Pioneer Valley Days

And You Thought This Day Would Never Come

Mr. Z
Zipping Zippers

His face is an actual box -- one of those bulky, decorative, department-store boxes that Blondie always hauled from store to store on the comics page, instead of carrying stuff in feather-light, convenient bags like a normal person. No wonder she drove Dagwood to bulimia. Oh, don't look so shocked. Sure, you only saw the sandwich-binging and not the purging, but how else did he stay so skinny, huh? Oh, those wacky Bumsteads. Sigh.

Oh, wait. This is Letter People Friday. Sorry for the distraction, but it's been awhile. Music, maestro.

"Come see my zipping zippers, I'm Mr. Z,
zipping my zip-up slippers, coat and hat and dungarees,
my hip zip flippers to float in the sea--
zipping on, zipping off, zipping zippers, Mr. Z."

Nice run-on sentence, Henry James.

"I'm zipping off to see the world, to see what I can see.
I'm zipping zippers in Zanzibar, I zip the Zuyder Zee."

OK. You've got to be kidding me. I can give Mr. X a pass on having to make up words, but you could only manage to think of one actual geographic location before starting to invent places? (Googling just to make sure) All right, all right -- fine. Apparently the Zuyder Zee was an inlet of the North Sea in the Netherlands before it was dammed (zipped?), became an inland lake, and got a name change. Yeah, yeah, you got me, although I strongly suspect you peeked at Alanna's paper. But next time, try -- oh, I don't know, Zurich. Or Zion. Unless you're Islamic.

"Who, me? Who, me? Of course, I'm Mr. Z.
With a zip zip ziggety zap zap zum, zippo, bango, here I come!"

So much for not making crap up.

"I'm zipping zippers in the town, for zipping's all I do.
Zipping up sidewalks, zipping up streets and zebras in the zoo."

Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the city of tomorrow, with solar heating, mandatory carpooling, and the replacement of all asphalt and concrete with soft, zippable denim, for easy utility-pipe repairs! Imagine -- no more obnoxious jackhammers to spoil a quiet moment sipping an organic soy latte at the PETA-approved zoo, as you watch the imitation animals whirr past, their animatronic limbs stuffed with recycled newspaper and lovingly zipped shut. Welcome to utopia!

"Now who? Now who? Ha ha, I didn't zip up you!
Hold still. That's it. Now turn around -- let's see.
You've just been zipped by the zappiest, zingiest, zipping Mr. Z!"

This is just baffling, really. Look at Mr. Z's picture. I'm not sure how this guy would even catch you, let alone commence forcible zipping, since he has only one foot touching the ground. If he tried to zip me up, the pursuit would be less effective, and the theme song less chirpy. Something like, "Hop hop! Please stop! Oh, please don't call a cop!" Because, let's face it, we've got to start getting tough with the Letter People, or kids won't be able to leave their front steps without being simultaneously groped and serenaded by some sugary, anthropomorphic confection. Or, in extreme cases, zipped.

But I'm tired of worrying about it. Really tired. So on to...

Mr. Z
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I've got nothing here. Really. No Nate-centric traits or experiences that start with the letter Z. Maybe the Zealous Zebras who walk up to our car demanding food at the Lazy 5 Ranch in North Carolina, but how often do we go there? No, I'll conclude my son's 26-letter journey by hoping he avoids one of his dad's more, well, zany qualities.

"Come hear my awful snoring: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz is my name.
I sound like drill bits boring deep inside my poor wife's brain.
And every night, it's more of the same--
airways blocked, don't be shocked if you hear me snore again."

I like how the Mr. Z song has that exuberant, horn-infused, ta-ra-ra-boom-dee-ay vibe, because -- and Jenn will vouch for this -- when I get going, it's like a full marching band bursting into the room, minus the melody, and with the precision marching often replaced by flailing leg kicks and elbows to the neck. Needless to say, I take plenty of early-morning, step-over-Ripley walks across the hall to the spare room bed, and sometimes Jenn even gets back to sleep.

"I'm sawing wood at 2 a.m., 'cause snoring's all I do.
I wake the folks across the street; I keep the squirrels up, too.
Now who? Now who? I didn't wake up yrouudusyghghhgh--
(gasp) stregggntlth (gasp) (struggle) frtuyfthhhhhhhggghh (die)"

Sure, this hasnt happened yet, but Jenn's probably still deciding how to convince the life insurance company that the pillow suffocation was, um, accidental.

Meet the Life of the Party

Mr. Y
Yawning

I'm losing my patience with the Letter People. Yes, when I first set out to examine each one in turn, I was amused by their quirks, sometimes baffled by their song stylings, but not in a bad way. Now, frustration is setting in. Maybe I'm just getting old, but the idea of a guy who does nothing all day except yawn and harass bystanders with obnoxious questions just doesn't appeal to me. But let's try to answer some of his questions anyway, if only to make him go away.

"Oh, why do I yawn all day?
Oh, why do I feel this way?"

I don't know. Mononucleosis? Chronic fatigue? C-SPAN?

"Why is my mouth always open so?"

Because you're yawning.

"Why am I yawning, always yawning? I don't know."

Neither do I. Didn't we already establish that?

"Why am I yawning when I laugh and when I cry?
Because I'm yawning, yawning, yawning. I'm Mr. Y."

You're yawning because you're yawning? Well, that explains everything, Socrates.

"Why, oh, why am I always yawning?"

You probably bore the hell out of yourself. Did you ever consider that?

"I'm so tired of yawning, I have to yawn!"

Please stop talking now. My head hurts.

"I bet I can make you yawn, too."

And you would win that bet. Congratulations.

"But you have to yawn politely, as I do.
Put your hand in front of your mouth. That's the polite way!"

Yeah, it's really polite to yawn in people's faces all day and ramble on about it -- like it's their fault for not telling you why you're yawning. You're a real Emily Post, Mr. Y. Seriously, though, I'd rather sit and listen to Mr. V talk about his very special vest for the 879th time than spent one more minute with you. Besides, your most special article of clothing is that glove, and let me tell you, things didn't go so well for the last guy who wore just one glove and hung out with children all the time.

"Ready? Yawn!"

Oh, good night already. Really, just go away. And speaking of nights, Nate's have been a little off-kilter lately. Anyone have some answers for that?

Mr. Y
You're Yellow

Thank goodness for Pooh, who shares the crib with Nate. Just about every night, an hour or two after he goes down, Nate darts awake with a nightmare, and Jenn dashes into his room to let him know that everything's OK. He probably doesn't like the dark all that much, especially moments after his nightly bad dream and crying jag, but do you know what helps him drift off again, without fear? Crawling as close as he can to his little yellow friend.

"Oh, why do I have bad dreams?
Oh, why do I shake and scream?
Why must I wake with a start?
What is that beating and beating? It's my heart!
But what gives me comfort, besides Mom and Dad?
It's my yellow friend Pooh. He makes me glad."

We might take Nate down to Disney World later this year, and that means character breakfasts. Here's hoping that sharing a meal with a 6-foot-tall Pooh doesn't cause a whole new round of nightmares, because we'll all be sleeping in the same room.

Well, not the 6-foot-tall Pooh.

Waiting to Xhale

Mr. X
Mixed Up

Oh, man. Here we go. The faster we get done with this guy, the faster we can move on to Y and Z, letters which pose less difficulty finding words that start with them. At least the phrase 'Mixed Up' contains the letter in question, which is more than we can say for the modern-day version of Mr. X, whose name is -- wait for it -- Different. That's right, Different. Um, we are teaching kids the alphabet, right? Anyway, Mr. X has always been a problem for kids. Check out his original nightmare excuse for a song, which is delivered in a vintage 1970s computerized voice and sounds not unlike Stephen Hawking waking up in hell.

"X, I am X, X, X, X, X, wrong! All wrong!
I Mr. X am wrong! All wrong!
I am all maxed, I mean up mixed wrong! All wrong!
I mean mixed up oh stiddleficks X, X, X, X, X, X, X..."

Right about this time, Mr. W, Mr. T, and Mr. F are standing in a line at the back of the room, looking for an escape route. But things settle down a little bit, and Mr. X -- amid the electronic beeping and whirring of his "musical" accompaniment -- begins to spout what seem like actual sentences.

"I am Mr. X, and I'm quite complex,
and my foot is just exactly where my hand should be.
I am made all wrong. Where do I belong,
when the parts all mixed and in betwixt belong to me?"

That's right, let's make fun of handicapped people. I mean, we've probably swung a little too far the other way today with all the political correctness in the schools, but I guess it's good that we're no longer forcing kids to listen to songs that basically tell them, "Is your body not perfect? Because here's a guy who has some deformities too, and he also can't talk straight! Man, is that guy funny! That crazy, mixed-up Mr. X!" Of course, Mr. X is affected by the derisive laughter, too -- or, more likely, his meds wear off -- and he just stops making any sense at all.

