MARKER'S FINGERTIPS . . .

Dang, practice was soooooooo gooooooood tonight. Seven hours of patience, eye contact, humor, patience, open-mindedness, refining, paying attention, tasty pizza, and really really good riffs ... priceless. My back is sore, my eyes are droopy, my calves are swollen, my hips are stiff, my shoulders are achy, my voice is raw, but man, I FEEL AMAZING.

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OUTKAST . . .

I really like them.

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CREEPY? NO . . .

Is it weird that sometimes I feel that my friends' babies are my own? Not like in a creepy "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle" kind of way. But in a "they're so cute and hilarious, they are better than television as a form of entertainment" and "of course you can step out and rely on me to watch your child like a hawk, and let them bump into things to experience bumps but I won't let them bleed" and "if necessary, I would take a bullet for the Noodles, the Alien, the Melon and little Chai Tea latte, and not simply because they will be far smarter, far nicer, far more productive citizens than I could ever hope to be" kind of way.

Hanging out with my friends who have babies, I am very conscious of feeling like this. None of these children are tied to me by blood, and certainly none of them squeezed out of belly, but ... well, they're just great and I just love them a lot.

You can check back with me about my affection for these ankle-biters in about a year, when they're all actually running around screaming like babies and throwing shrieking Terrible Two tantrums on the floor.