Yeah, that was a huge file. But maybe someone can use the hi-res version (someone who, unlike me, has image-transfer iron-ons and an inkjet printer). Anyway, here's a low-res version for you dial-up people (and I know you're out there).

Today, we went duck-pin bowling in Connecticut.

It was Frylock's idea. Tee-shirts will be made.

Yesterday morning I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking my coffee when Mojo walked up and leaned his head againt mine, humming as he pretended to see what was in my head.

"I see coffee burning your brain," he said.

Indeed.

There it is, 20 floors below my office window: Lindy's. I've never gone in there. Steve knows why.

Upon further reflection, we think the Kool-Aid man's new attire must have something to do with the Janet Jackson incident. And upon further research, we also think that cooking pork ribs with Kool-Aid is "an explosion of wrong."

Not only does the Kool-Aid man now wear pants, he also (apparently) has a new sales slogan. Or so Cookie thinks: as he pawed open the box of Kool-Aid juice pouches he announced to us, "It's an explosion of fun!"

He then immediately added:

"Just like the stinky I just made."

He's a very disturbed little boy.

Alane bought a few things at the grocery store today. She picked up mangoes. For me. To fondle.

If Vito comes around here with that juicer I'm hiding 'em.

I'm watching Euronews, reminding myself why the U.S. is doomed to be the sole superpower for the next few generations. They're doing wall-to-wall coverage of an Airbus flight. An airliner. A passenger vehicle with coach class, economy class, lavatories-with-sliding doors, you know what they look like.

Right now there's a ceremony featuring the flight crew. The spirit of self-congratulation is... interesting. And classically French. I remember a recent contest here in the U.S. to see who could build a craft that could go to space and back. Someone did it. On his own dime.

Oh, that's why Airbus is getting all that news coverage.

Alane is online shopping for real beds for the boys -- all this time we've had them sleeping on a hand-me-down futon (they don't mind; they sleep like a puppy litter). They were just on a kid-furniture site that was displaying a crib, which prompted Mojo to say, "Let's get a crypt."

Yeah, let's. We can hide in there and make juice. Though I'm not sure my juicing experience will be as euphoric as Vito's. He makes mango-mashing seemed a sexual experience... Which, oddly enough, I can understand: years ago, on a business trip to Boston, I got in a cab for the airport and noticed that the driver had two crates of mangoes in the front seat.

"Wow," I said. "You like mangoes!"

He said he did and offered me one. I was a little loopy because I'd just been in a bar drinking with some office-mates, so I said yes. I carried that thing through airport, onto my flight, and on the car ride home -- all the time holding it gently, cupping it in my palm... caressing it gently. In my half-in-the-bag state, I almost pictured...

But hey, this was something I could've already known -- mangoes are already like breasts in that you really can't access them without making a mess out of something. Maybe Vito's juicer is the right approach.

And by the way: who the hell gets to wake up at 10:23, anwyay? As-Seen-On-TV my ass!

While I was busy blogging earlier this afternoon, Alane was busy not stirring the gravy. Don't worry, I saved it (had to pour it into another pot and scrape the carbon from the bottom before it mixed with the rest).

And speaking of meatballs, can you spot the bear?