"Quite complex X I Mr. quite am feet,
just exactly hands should mix belong the back of me.
Mr. front all wrong right upside is when
down exactly where my X and back is wrong should be."

What in the ninth hell does this have to do with the letter X? Nothing! And suddenly, it all becomes clear: none of the Letter People have anything to do with education! They're just a bunch of neurotic, drug-addled, singing-and-dancing monstrosities whose memories have festered in my head for 30 years with no redeeming value whatsoever! The very thought is enough to wear you out. Just ask Nate.

Mr. X
Xtreme Xhaustion

Granted, it's easier to come up with a Mr. X name today, since our youth culture allows for more words to begin with the letter X, particularly "xtreme" -- and, trust me, Nate's xhaustion in this picture is certainly xtreme. He woke up that morning not xactly feeling himself, and by midday he was xperiencing a 102-degree fever and chills, not to mention xpelling an xtraordinary amount of xpectorants out his nose. So we took him to the doctor's office for some xpert analysis, bought some xpensive medicine, and put him down for an xtended nap, xpecting that he'd sleep away the afternoon. But he didn't. He was too busy singing.

"I am Mr. Nate. I'm not feeling great.
And my crib is smeared with snots right where my head should be.
I am feeling wrong. I am weak, not strong,
with the heat and chills all mixing up at once in me."

Anyway, later in the afternoon, he wouldn't eat much dinner, even though we xplained that he really should keep his nourishment up. And although he attempted to play his favorite game later -- climbing up on the couch -- he didn't quite reach his destination, stopping suddenly at furniture's edge. On further xamination, the dude was sleeping. On his knees. Hey, it's not much fun being sick!

"Boy, I'm sick quite and, total crap like feel.
Running snots down are my feeling and I face am ill.
Mr. my Nate's name, and well am not I.
Down better go I and morning sleep it off until."

He's better now, by the way. My entire generation remains confused by the letter X, but Nate's fine, and that's all that matters.

And Now, the Lost Art of Flirtation

Mr. W
Wonderful Wink

Don't be scared, kids. Yes, Mr. W may look intimidating at first, until you realize that it's hard to be threatening when you can't lift your arms from your sides. I suppose if your shoulders were set above your eyebrows and your huge, dorky bowtie was wrapped around your ankles, you might develop an eye twitch as well. It's a coping mechanism, really. His singing voice, however, seems fairly normal, thank goodness.

"W, I'm Mr. W.
If my name begins to trouble you,
here's a way to help your thinking:
won't you watch me when I'm winking?"

And suddenly you're thinking, yeah, maybe he can't wail on me with those useless fists, but what's to stop him from just leaning forward and crushing me? I mean, he's built like a wall. I don't know whether to run away or push my electronic stud finder across him. Hmm. Maybe I'll take down that ugly W and put up a couple of nice Kandinsky prints I found at that estate sale last week, the one where they wanted $75 for that big, soda-stained dresser, and I tried to talk them down to $50, but they wouldn't budge, and I was like, hey, I'd pay more than $75 if you people used coasters, and they were all like, Grampy really liked this dresser, and I was like, yeah, but in case you haven't noticed, Grampy's not using it anymore, and they kicked me out of the house, the woman sobbing and the guy shouting, and me just happy I'd already paid for the prints, because they were in pretty good shape, all things considered. I'm sorry, what were we talking about?

"Wonderful wink: with my right eye, that's once.
Wonderful wink: with my left eye, that's twice.
Two winks are nice. They're the double of one.
Oh, I'm winking double. That's how W is done."

And again, your mind wanders: um, isn't that called blinking? And if Mr. W did fall over, could he get back up? I mean, his arms are useless -- if he even has arms. Would he just lie there, jerking and trembling, his mouth filling up with dirt particles as he struggles, fruitlessly, to lift himself up, to allow just a tiny whiff of sweet, sweet oxygen to relieve his burning lungs, until finally, he gasps his last muffled gasp and slips the chains of Mother Earth forever? And if that's the case, could someone tell me when the estate sale is going to be? Because I still need a dresser.

Nate, on the other hand, has perfectly working arms, which is good, because he falls down, too. And gets dirty. And needs a bath. Because he's...

Mr. W
Willing Washer

No, the photo does not lie. Nate loves his snug tub, even though it invariably means the evening's fun is over, and it's time to go to bed. And now that his Mom fills his tub with bubbles, it's partytime!

"Little Nate, I'm little Nate.
And if you think I'm looking great,
that's 'cause Mom gives me a good scrub
while I'm splashing in my snug tub."

I used to "help" Jenn give Nathan his bath, but my main job seemed to be propping the dude up and occasionally trotting out the overly emotional but completely untalented cow. But Nate hasn't needed help sitting up since he was very young, and the cow has apparently retired. So now, generally it's just Mom giving Nate a bath while I chop up raw meat for the dogs. We have an interesting family.

"Washing! Washing! Get my right ear, that's once.
Splishing! Sploshing! Get my left ear, that's twice.
My two ears are clean. Cleaner than Dad's, it's true.
He says he hasn't washed inside his ears since '92."

Yeah, very funny, Nate, but that is a totally outlandish statement.*

* It was actually 1993.

Introducing a Very, Very, Very Dull Man

I'm told the commentary in last week's Letter People Friday was somewhat convoluted. Don't worry -- we're keeping it simple this week. Because Mr. V is forcing us. You'll see.

Mr. V
Violet Velvet Vest

He's kinda stiff, that Mr. V. Check out the sharply angled shoulders and the collar that rides up to his nose. He's a stuffed shirt, and he knows it. His song is operatic in style, accompanied by the sort of tasteful chamber strings whose first notes practically announce, you will be bored. And, yes, you will be.

"I am Mr. V with a very special vest,
and my very special vest is my very best."

The arrogance in his voice is off-putting at first, but still, you want to give him the benefit of the doubt. The claim is intriguing: maybe it really is an extraordinary vest, you think. Let's hear more about it.

"I am Mr. V with a very special velvet vest,
and my very special velvet vest is my very, very best."

Okaaaaay. Well, at least we know it's velvet. That's something, I guess. But where did he find this vest? Men's Wearhouse? Did the manager help him out in a pinch, a few minutes after closing time, like on the radio commercials? Does the vest have super powers, like the socks that Mr. S wears? Was the manager unaware of these super powers, and did he unwittingly give Mr. V an amazing deal, like someone who buys a picture for $5 at a tag sale and later finds the Declaration of Independence jammed behind the frame? Tell us more, please!

"I am Mr. V with a very special violet velvet vest,
and my very special violet velvet vest
is my very, very, very best."

Well, that was unhelpful. I'm beginning to think the word 'special' might be more apropos than Mr. V thinks. He's an excellent driver. Uh oh, Wapner's on!

"I am Mr. V with a great variety
of very special violet velvet vests,
and my great variety of very special violet velvet vests
is my very, very, very, very best."

Yes, and Laurie Berkner has a great variety of very special blue shirts, but when she writes songs, she uses more than five words, you idiot. I'm not even going to bother with the final verse, which repeats the word 'very' -- I'm not kidding -- 12 times in a row. I find that very aggravating. Nate, on the other hand, is fond of repetition, especially when it involves repeating the tasks he observes Mom and Dad perform around the house.

Mr. V
Vigilant Vacuumer

During his first months, the vacuum was just white noise to Nate. When he was lying on the floor, we used to lift his feet up to vacuum under him, and he just grinned.

"I am Mr. Nate, and I hear the vacuum
as it's vacuuming the carpet in this room."

Then, for no discernable reason, he went through an odd vacuum-fearing period, and the sound made him cry. Typically, one of us took him into the bedroom while the other cleaned the living room.

"I am Mr. Nate, and I don't like the vacuum,
so please, oh, please stop vacuuming this room."

Then, for whatever reason, he made peace with the vacuum -- not just a ceasefire, but an actual, lasting peace -- so now he runs merrily around the vacuum as Jenn or I push it. Of course, this coincides with the general rise in his bravery, which includes climbing on the couch and running across the cushions, laughing, while Dad has heart-attack symptoms. Although that could be related to all the cheese I eat.

"I am Mr. Nate, and I love the vacuum!
I've gotten past the roaring boom,
and I'd like to help you vacuum up this room."

And so he does. Soon I'm going to post a bunch of photos that demonstrate all the housework Nate is doing for us on a daily basis. He's a good kid. No, scratch that -- he's the very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very, very best.

Raindrops Keep Falling on My Face

Today on Letter People Friday, we present the most useless rain-protection gear since the New Orleans levees.

