Little Champs Quotes

She felt a little betrayed and sad, but presently a moving object came into sight. It was a huge horse-chestnut tree in full bloom bound for the Champs Elysees, strapped now into a long truck and simply shaking with laughter - like a lovely person in an undignified position yet confident none the less of being lovely. Looking at it with fascination, Rosemary identified herself with it, and laughed cheerfully with it, and everything all at once seemed gorgeous.

Hush little owl, You're with Twi. I got the moves to get you by. Big bad crows. St. Aggie's scamps Ain't got nothin to show the champ. I'll pop a spiral With a twist, Do a three-sixty And scatter mist----

Ma vie est monotone. Je chasse les poules, les hommes me chassent. Toutes les poules se ressemblent, et tous les hommes se ressemblent. Je m'ennuie donc un peu. Mais, si tu m'apprivoises, ma vie sera comme ensoleillée. Je connaîtrai un bruit de pas qui sera différent de tous les autres. Les autres pas me font rentrer sous terre. Le tien m'appellera hors du terrier, comme une musique. Et puis regarde ! Tu vois, là-bas, les champs de blé ? Je ne mange pas de pain. Le blé pour moi est inutile. Les champs de blé ne me rappellent rien. Et ça, c'est triste ! Mais tu as des cheveux couleur d'or. Alors ce sera merveilleux quand tu m'auras apprivoisé ! Le blé, qui est doré, me fera souvenir de toi. Et j'aimerai le bruit du vent dans le blé...

He gives her his Art History lecture. ‘Then you get Mo-net and Ma-net, that’s a little tricky, Mo-net was the one did all the water lilies and shit, his colors were blues and greens, Ma-net was the one did Bareass on the Grass and shit, his colors were browns and greens. Then you get Bonnard, he did all the interiors and shit, amazing light, and then you get Van Guk, he’s the one with the ear and shit, and Say-zanne, he’s the one with the apples and shit, you get Kandinsky, a bad mother, all them pick-up-sticks pictures, you get my man Mondrian, he’s the one with the rectangles and shit, his colors were red yellow and blue, you get Moholy-Nagy, he did all the plastic thingummies and shit, you get Mar-cel Du-champ, he’s the devil in human form….’ She’s asleep.

so we went up the hill. then we got into my room and I looked at them both. my pure and beautiful slim and magic little girl glorious fuck with the hair dangling down to the asshole, and next to her the tragedy of the ages: slime and horror, the machine gone wrong, frogs tortured by little boys and head-on car collisions and the spider taking in the ball-less buzzing fly and the landscape brain of Primo Carnera going down under the dull playboy guns of cocksure Maxie Baer — new heavyweight champ of America — I, I rushed at the Tragedy of the Ages — that fat slob of accumulated shit.

All the people within reach had suspended their business, or their idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine. The rough, irregular stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them, had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own jostling group or crowd, according to its size. Some men kneeled down, made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all run out between their fingers. Others, men and women, dipped in the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from women’s heads, which were squeezed dry into infants’ mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran; others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted fragments with eager relish. There was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street, if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous presence.

The famous studio in Trilby, shared by the three friends—Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee—really existed in the rue Notre-Dame des Champs, and was No. 53. Tom Armstrong, Poynter, Lamont, and Kicky took possession of it on New Year’s Day, 1857.

source of profound irritation. “Ed, mate! And little, hmmm . . . It’s your first day at school too, isn’t it?” Nathan could never be bothered to remember Madeline’s children’s names. He held up his palm for a high five with Fred. “Gidday, champ.” Fred betrayed her by high-fiving him back. Nathan kissed

I felt a little envious for a second. If I got offed in the woods late one night, I doubted if three tough guys would go straight to someone’s office, eight in the morning, champing at the bit, ready for revenge. Then I looked at the three of them again and thought, This particular perp could be in a shitload of trouble. All I’d have to do is drop a name.

