Dean Martin vs Sad Baby

There was a small boy in a stroller in front of me on the skytrain yesterday. I couldn't see his mum's face, as she was turned away, but she was wearing a polka dot sun dress and her bare back and bronzed shoulders looked young from behind. I had my book in my lap but favoured watching the boy instead. He was fascinating. He had tousled blond hair and large dark eyes and was gazing solemnly at his mother. I couldn't hear what she was saying, as I was listening to my iPod, but whatever it was didn't sit very well with her young son. His face, slowly flushing in displeasure provided an interesting counterpoint to my music. I was listening to a live recording of Dean Martin, improvised of course, a vivacious crowd laughing at the end of almost every stanza.

I

I love Chicago, it's lively and gay,

I'd even work here without any pay.

I'll lay you odds it turns out that way,

That's why the gentleman is a tramp.

I

The boy's eyes filled with tears and his lower lip quivered dangerously as he watched his mother.

I

I love the free fresh booze that you get.

So I'm in debt, I'm flat, take that.

I

The tears spilled over, leaving streaks on his dirty cheeks. Suddenly he burst into sobs and covered his face with his small hands, giving himself over entirely to his wretched state. I sat there, mesmerized, torn between empathy for the wailing child and amusement at Martin's easy charm as he played with his Chicago audience.

I

My wife just told me, "Have I news for you.

The doctor's sure that I'm way overdue."

Wait til she finds out my girlfriend is too.

That's why this gentleman is a tramp.

I

The boy was still crying, with his eyes covered, as I got off at Broadway Station.

Blizzards and Blood

Here is a conversation that just took place in my sister's kitchen between myself and my five year old niece. She was sitting at the table, her pencil crayons and colouring sheets spread out in front of her and a day old Tin Roof Brownie Blizzard melting quickly in her hand.

"Do you know what a menstrual cycle is?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"Do you want to know?"

Nod. Ice cream running freely down her chin, brownie in its wake.

"It happens to girls. Well, women really. Once a month they feel kind of sick and blood comes out of them." I waited for a reaction.

She looked up from her icecream. "Ew."

Perturbed that she was taking it so lightly, I said, "How do you feel about that?"

She shrugged and rooted around for chocolaty chunks with her plastic spoon.

"Do you feel like that's weird or interesting?"

Shrug. Another bite.

"Gross? Cool? Awful? Wonderful?"

She shrugged four times.

I suppose empathy for the monthly plight of women will come later when she realizes how inexorably uncomfortable it is.