Steve and I agree that it's a good photo -- but as we IMed each other to discuss it our attention quickly wandered from that gift-wrapped horror to the intensely-1960s-style couch that props up the tragically-naked toddler.

Look at that thing! And that crazy drift-wood style lamp positioned behind it (making the young Airport Guy appear to be wearing some sort of tiki-crown fit for island royalty, a vengeful proto-god of waterfalls and lava-flows).

As usual, Steve's attention ultimately turned to thoughts of indigestion. Specifically, we marvelled at what must be contained in those couch cushions -- the spittle of infant big-heads... the crumb-crusts of long-forgotten feasts... the combined flatulence of our forebears.

To think: that couch was in service for nearly all of the 60s and 70s, soaking up the detritus of family life, obediently accepting all manner of stink and ass, slumbering quietly like a foot in a black Banlon sock.

Our minds boggled at these and other completely pointless observations. Yes, Steve and I kept that IM session going long beyond that point at which it stopped making sense. We were supposed to be working.