Miss U
Upsy-Daisy Umbrella

Hmm. What a useless utensil this is. Today's Letter Person, for some reason, has her face permanantly embedded in an umbrella. Some claim she was on board the USS Eldridge, stationed a little too close to the umbrella rack, during the Philadelphia Experiment in 1943. The U.S. government, predictably, denies this account. But the loveliness of her singing voice? Undeniable!

"I'm with my umbrella.
We go together wherever we go.
I'm under my umbrella,
whether it's sunshine or whether it's snow."

More Letter People lies? Shocking! Actually, Miss U, you're not technically under the umbrella, because your face shares the same plane. Now, if you were to crane your head up, then maybe you could make the argument that you're under it -- except for your face, which is vulnerable to being soaked, sunburned, or flecked with sleet.

"You know who I am, I'm little Miss U,
with my umbrella, whatever I do.
U-u-upsy-daisy, we go every place,
little Miss U with my umbrella face."

That's not a bout of stuttering, mind you. It's an attempt to keep singing while chunks of hail are lodging in her teeth. I think Miss U would be better protected from the elements if she just faced straight ahead and let the weather bounce harmlessly off her Flo-the-waitress hairdo. Speaking of which, wouldn't Miss U have improved that show?

Mel: "Everyone get back to work!"
Miss U: "Kiss my grits, Mel!" (Leans forward)
Mel: "I said get ba...aaaarrrghurglegurgle"
Vera: "Oh, my! You killed Mel with the point of your umbrella!"
Alice: "We really should mop up this mess. Girls, it's chili con carne tonight!"

Um, where were we? Oh, yes, it's Miss U, continuing to go through life with blinders on:

"I'm with my umbrella.
Apart we are minus, together we're plus.
I'm with my umbrella.
Up and away, take a good look at us."

Yeah, I figured Miss U would eventually go all Stockholm syndrome on her horrible deformity. Listen, lady, you may have come to love your hideous growth, but that doesn't make it socially acceptable. And speaking of "up and away," Nate's take on the letter U should bring people to their feet cheering, not running away.

Mr. U
Unbelievable Uppercut

Nate hears the cheers on TV each time Big Papi strides to the plate, at least during the first three innings -- you know, before bathtime. He sees that low fastball that the opposing pitcher foolishly tries to sneak a little too far inside. Crack. And then he sees the ball, soaring higher and higher until it drops into the hands of a waiting fan in the right-field seats. And he thinks to himself, I'm going to do that someday. And Jenn and I think, he'd better do that someday, because there's probably a dream house in it for us. But for now, he can only practice -- off the tee with his big plastic bat.

"You know who I am, I'm big Mr. Nate,
with my yellow bat close by my side.
Tee it up, Daddy, I'm ready to swing.
I'm Big Mr. Nate -- I can hit anything."

Amazingly, though, for all of Ortiz' power, he's not Nate's favorite player -- at least, not since I told him about a pretty cool moment back in 2004.

"I'm down with Jason Varitek,
his leadership style and his down-to-earth grace.
Someday I'll be like Varitek,
and cheerfully punch A-Rod in the face."

I asked Nate what would happen if  Mr. Rodriguez threw a punch back. Nate said he'd tell the people in the stands to duck.

I Pity the Fool Who Don't Like Letters

Yes, I'm aware that it's not Friday. But as naked, notebook-toting kids say when they run outside during pool parties, so???

Mr. T
Tall Teeth

Well, at least now we know where the real Mr. T got the idea for his mohawk. But that's where the imitation ends: while he accessorized with layer upon layer of gold bling, his educational predecessor opted for fish scales on his forehead and flashlights for hands --like he could've walloped Rocky with those. But then, did Clubber Lang ever warble a country-western ditty as sweetly as this walking dental anomaly does? As Bob the Possibly Insane Furniture Man might say, I doubt it.

"Tall -- my teeth are so tall.
Terrifically tall, the tallest of all,
the tallest you'll see. I'm called Mr. T."

And what lesson does the tall-toothed one trimphantly teach our tots? That lying is good. Really.

"Why, my teeth are so tall,
it takes my toothbrush two hundred and twenty-two turns
to take a trip from the top of the tip
to the tip of the top of each tooth.
And that's the tall truth."

Um, no, it's not. And if it is, then you're no longer just brushing your teeth; you're fighting a losing battle against advanced plaquophobia. And the fact that you're keeping an exact count of brush strokes betrays significant OCD. Which means you need professional help. Seriously, did the Letter People have their own psychiatrist on retainer? If so, he probably slept on piles of money.

"And talk about toothpaste!
From Tuesday to Tuesday,
I'll use two thousand, two hundred and twenty-two tubes
of tasty toothpaste for each tremendous tooth.
And that's the tall truth, too."

Ladies and gents, allow me to introduce the Takeru Kobayashi of toiletries. I've heard he also holds records for most cans of deodorant applied at one time, most Q-tips inserted into his ears at once, and most C batteries stuffed into his wrists. Which is fine, because it'll give Nate some goals to shoot for, which should take his mind off being a stubborn little grumpytrousers:

Mr. T
Temper Tantrum

T also stands for Terrible Twos, but Nate's still eight-plus months away from that birthday. Yet our son is quickly developing a stubborn streak that would, quite frankly, awe many 2-year-olds. To make matters worse, he loves to scream -- even just for fun. And considering the incredible speed at which toddlers shift moods, one scream can sometimes cross over and serve two different purposes. Just ask the nice people studying at the library.

"Short -- my temper's so short,
incredibly short, making my face contort.
I don't feel so great. I'm called Mr. Nate."

We don't totally blame him, however. He's very active and curious these days -- if he's in a new place, he wants to explore every corner, generally a different corner than the one Mom and Dad feel like exploring. Give him a new toy or kitchen implement, and he wants to figure out how to use it, and when he doesn't understand it right away, he's not too articulate yet about asking for help, so frustration sets in. But I'm not completely giving him a pass, either: sometimes he's just a tiny whiny hiney.

"Why, my temper's so short,
it takes my parents ten or twelve tries
to get me from my terrifying tantrum
to a totally tranquil temperament.
And that's the total truth."

However, now he's telling us he has an excuse for this behavior:

"And talk about teething!
From Tuesday to Tuesday,
I'll need two hundred and twenty tasty teethers
to tolerate the terrible throbbing in my teeth.
And that's the total truth, too."

That explains everything, right? It can't be him, right? I mean, we've heard he's perfect.

Shine On, You Crazy Letter Person

Today on Letter People Friday, we celebrate schizophrenia. Really. Which I suppose is better than celebrating massive, walking, anthropomorphic wads of chewing gum, but not by much.

Mr. S
Super Socks

For starters, it's tough to trust someone who wears a cape, two very large socks, and apparently nothing else. What's holding up the socks? From which sock is his head poking out? Why is his face turning green? But once Mr. S starts to sing, you realize that his emotional malfunctions far outweigh his wardrobe ones.

"I'm Mr. S, and sometimes when I go to sleep, I'm scared.
So then I sneak across my room and find my secret box
and slip into my super socks."

Um, Jenn? See, when I lunge violently out of the bed, I'm not really having nightmares about Nate. I'm actually sneaking across the room to find some socks.

"I am a supersonic streak in the sky!
Mr. S to the rescue, they cry!
Straight on, super socks, we've got to stop that train!
Save that sinking sailboat from a hurricane!"

OK, maybe I don't have those kind of socks. But I suspect that, in reality, neither does Mr. S. His problem appears to be split-personality disorder, brought on by several childhood traumas. For example:

"I'm Mr. S, and sometimes when they're scolding me, I smile."

And:

"I'm Mr. S, and sometimes no one plays with me. No one at all."

Yeah, join the club, kid:

 

See? Even at age 6, I was acutely aware of my own social limitations. The difference is, I didn't get out of bed at night to pretend I was a sock-sporting superhero who stops robberies and hits game-winning home runs, as your song describes. And how were you even allowed to come up to bat for these helpless teams? Were you on the roster? Aren't there rules against letting any old shmoe with a bat and a sock fetish just enter the game?

Mr. S, you're a freak. It's time to wake up and smell the insanity. Really -- do it for your family. They love you. And if you need some tips on becoming a stronger, tougher individual who faces all challenges with a confident smile, I'm sure Nathan can help you. Just not today.

Mr. S
Swimmy Shorts

"When you're down in Carolina, be sure to come swimming at my house," Auntie Lori said. "The pools are really nice," she said. "And warm," I'm fairly certain she said. Yeah, well, Nate likes the bathwater temperature of the pool at the Y, and would rather leave the Arctic waters to Robert Peary.

"I'm Mr. S, and sometimes when I see the pool, I'm scared.
But I go to the cabana near the tennis courts
and change into my swimmy shorts.
And suddenly...

