To sum up: if everyone came, we’d be at 90. We expect more to come this summer. Wild and wooly.

Pictures to follow. Stay tuned.

To the business at hand.

Riley has almost closed the gap on dad. Ay caramba. He plays basketball whenever he can, and continues to improve. Solid post defense. Fearless on the drive.

Christopher continues to charm with his swimmer’s build and movie star smirk. Girls swoon. He waits for the legal dating age.

Jonah is a little mafioso, raking muck on all sides. But he is also a voracious reader, a great wit and a mimic, and budding writer of stories and poems, illustrating and binding his own books. Self-publishing’s a disgrace among adults, but cute when the kiddies do it.

Well, then. Manifatso.

Current status: Matt Damon in Invictus, but taller.

Goal for August: Will Smith in I Am Legend, only paler, and with hair.

(And that’s just Wendy’s goal.) Boom!

But here’s the thing: Blast the belly! Banish the bounce! Jigger the jiggle! Join us! Resistance is futile!

More to come, eventually. Don’t give up on us.

Senso unico indeed.

By the way, our plans for total transformation continue apace: Riley and Jon hit the gym at least 4 times a week, with Riley doing a whirlwind tour of things that make you move your legs real fast, and currently measuring up to 5’11″. Christopher isn’t far behind, and will join us after school ends. Wendy, too.

And just in case you were curious: 16.5″ pre-workout. And couldn’t fit in a size 46 jacket the other day. Jackman, eat your heart out!

What’s up with y’all?

“Hey, Uncah Jon! Guess what I learned this week? Something funny!”

“Hit me.”

“Shake whatcho momma gave ya!” (Giggles and general hilarity.)

“Oh yeah? And what did yo momma give ya?”

”                        .”

Nuff said.

Hey folks, we’re still here, and some good stuff has been happening, and we’ll get around to sharing one of these days. Just thought you should know.

4. The return of the beard. C’mon, Wendy: you know you love it.

3. Riley arguing the finer points of hydrogen versus nuclear in the context of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and holding forth on the military-industrial complex in general. He’s almost 15, people. Ay caramba.

2. Payday. Phew!

1. Hearing Christopher, strumming the basic chords of “Wild Thing,” break out in sudden, squeaky, tuneless, and exuberant chorus, sounding very much like Bob Dylan on puberty, which historians think he went through some time in the 19th century. Wild Thing, you really do make our hearts sing. Sometimes. Occasionally. When you’re not driving us round the bend.

We’re still here, and still living our lives. Stuff happens. Other stuff happens.

Here’s a quick snapshot:

Riley recently had his first Duke of Edinburgh overnighter in the desert, culminating in a 7 km hike. Claims a good time was had by all. No small animals were tortured. The follow up is late January, when he’ll be dropped off somewhere in Oman with a GPS locator and coordinates for the campsite 20 km away. By himself. Nice knowing you, Riley.

Christopher (and Riley, assuming he makes it back from Oman) will soon be off to youth conference, this time in Abu Dhabi: an event to which Christopher is looking very much forward, not only because it is a significant milestone in his continued maturation, but also because it will afford him the chance to meet girls on whom he might develop both a legitimate and safe crush.

Jonah is the new Basquiat: exhibition coming soon (as soon, that is, as I can get my camera phone to work: faster than scanning).

Wendy is obsessed with her new iPod (Touch!), and more particularly with her favourite podcasts and solitaire, which she plays for hours on end on the panzy setting (1). Psh.

Jon is nursing a bursitical shoulder, maybe, but screaming through the workouts anyway. He has just finished the term, has loads of work to do, and has developed an alternate personality, who hopes to publish a stimulating and brilliantly lyrical book of children’s poems in the next few months. you’ll all get autographed copies, provided you buy one and you’re ever near him and he has a pen.

Reading: Jon to Jonah–Madeline l’Engle. We’d both grown tired of Roald Dahl, but only because The Great Glass Elevator is ridiculous, and not at all sublime. The l’Engle has brought back deep and metaphysical memories (for Jon, not Jonah), and has him wondering if he hasn’t lost touch with some important parts of himself.

Christopher: Bradbury’s The October Country.

Riley: Robert Jordan and some more Asimov.

Wendy: 16 Ways of Beating Solitaire without Cheating.

Jonah, by himself, verses of Matthew nightly, as part of a general thing. He is officially literate.

And now, spot the Jon:

Shout-out: nana. Welcome. Identify yourself.

Pants are Silly

Pants are silly.
Really!
Dresses make more sense.
Pants just cut a bloke in two,
Each leg refers the daily shoe,
They fit too slim, they fit too wide,
They crease and scratch and pinch inside

Consider, too, the names they wear
(Dignified? Mais, au contraire!):
Jeans and knickers, trews and britches,
Shortpants, parachutes whose stitches
Face outside, and hold you in,
Husky, sloppy, stovepipe thin,

Pants that come both fast and thick
(Least that’s what Coleridge predicts),

Pants to breathe in,
Pants to freeze in,
Pants to slouch and pants when sick,
Suit pants, discos, bells (and whistles!),
Trousers, trackpants, breeks and knicks,
Woolen pants all itch and thistle.

Pants are plural,
Dresses one:
Never go out in a pant,
My son.

NYCliche’

Cheetahs nevah prospah, so they say.
And every dawg must have its day.
It’s bettah to have loved and lawst.
Don’t countcha chickens, count the cawst,
The oily boid gets all the woims,
So says my son-in-law, the goyim.

Boy, between Manny Pacquaio, Efren Penaflorida, and these guys, the Pinoy are going to start getting big heads. Well, they’ll still have little heads, but they’ll be swollen.

And then there’s this. Sobering.

Tuesday: 3 brown rats

(the ones as big as cats),

1 soil-clad licorice root,

1 glove, a gardener’s boot;

Wednesday: rabbit stew,

a single mouse (for you!),

a half-chewed, hand-caught fish

that vanished from your dish

at lunch (you claimed

to have finished the same);

Thursday: on the prowl:

the wing of some poor fowl

who we said we hoped died quick

(your mother felt quite sick);

Friday: a badger—young,

but still she fairly sung

the epic Viking tale

in her high, witch’s wail:

a Beowulf of cats,

and rather proud of that;

Saturday: was ill,

and so lay very still

and let you (gently!) strum

her whiskers, rub her tum;

Sunday: she was out all day,

this time it was you who lay

in quiet fever, wanting her:

she brought a shushing purr

(and 3 bleached bones)

when she came home;

Monday: she stayed

close as cream

and twitched with you

through dreams and dream.