"Your inquiry intrigues me. Can any of us be a good boy? Are our primal urges innate or the result of the choices we make?" - Stewie,Family Guy

The Boy mooching some cookies from the cabinet. Not like that's unusual.

The Boy and I are getting closer. The biggest help for that is that he’s finally becoming what I would call human. Now, that helps a bit. We hang out in the basement and do boy stuff.

What helps the most is that he’s finally able to carry a conversation with me. It’s nice to be able to finally have a discussion with him that doesn’t consist of:

“I wanna . . . (fill in the blank).”

The conversations now consist of more substantial matters. Not that I can discuss the subtle matters of how money is created or how value is created in a free-market economy (and it’s not through taxing Alaskans), but we can chat with each other about some simple things. And, I find to my enjoyment, that I like him.

Last night The Mrs. ditched The Boy and I early. She went to bed about 9PM. The Boy and I were watching Big Trouble in Little China. For those of you who have not seen this fairly campy movie, well, it’s a blast. I have a friend named Oz whom I watched this movie with numerous times (way back in the era when I was young, the 1980’s) and every time it was a blast. It was no different with The Boy, except only I was drinking.

He and I watched this silly movie and he was riveted to the screen. Not real rivets, but metaphorical rivets. Because, you know, putting real rivets into The Boy would probably get me in trouble, or as a subject of some story on CNN. So, we sat and watched this very bad (but very good) movie together. He loved it.

Now The Boy and I are beginning to have things in common. The New Boy, being only eight months old is essentially useless. Now, when Faraday was asked of what use electricity might be, he responded, “Of what use is a new borne babe?”

Well, Mr. Faraday, when the new borne babe is eight months old, said babe is still worth diddly.

The Boy, however, is a lot of fun. We go downstairs and do things. I’m working on getting a wood shop together, and he comes with me to help set it up. Normally, he helps by running around being a ninny, but just having him there makes the day easier. He occasionally asks for silly things (“Make me a working car out of a bar of soap and some sawdust,”) but for the most part he just goofs around, playing with various toys and keeping me company, and running messages back and forth between me and The Mrs. That is fraught with a whole slate of unique dangers.

Me: “Go see what Momma’s doing.”

The Boy: (After a patter of feet heading up and then back downstairs) “Momma says that you’re going to be killed for dinner.”

That always makes me pause. The Mrs. has a fine arsenal of weapons upstairs, and I seem to have stranded myself downstairs without any ammo. I grab my trusty M-81 bayonet and clench it between my teeth, ready to kill or be killed. I crawl up the stairs to be assaulted.

Assaulted by the smell of heavenly cooking. The Boy has hopelessly garbled the message again.

As usual, The Mrs. has just cooked a tasty dinner of pot roast and the .45 is still safely tucked away in it’s “waiting to defend hearth and home” slot. The Mrs. has no intent to kill me. As far as I can tell. Not that she doesn’t have a reason (the way I don’t put up clothing would be enough), note I said, “intent.”

So, I put he bayonet up, and have a nice dinner, as I try to wipe off the camouflage paint and pretend that I hadn’t done my hair up in a bandana and yelled, “Yo, Adrian!!!” when I topped the stairs.

I never said I got my movies right.

Anyway, The Boy and I eat the lovely dinner The Mrs. cooked. The Boy and I fight, but in a good, wrestling with Dad way. Fortunately, nobody had to die. The Mrs. continually amazed by the amount of work that we do when it's just us downstairs. By amazed, I mean stunned that we don't get jack done. Well, heck, we're related.

So, when The Mrs. sent him outside to play (for an hour!) at –10F today, well, I went to the window and looked out. He plowed snow with his Tonka, and The Mrs. and I didn't have to engage in a duel to the death. Some days, well, it’s just good. Maybe we'll get something actually done next week.