I am a swim-- AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
LET ME OUT! HEY, LET ME OOOOOOOUT!
WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU PEOPLE?
MY TOES! I CAN'T FEEL MY $#%@& TOES!
HEEEEEEELP! RESCUE ME, MING-MING!
AAAAAAAAAHHH--"

Ahem. I'd like to point out that hardly any of that rhymed. You've written better songs, Nate. Now go dry off. You're turning blue.

Ready, Aim, Learn

OK, I know it's actually Monday, but I couldn't pass up this opportunity to restart Letter People Friday. So just pretend the weekend is here.

Mr. R
Ripping Rubberbands

He was -- let's face it -- the stuff of nightmares. Oh, sure, we might have loved the idea of this green-faced, box-headed, rubberband-shooting freakshow in the well-lit comfort of our kindergarten classroom. He was cool. He was a rebel. He gave new meaning to the term "headbands." But at night, when the lights went down and the bedroom was eerily silent, the image of that face would return to our innocent minds -- no longer cheerfully rebellious, but sinister. And ripping, forever ripping. Oh, the welts, the pain, the-- the--

(pant pant pant)

Um, sorry about that. Got carried away. He also played music. A Hungarian speed-folk thing, if you can imagine it.

"Running, racing, ripping rubberbands -- rip!
Round and round I'm ripping rubberbands -- rip!
I rip them near and far, rip-roaring Mr. R.
Ruff, ruff, beware my ripping rubberbands -- rip!"

"Rip" in this case probably meant "rest in peace," because who knows how many rubberband stings the human body can withstand? But did Mr. R care about the damage he caused? Nope. I would certainly question whether he was in control of his own behavior. In fact, the "ruff, ruff" suggests rampant rabies. The uncontrollable convulsions should begin any moment now. In the meantime, there's no shortage of ammunition:

"I rip them 'round the room,
I rip them everywhere.
I rip them when you're rollerskating,
rip them right into your hair!"

Suddenly, thunder claps. Trees begin to sway. And Mr. R, foaming at the mouth, scales the walls of the school, King Kong-like, and launches a wild orgy of aiming and snapping. Children scream and scatter like ants.

"I rip them off the roof,
I rip them in the rain.
I'm Mr. R, whose rubberbands give everyone a roaring pain!"

They're going to pay for mocking me on the playground, he thinks. I don't like Mondays, and now they will PAY for-- And then, suddenly, he's gone, plummeting toward the asphalt, an FBI sniper's bullet sending searing pain through the hole in his R. After a sickening thud, a bounce, and a second, slightly less-sickening thud, it's over. Students are escorted back to their classrooms, ashen-faced, to await their parents. It takes some six hours to pick up all the rubberbands, which are later distributed evenly among each classroom for paper bundling and craft projects. Tight school budget, you know. Can't be wasteful.

Oh, and speaking of roaring pains, Nate has more immediate issues:

Mr. R
Rosy Rash

The poor guy. We've been introducing several new foods lately, but I can't imagine what caused the awful rash on Nate's butt over the weekend. Just dabbing it gently with a diaper wipe causes him to break out in miserable tears, but we press on with the Balmex and powder, hoping to bring some relief to his sensitive little arse. Sometimes, he even sings about it:

"Raw and reddened, please don't touch my rash -- ow!
Rough and raging, please don't touch my rash -- ow!
Just change the diaper fast, then please back off my ass.
Ruff, ruff, I'm suffering with a really rosy rash -- ow!"

Jenn says we need to give Nate's butt some airing-out time at some point, but the combination of walking and no potty training could lead to some serious carpet cleaning. I don't see why he can't go out back with the dogs, though. If Ripley acts up, her new bark collar will make her yelp, and Nate will think that's hilarious, taking his mind momentarily off his ruby rump. Did you know he laughs at other people's tragedies? It's kind of disturbing.

"I walk around the room,
I wander everywhere.
But still I can't escape the pain
that's ripping me down there.
I'm cranky and I'm crying --
it's the redness, I suppose.
I'm Mr. Nate, whose butt is glowing just like Rudolph's nose!"

Fascinating image, actually -- Rudolph the Rashy Reindeer, who had to fly backwards to navigate Santa's sled. It probably wouldn't have been a good idea, though. After enduring the horror of Mr. R in kindergarten, kids were traumatized enough.

As Long as He Behaves in School, Right?

Mr. Q
Quiet

Right at this moment, outside the offices of Letter People Friday, Ripley is trying her very best to be the antithesis of everything today's Letter Person stands for. She has this ungodly howl that she uses for kids on bicycles and the cat who sits in the woods, just beyond the fence, and mocks her. It's hilarious. More on the Ripster later.

As for Mr. Q, what can he say? Well, apparently nothing. In his song, some kind of faux reporter tries to goad him into opening up by being flattering and obsequious, but it doesn't work. I think the newsman eventually got a job with CNN in Baghdad, swapping feel-good stories about Saddam for the right to keep his office open.

"Well, here's a new Letter Boy.
The very unique, without question,
the quickest quiz kid with a quip,
quiet, quiet Mr. Q."

This is followed by an extended silence, probably because Mr. Q is trying to understand what the hell the reporter just said. He makes Marcus on The Apprentice sound like Anthony Hopkins. You know, complete sentences are our friends. Anyway, this reporter apparently has some kind of annoying Greek chorus accompanying him, commenting on his inability to nail this interview.

"Bells are ringing, people singing,
chickens clucking, ducks are ducking,
noises all around.
But Mr. Q? Not a sound."

Now the reporter starts to get a little worried -- you can picture the beads of sweat forming on his forehead -- and the chorus gets more smug.

"Well, here's a new Letter Boy:
it's quiet, quiet Mr. Q,
who's come to give us a few quick quotes.
Over to you, Mr. Q."

(Long silence)

"Whistles blowing, wheels going,
cows are mooing, clocks cuckooing,
so much to be heard.
But Mr. Q? Not a word."

Now, sure, the reporter could go the Jayson Blair or Dan Rather route and just make stuff up, but he has integrity, so he keeps trying. Integrity by itself won't win any Pulitzers, though, and after another round of rain pouring, Daddy snoring, and Mr. Q keeping his trap shut, one of the chorus members finally solves the puzzle, and the reporter has his story:

"Why is he so quiet? Is he sick?
No, it's just that nothing makes him tick."

Aahhh, I see. Ritalin. That'll do it every time. In the meantime, because Nathan has no obvious qualities that begin with the letter Q, I'd like to introduce you to someone who could also use the occasional drugging:

Miss Q
Quickly Qualifying

Let's face it -- in our house, the letter Q stands for only one thing, and that's a qualifying run in agility. And no one in this house has more of those than the aforementioned loud springer named Ripley. She came into her second year of competition with plenty of talent but a lack of focus. By the time the season was up, however, she had picked up six Qs -- enough to graduate from novice to the open level in both standard and jumpers. To top it off, she aced her very first run in the open class, too! It's enough to make a certain golden retriever jealous.

"Dogs are walking, judges talking,
vendors selling, handlers yelling.
There's so much to do.
And Miss Ripley? Another Q!"

Oh, but wait! Maverick has just pointed out that although he has only five total Qs and is still a novice dog in one category, he recently earned a blue ribbon by finishing first in one of his runs. Ripley, on the other hand, has seven red second-place ribbons but no blues. True, Mavi picked up his blue ribbon in a steady rain on a day when four of the seven dogs in his group didn't show up. But first place is first place, right? Right, Ripley?

"Mavi's shouting, but I'm doubting.
He's not fast. Bribes were passed.
I ace all my meets.
But Mr. Mav? He just cheats."

We asked Mr. Q what he thought of this accusation, but he's not talking.

Please Post, Papa!

Hey, Nate here with Letter People Wednesday. Why Wednesday? Because I'm tired of watching every Friday pass by with no new blog postings. I'm supposed to be taking my nap, but I'm so irritated that Dad has stopped sharing my life online that I decided to come down to the office and do it myself. So without further ado, allow me to introduce...

Mr. P
Pointy Patches

First of all, I'd like to point out that Mr. P looks just like a mummy -- that is, if the ancient Egyptians had been able to purchase their embalming supplies at AC Moore. His grin relays the message, Hey, I may be dead, but I'm festive! Oh, and that monogrammed manila folder in his hand? There was a Staples in the same plaza.

OK, now comes the part where Dad picks on the Letter Person's theme song. Take it away, musicians!

"I've got pointy, pointy patches
on my pointy, patched-up pants.
I've got pointy, pointy patches plain to see.
Sewn up with polka-d0tted stitches,
pointy patches on my britches,
I'm as rich as any Letter Boy can be."

