On Not Entering Heaven’s Gate

We were in a fairly useless “birth class” the other day and were subjected to watching a video of a man who has built a career out of quieting colicky babies.  It may have been the best part of the class, actually, but something in the man’s eyes made me uneasy, and I couldn’t tell why, until it struck me: he reminded me of this guy:

Yeah, this guy.

Remember him? 1997, a small gated community in Southern California, Hale Bopp comet in the night sky, and this wide-eyed gnome having convinced 39 other men and women to dress in black, lie in their bunk-beds, and ritually overdose so that their souls could be carried off by the spaceship lurking behind the comet.

Heaven’s Gate.

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Daddy’s little…girl?

(Note: We’ll find out the baby’s sex this week.)

Frankie, an evil-kitten firecracker friend of ours, demanded of me, “Well, what do you want?”

It being quarter to five in the morning of the first day of the new year, I was a little slow, if honest: “I want a happy and healthy baby.”

“No, dumbass, do you want a boy or a girl?”

“Oh. I honestly don’t care.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

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