on his big pillow. I suspect he'll be asleep soon, too.

As for me, I'm going to try to bring my file server back to life -- for some reason it no longer wants to boot up. Maybe it has the same malady that Blogger suffered from this morning.