Sure, he may feel rich in his heart. But in fact, Mr. P simply continues the proud tradition passed on from Mr. J -- celebrating the hobo. But while the Jumbled Junk guy represented a sinister, violent strain of homelessness, Mr. P is more like the endearingly insane guy that stands out on the street corner, accosting strangers and introducing them to his imaginary dog. Only in this case, Mr. P is shouting about his incredible wardrobe, which, um, isn't. I mean, he may think he looks rich, but let's get a grip here. By comparison, the neighborhood consignment store looks like one of those Beverly Hills specialty shoppes Winona Ryder used to steal from.

Unless patches are in style now. I wouldn't know -- I'm still in diapers.

"I'm like a pretty picture postcard
pasted up with pretty stamps.
I've a patch from every part of this country.
From Paducah down to Natchez,
people praise my pointy patches,
pointing out each patch that matches patched-up me."

Yeah, but see, Mr. P, they're not praising you. Pointing, poking and pitying maybe, but not praising. And by the way -- a patch from every state? That's just obsessive and weird, you Greyhound-riding nutcase. Um, we have these state quarters now -- why not collect those? After all, you sure don't spend many on your appearance. Then again, neither does my Dad.

Mr. P
Procrastinating Papa

To Dad's credit, he did shave off that pathetic attempt at a beard after only a week of growth. And he does actually get quite a bit of his work done before I wake up every morning (although the housekeeping efforts are still a bit lacking). But I think we're all sick and tired of waiting for Dad to update his blog. "Something will be up by Friday." "I'm busy right now." "I promise to post something tomorrow." Blah, blah, blah, blah. No one's interested in your excuses, Dad. So I'll have to fill everybody in with the details myself. But first, a song.

"I've got a dilly-dally Daddy
who never, ever wants to blog.
There's always something else he has to write.
So though I'm growing by the minute
and the world's better with me in it,
I'd sure like Dad to bring those facts to light."

Let's see. I went to the doctor's last week and measured 29 1/2 inches and weighed 19 pounds, 4 1/2 ounces. Pretty good for just over 6 months, huh? I'm eating all kinds of new foods, but I didn't much care for Cracker Barrel grits last weekend. Dad had pneumonia last week, but he feels better now. Maverick ripped open one of his pads playing ball in the street, and now he's all limpy and bandaged. Mom and Dad ordered tile last night to lay down in the bathrooms. I visited Mom at work yesterday, and I went shopping at Big Y with Dad today. But today's checkout lady didn't smile and flirt with me like all the other ones do, the frigid ho. I got more action from the old guy bagging the groceries. Ripley still barks at the mailman every day. Oh, and she got her novice agility titles in both standard and jumpers -- Mavi still needs one more Q for his standard title. I hear The Amazing Race has been kind of lame this year, although I'm always in bed long before it starts. I love splashing in my inflatable tub, but the donkey hand puppet doesn't come out as much anymore, because I told him his jokes weren't funny. We're doing a breast cancer walk this weekend, although I'll actually be riding. We might drive out to North Carolina for Thanksgiving. I just pooped myself. What else, what else...

"From Pittsfield out to Boston,
Dad always finds something to get lost in,
but I hope he finds his way back to this site."

Yeah, I guess that's it for now. This is the dude, logging off.

Doesn't Play Well with Others

Today's Letter People Friday features a rather sad tale, so have your hanky ready. But first, we're going to meet the Official Letter People Bitch. And I'm not talking about Ripley.

Miss O
Obstinate

That's right, Obstinate. As far as I can tell, Miss O was part of a daring initiative called Advanced Vocabulary People. Let's face it -- there are plenty of high schoolers who would lose SAT points over this word. She was replaced soon after with a different character known as Optimist, part of the Only Slightly Less Advanced Vocabulary People program. I guess we should be thankful the creators went with a one-word name. Otherwise we might have been stuck with Overconfident Otolaryngologist, whose defining moment would have been completely botching Mr. N's nasal surgery. Still, that might have been preferable to this loudmouth:

"I'm obstinate, I'm obstinate, I'm obstinate,
which is just the opposite
of doing what somebody wants you to do
when they want you to do it!"

I'm sure if she had tried really hard, she could have made those lyrics even more clunky. But then things really go downhill:

"In the wintertime, I swim
in a frosty swimming pool.
If they say 'stay out,' I'm in.
I don't care if the water's cool."

You'll notice Miss O has only four fingers on each hand. That's because the other two were amputated after the frostbite advanced into necrosis. Nice job, jerk.

"When it's time to go to sleep,
that's when I begin to play.
When they say 'stay down,' I'm up.
When they say it's night, it's day."

Something tells me this woman did not evacuate New Orleans.

"I'm as stubborn as a mule;
that's what they keep telling me.
Though I may make people mad,
it's the way I happen to be."

You know what else starts with O? Omarosa. Draw your own conclusions. In the meantime, let's back slowly away from Miss O and head over to Nathan's nursery, where a different o-rganism passes the hours in resigned silence.

Mr. O
Overlooked Octopus

Yes, there he hangs, clipped to the edge of the changing table and dangling beside the dirty diaper can, which I'm sure is no picnic. There's a can of Lysol on a nearby shelf, but his arms are too short to reach it. Also, he has no fingers to properly grip the can. Also, he's stuffed. Still, the ex-toy called Metropus has feelings. And hopes and dreams. And a theme song.

"I'm overlooked, I'm overlooked, I'm overlooked,
which is not at all the same
as being loved and hugged and played with
like Nate's other toys and games.

In the early days, I hung
from the bar on Nate's playmat.
But when my string got snapped,
they retired me, just like that."

In our defense, Jenn did try to reattach the ends of the string, but they kept coming undone, and we didn't want Nathan (who was only a few months old) to choke on any little Metropus pieces. You'd think he'd be grateful, that he'd give us eight handshakes for giving him a new, interesting life hanging from the changing table, but apparently that's not the case.

"Only when they change the trash
do they notice me, and feel sorry.
I wouldn't be shocked if I wound up
as Metrocalamari."

Nah. He's way past his expiration date.

He Probably Has Sleep Apnea, Too

Nudity. Deformities. Toe chewing. It's all here at Letter People Friday.

Mr. N
Noisy Nose

Now here's a Letter Person I can relate to. I may not be made of cotton candy or lollipops, and I may not have a third leg for kicking things, but as a world-class snorer, I do have a noisy nose. And a huge uvula which contributes to a similarly noisy throat. Just ask Jenn. Now, my nose is not shaped like a horn like our friend Mr. N (it's more of a mild ski slope -- a bunny hill, perhaps). Yet how could I not feel a bond with this irritating but oddly likable guy?

"I'm Mr. N with the noisy nose,
noisy nose, noisy nose that goes
(honk!) (honk!) (honk!) (honk!)"

Yeah, it's hard to recreate the sound he makes on paper. You'll just have to ask me to burn you a CD. If the notes sound a bit strangled, it's hard to blame him. One of his arms sticks straight up, so that his fingers are pressed against his nose, permanently constricting his airways. Perhaps a surgeon could do something. Maybe the same one who's going to staple Mr. M's stomach.

"My noisy nose is a nose that knows,
nose that knows, nose that knows
how to make a lot of funny different sounds!"

I'm told that I make lots of different sounds at night. Yet, strangely enough, Jenn doesn't think any of them are all that funny, especially when they're accompanied by me sitting up with a start and grabbing her legs in an effort to keep Nathan from falling off the bed. By the way, Nate sleeps in his own room. Yeah, I'm a riot to share a bed with.

"I'm Mr. N, who's got fancy clothes,
nifty fingers and nummy toes,
but my nose! My nose!
My nobody-else-has-got nose!"

Here, the comparisons between the Nster and me fall apart. Fancy clothes? Jenn's surprised if I manage to put on seven different outfits during the week and match the colors properly. Nifty fingers? Well, if chewed-off skin is nifty, sure. And nummy toes? That's hard to say. I used to be much more lithe and flexible, but it's been more than a decade since I could trim my toenails with my teeth. Back in my younger days, though, yeah, I suppose my toes were plenty nummy. Now, I know what you're thinking. I mean, besides eww, I'm nauseous. You're thinking Jenn's going to have work extra hard to help Nate cultivate gentlemanly habits, considering how generally disgusting his Dad is. And so far, for the most part, Nate is a charming, decent guy. But when he gets tired, he does have this distaste for, um, clothes.

Mr. N
Nearly Naked

I've heard that lots of kids like to run around completely clothes-free. Now, we're not quite dealing with that (mainly because Nate isn't running around yet), but when he's tired and getting fussy on a warm summer evening, we find he cheers up after shedding a layer or two. His overalls, maybe, or his entire outfit, right down to his Huggies. And although he has always enjoyed bath time, he unfailingly gets really cranky when his Mom starts to dress him in his PJs or his onesie for bed. He's like, not again! I've been trying all day to get naked, and now you've gone and ruined everything! Thanks for nothing!

"I'm Mr. N. Call me Naked Nate.
I will state that clothes aren't that great.
Take them off! Off! Off! Off!

