Nothing much is happening and yet so much. Doogie Howser grew up and is now holding a conversation with Jon Stewart about his role in a Smurf film. It’s apéro hour and the tv is loud and when the screaming child’s voice reaches a certain peak on the baby monitor it distorts and sounds like the devil. I wonder why nobody has made a horror film yet involving a baby monitor. Perhaps that can be my contribution to society as a new mother instead of knitwear and baked goods. It could be called The Monitor.
Despite the apéro hour monitor devil, Kiki is blooming. She laughs at lips. She eats toes. She calls boobs dada. Good name for a band. Boobs Dada. And she recently gave us our bed back. Which we’re grateful for though I miss her as I lie there turning the pages of Slaughterhouse Five. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to read Slaughterhouse Five. But I do believe that books come to you when they’re ready. I knew it was time for Slaughterhouse Five because I received two signs:
1. As I was unpacking hundreds of tatty paperbacks from boxes in the garage for some reason I put it aside.
2. As we watched Footloose that night Kevin Bacon brought it up.
And Kevin Bacon was right. It’s perfect timing. I just can't read right now. And Slaughterhouse Five is so good you don't even know you're reading, it's just sort of breathed on you. Thanks Kurt. Thanks Kevin Bacon.