After our yard sale, we're going to a hotel in Oxnard to wallow in the fading glow of another summer. It's just two nights but not having been on vacation for longer than I can remember, I think we'll have a great time. Of course, the reality of keeping Oliver and Zooey happily occupied for any extended period of time can sometimes be an effort of exhausting proportions, but I'm naively optimistic the sand, surf, sun and lots of grapes will minimize the whining. I expect Katrina to be buried in a book the entire time and may look our way only if one of us comes bearing chardonnay. You gotta admire her consistency.

Zooey does have some similarities to that fictional Plaza kid...

I visited my daughter's school last night to meet her new teacher and some of the new parents who I didn't speak to because I wasn't interested... in any event, I found myself describing Zooey to the teacher as a tempestuous flower of beauty, grace and unpredictable malevolence. Well, actually, no, I didn't say that. Instead I bumbled on about her ways and wondered why everyone felt compelled to wear sandals -- I understand the need for toes to freely frolic but feet are not attractive. Unless you're in the privacy of your own home or in a nude-feet designated zone, your peds need to be covered.

No promises but I like the beginnings of this drawing and maybe I can expand it into something more finished. Who knows, maybe I can even paint it on a skateboard deck? Yeah.

While poking around the computer, I found one of the birth announcements I made after Oliver's arrival. You probably don't remember receiving it and, consequently, never truly realized the joy associated with the arrival of the world's most amazing boy. Sure he wimpers a wee-bit more than I think is necessary and he's closer in size to a peanut than a dump truck, but he's without a doubt the best son I've ever had. The world is now and continues to be a better place because of Oliver. By now, most of you know he's here, has six teeth and likes to eat dirt more than grilled cheese. At first, I was confused by his ways, but now remember that much of what can be understood has little to do with how life truly works. Something else befuddling is my wife: she didn't want me to send this out. I don't know her reasoning nor do I think I'd understand; the ways of a lunatic are best observed and not engaged. Be that as it may, I know she wanted all the world to know of Oliver but, perhaps, she wasn't comfortable with the breast-like petals hanging pendulously above the boy. Nonetheless, here it is: Ollielujah. Let's rejoice again.