Why do I fuss and turn up my nose?
It's simple -- I wear too many clothes.
Take them off! Off! Off! Off!"

Man, even the song is whiny. So of course, we obey. Thus, the emperor has no clothes.

He Eats Because He's Sad

Mr. M
Munching Mouth

If the Letter People had a governmental structure (and, really, who's to say they didn't?), Mr. M would probably be president. Or chairman of the board, at the very least. He's the first Letter Person our teachers introduced us to in the 1970s, and he's the one we all remember most vividly. He's also the stuff of nightmares, if you have nightmares about being swallowed by a mouth so big that it doesn't even fit your attacker's face. (And, really, who's to say you don't?) At the end of his song, he speaks his name with an echo effect which is supposed to sound like the listener is flying down his throat. No wonder I had night terrors. And it starts so innocently, if somewhat gluttonously:

"I'm Mr. M with a munching mouth.
My mouth must munch, munch, munch.
My mouth has lunch, lunch, lunch.
I munch from morning to midnight,
midnight to morning.
Munching mouth -- I'm Mr. M."

This probably isn't healthy, and it makes me wonder -- what causes Mr. M's compulsion? Does he enjoy the food, or does he simply hate himself? I'm not sure he even tastes any of it, since he appears to lack a nose, but who knows? He must have some semblance of taste, since he goes on to list several menu favorites.

"Meatballs, macaroni,
mashed potatoes I adore.
Marshmallows, maple syrup,
melon, milk -- there's room for more!"

If an excess of room is the problem, Mr. M might want to consider gastric bypass surgery. In this procedure, the stomach is made smaller by creating a small pouch at the top of the stomach using surgical staples or a plastic band. The smaller stomach is connected directly to the middle portion of the small intestine (the jejunum), bypassing the rest of the stomach and the upper portion of the small intestine (the duodenum). The procedure can be performed via a large incision in the abdomen, or laparoscopically through a small incision using a tiny camera. The net effect of the surgery is to create a feeling of fullness and suppress the desire to eat, as well as reducing calorie absorption in the intestines. Of course, an alternate option for Mr. M might be to show a little friggin' self-control.

"Milkshakes, marmalade,
mayonnaise I adore.
Muffins, mushrooms and molasses,
more and more and more and more!"

On second thought, just phone the doctor and schedule the surgery. I fear Mr. M is beyond hope. I will say this, though -- at least he appears to enjoy every bite of his smorgasbord, unlike our son.

Mr. M
Moany Meal

Nathan has this habit of moaning and groaning all the way through his feedings, which is strange, because he clearly enjoys solid food. In addition to his bottle feedings, he gets real food twice a day -- a couple tablespoons of rice (mixed with Nutramigen) along with a couple tablespoons of fruit or veggies. He wolfs it all down and pouts a little when he's finished, but between every bite he makes these hilarious groany sounds, like an old man complaining about the kids on his lawn, or the high price of groceries. I imagine him muttering, in Pop Pop's voice, "Beech Nut carrots? Aaah, throw away your money."

"I'm Mr. M with a moany meal.
I whine and frown, frown, frown
while I chow down, down, down.
I really sound like I'm bumming,
but keep that food coming
toward my mouth. I'm Mr. M."

Any favorites, Nathan?

"Peaches, pears, peas and prunes.
You'd think I was Mr. P!
But here comes some squash and carrots,
mashed in my rice, all for me!"

My theory is that Nate simply wants something a bit more substantial, even though he'll take whatever he can get right now. You should see the way he stares at our dinner plates, even after we've courteously allowed him to eat first. It's really rude.

"I'm Mr. M with a moany meal.
Forget these prunes and bibs:
I want some slow-cooked ribs.
And when my teeth grow and thicken,
I'd sure like grilled chicken
in my mouth. I'm Mr. M."

Can't say I blame him. Although Jenn says the pureed pears are quite tasty.

It Also Stands for Lysol

Sorry about the two-week wait for a new Letter People Friday. But it's back -- with a new and improved lemon scent!

Mr. L
Lovely Lemon Lollipops

I'd like to think Mr. L is one of the few gainfully employed Letter People. I see him working at an amusement park, beside a thrill ride onto which kids aren't allowed to bring food. So let's say a kid has bought a large lemon lollipop, isn't close to finishing it, but doesn't want to throw it away. No problem -- he may attach it to Mr. L for safe keeping until he gets off the ride! And if Mr. L's picture is any indication, he's certainly earning his money, in addition to facilitating the sharing of millions of childhood germs. His song, however, shatters that fantasy. This is no occupation. It seems that Mr. L has simply embraced the radical diet plan pioneered by Mr. D and his Delicious Donuts -- namely, detatching chunks of his own body and chowing down. Mmmm!

"Lovely, lovely, what could be lovelier
than licking a lollipop, a lovely lemon lollipop?
Delicious -- well, you can tell I'm Mr. L."

Talk about a mixed message. Mr. L looks like a porcupine, which is frankly intimidating, but behind every quill lies a tasty, lemony treat. Eat up, kids! Now, if you believe that an overly cheerful man enticing children to partake of his sticky, sugary torso is criminal behavior, just instruct your own kids to run away. I mean, he won't chase them far, shuffling about with one foot permanently facing straight up like that.

"Lucky, lucky, no one could be luckier
and licking a lollipop, a large lunch of lollipops.
A large bunch -- oh, what a smell. I'm Mr. L."

I just don't know what to do with this guy. He seems nice enough. There's no indication that he means serious harm. Perhaps his worst crime is putting lollipops at the top of the food pyramid; after all, a "large lunch of lollipops" will only lead to intestinal discomfort and Lengthy Lavatory Lingering. If anything, we should be encouraging our children to eat healthy foods. Like fruit. Which brings us to Nathan.

Mr. L
Lickable Lips

Nate loves pureed fruit. But he's still working on keeping it all in his mouth as we shovel it in. Meanwhile, Jenn and I are mastering the technique of spooning the rice-and-fruit mixture off his chin and cheeks and back into his gaping maw -- but that's a lot easier to do when he's sitting in his highchair, and not on one of our laps. And we can't bring the highchair everywhere, now, can we?

"Tasty, tasty, what could be tastier
than licking my little lips, licking peaches off my lips?
Who cares when I spit out rice? I'll eat it twice."

After weeks of enjoying peaches and pears, I thought Nathan would turn up his nose at his latest menu selection, butternut squash, which has a sharper aroma. But, no, he loved his first serving last night. I think a few months of nothing but Nutramigen has made him grateful for any new food item.  Still, I suspect he loves fruit the most, even when it's dribbling down his chin.

"Scooping, scooping, scooping peaches off my face
is quite irresistible, and always so digestible.
I'm pooping -- oh, what a smell. I'm Mr. L."

Actually, that's kind of hit-or-miss with all the dietary changes. Prune juice helps, though. Not that you asked, but there you go.

A Leg and a Leg and a Leg

It's Letter People Friday, and you know what that means. Yup, that's right -- more random violence.

Mr. K
Kicking

Every once in a while, the creators of the original Letter People were too drunk to come up with a two-word name. Oh, Mr. K could have been so many things -- Kicking Kids, Kicking Kangaroos, Kicking Kudzu. Even Abrams & Co., the politically correct idiots who revamped the Letter People for today's Ritalin zombies, had the good sense to come up with Kaboom Kick, which, despite being kind of stupid, at least contains two words. But the original creators? "Um, he's kicking. It'll do," they said. "Now pass me the fondue and another Harvey Wallbanger." So Mr. K is just Kicking. But he's also singing!

"Come on and kick with Mr. K.
Come on and kick your cares away."

We're two lines into the song, and the kids are already learning that violence solves problems. Good one!

"Come on and kick the ball,
come on and kick the can.
But never, ever kick a man!"

Women, children, and household pets: please make a note of the implication here. Oh, and run -- this sexist child-hater is wearing spikes on all three feet!

"Oh, kicking gives me such a kick.
This kind of kicking makes me tick.
Kick up a fuss, kick up the dust
with Mr. K, the kicking king.
But never kick a living thing!"

OK -- come on back, women, children, and household pets. It's apparently safe -- Mr. K is a giant tease!

Still, you can't blame him for his tendencies. I mean, there really aren't too many words that begin with the letter K, so his palette was kind of limited to begin with. As is Nathan's. And he really had to search the dictionary hard to come up with:

Mr. K
Kinetic Knees

Yes, kinetic knees. Say it once or twice to get used to the sound. Shall we press on? Good. This is actually kind of appropriate. I was just telling Jenn last night how bottle-feeding Nate is much less enjoyable when he kicks, jerks, squirms, and flails through every agonizing ounce. We blame solid food, which he eats twice a day and loves -- particularly since we added pears to the rice. So when it comes time for a bottle-only meal, well, the Nutramigen has kind of lost its old magic. Oh, he still gulps it down sometimes, but more often than not, he seems more interested in bobbing his head back and forth and playing with the nipple than actually drinking anything. And sometimes he even sings about it.

"Come on and eat with Mr. K.
Come eat some pureed pears today.
Now, by comparison,
my bottle just falls short.
So when I suck, my knees and arms contort."

This is annoying during the day, but it really poses a problem at night. The post-bath, pre-crib bottle used to be a relaxing routine, and Nathan would already be on the cusp of sleep when carried to his room. But not anymore.

"Why do they make me drink this stuff?
I squirm because I've had enough!
I'm wide awake, make no mistake,
and putting up a valiant fight.
No way I go to sleep toni...zzzzzzzzz."

Three words: Ocean Wonders Aquarium. It's Kiddie Kryptonite. Which is also a nice name.

A Warning to Joggers and Jaywalkers

Today, on Letter People Friday, we learn the important lesson that hobos are violent. Can you say "violent"? Good!

Mr. J
Jumbled Junk

OK, even though he picks through garbage, I shouldn't call him a hobo. I believe the proper term is "homeless person." Actually, according to some in the media and government, the most accurate term is "homeless person victimized by the oppressive policies of ultra-rich, imperialist Republicans." Whatever the case, the man collects trash. And not just any trash. Oh, no.

"Jumbled junk! Collecting!
Jumbled junk! Collecting!
Jackets or jewelry, I'm Mr. J.
Give me your junk; I will haul it away.
A jackknife or jigsaw, I'll take them too.
Call Mr. J -- I am waiting for you."

Waiting for you...with a jackknife? Waiting where? At the end of a dank alley where no pedestrian can hear my screams? And considering this horrifying prospect, does anyone really think Mr. J is in the market for a jigsaw puzzle? Yeah, I didn't think so, either.

"Jumbled junk man!
Any old junk you're through with,
I know just what to do with."

Yes, we've established that. And he knows h0w to use other weapons, too:

"Jugfuls of jam pots, I'm Mr. J.
Give me your junk; I will haul it away.
A jack-in-the-box or a jellybean jar,
jolly old jump ropes, I'll carry them far."

These lyrics are slightly revised from the original, more accurate version: "I'll smash a jar on your head, wrap a rope 'round your neck. Then I'll toss your limp corpse from an upper-floor deck." Let's face reality -- the guy's a sociopath. Oh, sorry -- a sociopath victimized by the oppressive policies of ultra-rich, imperialist Republicans. (Hey, we wouldn't want to be politically incorrect, right?) At any rate, Nathan's version of Mr. J is -- I promise you -- much more charming.

Mr. J
Jumbo Jowls

See, Nate had his four-month (actually four months and a week) pediatric examination yesterday, and he's in perfect health, aside from a lingering cold (and an even more lingering cradle cap). However, he's also -- let's see, how can I be sensitive about this? -- massive.

"Jumbo jowls! Expanding!
Jumbo jowls! Expanding!
Hi, Joe and Jennifer -- I'm your son, Nate:
all 17 pounds and 6 ounces in weight.
To be honest, I really don't know what I did
to take up the space of an 8-month-0ld kid."

That's right, 17-6. Pretty soon, we won't be able to use the carrier anymore, which is fine, since I can hardly carry it now. Oh, and did I mention he's also 26 3/4 inches tall? Forget about playing second base for the Sox someday -- now I'm thinking power forward.

"The doc says I'm healthy and growing in style.
I'm somewhere around the 95th percentile.
But it seems I'm proportional. This makes me glad.
Let's face it: it's more than I can say for my Dad."

Cheeky little dude. In more ways than one.

Just Keep Your Distance, Lady

Miss I
Itchy Itch

Miss I is one of two original Letter People who switched personas in the early days, becoming Incredible Inventor for a short time. I guess a constant itch was deemed too unpleasant (yet somehow Mr. G's huge, viscous mound of goo and Mr. H's pathological fear of the barbershop were deemed perfectly acceptable). My sister Lori told me that the school where she used to work stages an annual wedding between Mr. Q and Miss U, which is kind of cute. Me, I prefer having itchy Miss I hook up with Mr. F and his Funny Feet in a nationally televised wedding ceremony sponsored by (cue Madden) Boom! Tough-Actin' Tinactin. But I digress. On with the song.

"I am Miss I. I am Miss I.
I've come to stay all day instead of passing by."

So, I take it the doctor says you're no longer contagious?

"I've got an itch which makes me twitch,
which makes me wiggle, always giggle, never cry."

So here we have another recurring Letter Person theme: the fetish. Miss A sneezes when she's happy. Mr. H thinks his follicular shrubbery is adorable. Mr. B thinks being made of buttons is beautiful. The Letter People taught nothing if not self-esteem and unflinching happiness in the face of horrible disease and deformity. And Miss I, giggling as she scratches, is no different.

"I'm itching and i'm itching and I'm itching
and I'm itching and I'm itching,
and I'm wiggling and I'm jiggling all day long."

Man, it's a good thing she enjoys this. You get the impression she'd make a great pole dancer. At a really seedy club. Which might explain the itching.

Okaaaaay. Hey, Nathan! Bring us back to Inoffensive Innocence, please.

Mr. I
Incoming Incisors

Poor dude. The teething is not a constant pain, and there haven't been any breakthroughs yet, but the aching does bother him more on certain nights, relieved only somewhat by chewing on frozen teethers and washcloths. The upside is that he produces more saliva bubbles these days, and he can entertain himself for long stretches with that bbblbbllbllbbbbbblbbb sound. Egged on by his dad, of course. But then the pain returns.

"I'm Mr. I. I'm Mr. I.
My incisors are cutting, and they're making me cry.
I've got an ache, make no mistake,
which makes me tearful, never cheerful, this I sigh."

The upside of all this is the tempting world of solid food soon to spread out before him. Jenn's famous turkey lasagna. Scallops in vermouth a la Rachael Ray. Quiznos subs. Of course, he'll first have to graduate past mushy cereal, mushy fruits and mushy vegetables -- and past the gum pain.

"I'm teething and I'm teething and I'm teething
and I'm teething and I'm teething,
and the pain is harsh and seething all day long.
The pain shoots up like geysers from my #$%@& incisors.
I'm Mr. I -- that's why I sing my teething song."

Keep tugging those ears and drooling, dude. This too will pass.

Hair's to Blogging!

Today's edition of Letter People Friday comes from our guest writer, Nate.

I've had it. It's been, what, a month since Dad posted anything on his blog? Well, I'm taking things into my own tiny but surprisingly strong hands. I'm very talented on the computer, you know!

Mr. H
Horrible Hair

This seems appropriate. Not because I have nearly as much hair as Mr. H (although I have almost as much as Dad), but because my on-again, off-again cradle cap has given what hair I do have an uneven, splotchy pattern (again, much like Dad). It's a problem, but we're dealing with it. Unlike my mane man Mr. H, who takes an odd pride in his kudzu-like adornment.

"I'm Mr. H. Hello, hello!
How do you do, and do you know
that I'm so handsome and adorable?
My happy hair is everywhere,
and so much hair makes people stare.
It's horrible!"

OK, Mr. H's hair seems to be strangling the area of the brain that deals with synonyms. Sure, 'adorable' and 'horrible' rhyme, but which is it going to be, my schizophrenic friend? Speaking of which, I have this amazing talent for shifting between emotions in a matter of seconds. I laugh, I cry, I laugh, and it's hilarious watching Mom and Dad try to keep up. Oh, man, it's fun to be a baby. Now, where was I?

"Oh, horrible hair. My horrible hair.
Oh, how I love this crown I wear.
I'll never, never stop at any barber shop
to cut my glorious, horrible hair. So there!"

Ah, youth. I mean, sure, a positive self-image is good, but wait till this guy brings that kind of attitude into a job interview someday, and the employer sings his own song: "I'll never, never hire someone with hair so dire. I've thrown away your resume. Good day!" (This doesn't explain Donald Trump, of course, so I guess a few horrible hairdos must slip through the corporate cracks.) And speaking of unemployment, that brings us to today's alternate Letter Person. Since Dad uses me for, um, inspiration each week, I thought I'd turn the tables and introduce you to:

Mr. H
House Husband

Oh, yes. It's been three weeks now since Dad quit his job, and he's still trying to convince us that we're not going to fall into bankruptcy, and if we do, that's OK, because I get to stay at home. Um, Dad? Day care + food on the table = good. Staying home + starvation and foreclosure = bad. And what about those promises that he would clean the house and drive me over to Mom's office for lunch twice a week? I think Dad would like to explain himself:

"It's 5 a.m. Get up, get up!
I do some work, then feed the pups.
Then Nate wakes up; he's so adorable.
I change his pants, then watch the Tour de France.
But clean the dirty house? Fat chance!
It's horrible!"

OK, maybe I'm being a little tough on Dad. He has been getting some jobs and getting his business off the ground, and he does occasionally vacuum and do laundry, and he even cooks. But he could play with me more, you know. Right, Dad?

"I run the house. I run the house.
I watch SportsCenter and Maisy mouse.
Sure, I might do more chores, might even wash the floors...
right after Little House on the Prairie. Hee hee!"

Man, I sure hope Mom is reading this.

I Chew-Chew-Choose You

Mr. G
Gooey Gum

Here at Letter People Friday, we offer weekly cautionary tales to keep all you kids out of trouble. This week's moral: Do not cover yourself with partially chewed gum. And if you do, please, please watch where you walk. This could get disgusting, but here we go.

"I'm grouchy."

Wonderful! I have a little boy you might like to meet. Come over during the evening.

"My gooey gum got stuck on the garden gate.
(Popping sound)
Good! Now I can go again."

OK, I can see walking a little too close to a fence while covered with a mass of fruity, viscous goodness. I mean, who hasn't? But as Mr. G's spoken-word monologue continues, you start to wonder:

"Oh, grasshoppers!
My gooey gum just got stuck in the green grass.
(Popping sound)
Good! Now I can go again."

Hey, I'd fall down too if my feet were croquet mallets. But since when does gum separate itself from grass with a pop? Actually, since when does gum separate itself from grass at all? At least we can be thankful that he doesn't say, "Oh, green grass! My gooey gum just got stuck on some grasshoppers." Because that would be gross. And we wouldn't want to gross out children, would we? Of course we would:

"Oh, goosefeathers!
My gooey gum just got stuck on the garbage can by the garage.
(Popping sound)
Good! Now I can go again."

Good? How is it good to walk down what I assume is a kid-friendly sidewalk, your entire body covered with a sticky, sugary substance that has become home to grass clippings and trashcan germs? I must admit, however, that if such a creature lumbered into my neighborhood, I probably wouldn't even notice him, because I'd be much too entranced by my son:

Mr. G
Gleeful Grin

We were warned that when Nathan started to smile and laugh, he would effectively turn us into ... well, gooey gum. For the past couple of months, that has been very true. I love the way his smile takes a second or two to develop, so you can see it build (and watch the room get noticably brighter, kind of like turning up a dimmer switch). I know I poke fun at various aspects of Nate's babyness in this spot, but he's always got the upper hand. You can overlook plenty of crankiness when that smile kicks in.

"Oh, golly!
My gleeful grin just got Dad's guard down.
Good! Now I can grouch again."

(Several minutes of crankiness ensue. Mom picks Nate up. He smiles.)

"Oh, grand!
My gleeful grin just made Mom greatly glad.
Good! Now I can grouch again."

And so on. The weapons of our Supreme Commander are sinister indee-- Hey, he's smiling again! Aaaaawwwww.

Might as Well Jump

Greetings, Fervently Faithful Fans! It's Letter People Friday!

Mr. F
Funny Feet

Oh, man. Where should we start? Before getting into the issue of the giant paisley feet, I'd like to point out that Mr. F has no thumbs. So I'm not sure how he reached into his pockets to pay the tattoo artist. We also learn, at the very start of his song, that he's waaay too fixated on other people's mutations.

"Mr. M has a munching mouth.
Mr. T has tall teeth.
But I'm Mr. F, and I've got
funny feet, funny feet, funny feet, funny feet..."

Yeah, so I just gave away two future Letter People. It's not like you can't just look them up yourself anyway. Back in the day, teachers were instructed to teach the alphadudes in some bizarro order, beginning with M, T, F and H. Here at Letter People Friday, we're sticking with alphabetical order. If that was good enough for past generations, it's good enough for me. Now, where were we? Oh, yeah...

"Feet that flip, feet that flop, flip and flop, never stop.
Flap-a-doodle, I can fly.
Well, I try!"

Lovely. As it turns out, parents needn't have worried about their children's friends influencing them to jump off bridges, when it was Mr. F implanting the idea all along. Hey, go ahead, kids! Try to fly! It works on Road Runner cartoons! Wow. You're a mean drunk, Mr. F.

"And though I've never found shoes around
to keep my feet on the ground,
'Fiddlesticks' do I cry? Not I!"

Now he's channeling Yoda. Fiddlesticks, I cry not. Fit, these shoes do not. Opposable thumbs, I have not. Fly or fly not. There is no try. Yeah, back to the insidious flying thing. You think I'm kidding about that? Just check out the final lines:

"Flap-a-doodle-doo.
Flap-a-doodle-dee.
Fall on your face with meee-eeee."

From the highest branch of a treee-eee, no doubt. Sorry, but that's not for us. We're going to teach Nathan safety, along with a bunch of other things that are laid out in the parenting books. He seems well ahead in some areas; since he was a month old, he's been baby-talking, laughing and sleeping all night. But in other areas, he needs to get moving. For instance, he remains:

Mr. F
Fearsome Fists

Apparently, when he's not holding onto something, Nate should be keeping his hands open most of the time. But he still makes way too many fists, so we're starting to focus on his hand work more often during play time. Unfortunately, our time with him is limited for the next couple of weeks, and the day care teachers are apparently too busy loading kids onto swings to actually work on any of this. (Hellooo! You're on a web cam, ladies! Earn your paycheck!) Nathan's songwriting talent, however, is still way ahead of his peer group:

"Mr. Maverick has a muddy mouth.
Miss Ripley rapidly runs races.
But I'm Mr. F, and I've got
fearsome fists, fearsome fists, fearsome fists, fearsome fists.
Mr. F, that is me.
Fists that fold, fists that flail, fold and flail, never fail.
A boxer's what I'm gonna be.
Can't you see?"

I'd like to note here that both Jenn and I have been smacked in the face, but we're none the worse for it. When Nathan gets a necklace in his grip, though, watch out.

"And if I haven't found on the ground
toys to put my hands around,
Mom and Dad, they help me. But, see,
my Dad makes top-100 lists.
And if that's not weird (or his beard),
why is everyone so scared
of my two fearsome fists?"

I really have no answer for that. Clever, impetuous boy.

Taking It Extremely Easy

Hey, it's Letter People Friday! Do you know where your kids are?

Miss E
Exercise

Leave it to the Letter Folk to lack any sense of proportion. One week after Mr. D encouraged kids to devour a dozen donuts, here comes Miss E with a system to burn off those calories -- if you have a few years to spare. Because if Miss E's song is any indication, the E doesn't exactly stand for exertion:

"I feel extremely weak. Poor little me, Miss E.
Too weak to work or speak. Poor little me, Miss E.
I've got to exercise, exercise, exercise, jiggle my toes.
Eh -- eh -- exercise, wiggle my nose.
Will you help me exercise, everybody?
Wiggle your nose, and jiggle your toes!"

OK, today the Letter People are going to teach us some math. Basing my calculations on five minutes of each exercise, I estimate that toe-jiggling will burn 3 calories, and nose-wiggling will burn another 2. That's a total of 5 calories burned so far, which should take care of a couple of jimmies (or sprinkles, depending on your region) on one donut. Way to get fit, Miss E!

To be fair, however, the exercise plan does become a bit more strenuous. Later pairs of Miss E's activities include twisting her lips (3 calories) and turning her hips (0 calories, as this sounds like an injury); reaching up high (8 calories) and reaching the sky (4 calories, burned while boarding the plane, buckling the seatbelt and purchasing the $5 headphones); followed by jumping up and down (30 calories) and spinning around (15 calories).

So, that's a total of 65 calories burned. Now, that's certainly better than nothing, especially in light of the spinal problems suggested by Miss E's picture, but she makes it sound like she climbed a mountain. A very high mountain, apparently, as the thinning air has addled her brain. Because later, she sings:

"I exercise, exercise, exercise when I'm alone.
Eh -- eh -- exercise my funny bone.
Everybody, do you know where your funny bone is?
It's your elbow."

Um, no, it's not. It's your ulnar nerve, you moron. Of course, it can also be a tasty snack of chocolate-dipped devil's food cake loaded up with a creamy, peanut butter-like filling. Man, those are good. I could go for one right now. So tasty. So moist. So -- oh, darn! Now I need more exercise!

Sometimes I envy Nathan, who seems to have a great time exercising on his playmat, batting the brightly colored toys that hang overhead, including:

Mr. E
Entertaining Elephant

It's interesting how Nathan interacts differently with each hanging toy. He likes to pull Maizy (formerly Colorful Dog with No Name) over his face; apparently she tastes good. And he likes to yank down on Metropus (the metrosexual octopus with a different colored pattern on each tentacle) and the little fishies attached to him in some kind