What can I be thinking of? Just imagine my not having presented myself to you even yet! But as a matter of fact I do not want to tell you my name out loud; it is a romantic one, utterly inappropriate to the typically modern environment in which we now stand. Ah, if we were only on the steep side of some mountain with the moon like a great lamp above us, or by the shore of some wild ocean, there would be some glamour in proclaiming my identity in the silence of the night, or in the midst of lightning and thunder as a hurricane swept the seas! But here in a third-floor suite of the Royal Palace Hotel, surrounded by telephones and electric lights, and standing by a window overlooking the Champs Elysees-> it would be positively anachronistic!" He took a card out of his pocket and drew near the little writing desk. "Allow me, Princess, to slip my card into this drawer, left open on purpose, it would seem," and while the princess uttered a little cry she could not repress, he did just that. "And now, Princess," he went on, compelling her to retreat before him as he moved to the door of the anteroom opening on to the corridor, "you are too well bred, I am sure, not to wish to conduct your visitor to the door of your suite." His tone altered abruptly, and in a deep imperious voice that made the princess quake he ordered her: "And now, not a word, not a cry, not a movement until I am outside, or I will kill you!

Lydia the Tattooed Lady" Oh Lydia, oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Lydia, the Tattooed Lady She has eyes that folks adore so And a torso even more so Lydia, oh Lydia, that encyclopydia Oh Lydia the Queen of Tattoo On her back is the Battle of Waterloo Beside it the wreck of the Hesperus, too And proudly above waves the red, white, and blue You can learn a lot from Lydia La, La, La La, La, La When her robe is unfurled, she will show you the world If you step up and tell her where For a dime you can see Kankakee or Paris Or Washington crossing the Delaware La, La, La La, La, La Oh Lydia oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia? Oh Lydia the Tattooed Lady When her muscles start relaxin' Up the hill comes Andrew Jackson Lydia oh Lydia, that encyclopydia Oh Lydia the queen of them all For two bits she will do a mazurka in jazz With a view of Niagara that nobody has And on a clear day you can see Alcatraz You can learn a lot from Lydia La, La, La La, La, La Come along and see Buff'lo Bill with his lasso Just a little classic by Mendel Picasso Here is Captain Spaulding exploring the Amazon Here's Godiva but with her pajamas on La, La, La La, La, La Here is Grover Whalen unveilin' the Trilon Over on the West Coast we have Treasure Island Here's Najinsky a-doin' the rhumba Here's her social security numba Oh Lydia, oh Lydia that encyclopydia Oh Lydia the champ of them all She once swept an Admiral clear off his feet The ships on her hips made his heart skip a beat And now the old boy's in command of the fleet For he went and married Lydia I said Lydia (He said Lydia) They said said Lydia (We said Lydia) Groucho Marx, At the Circus (1939) Written by Yip Harburg and Harold Arlen

Pixie lay in a basket by the fire where a dozen brown and white puppies wriggled around her.  She had surprised us by getting pregnant very soon after moving back in with us, and the puppies were just under four-weeks-old now. We couldn’t have been more thrilled, and Bandit couldn’t have been a better dad.  He seemed to have endless patience as they climbed all over him, these wriggling furballs of energy.  Literally everything excited them.   Sully kneeled down beside me to pet the nearest pup, one with a big brown patch over one eye and a butt that never quit shaking.   “Have you got names for them yet?”  I pointed at the one in his hand while Bandit said.  “That’s Patch” “Because of his eye, obviously,” I filled in. Hearing the name, Patch suddenly squirmed out of his hands and bolted for Bandit, but his little paws couldn’t quite get purchase on the new floor and he skidded all the way to Bandit who he bumped into, coming to a sudden stop.  Shaking his head, he looked up at Bandit with intelligent eyes, then sat, waiting for further instructions.  Sully and I shared a look.   They were too young to know their names or much more than that, but it definitely seemed that Patch had known his name and was now waiting for Bandit to begin a game or something.  I pointed at a different puppy, one with a white shape on his rump.   “That one’s Star.” Bandit said. The minute the iPad said his name, Star’s head shot up, then he too bounded over to sit beside his brother.  Sully’s mouth fell open.  “No way…. They’re too young to behave like this.” Feeling a wave of excitement, I watched as Bandit finished calling his kids.   “Panda, Ace, Champ…” As he called their names, each puppy jumped to attention, coming to sit in a neat row in front of Bandit until all twelve of them were in a line in front of him.   I snapped a look at Bandit.  “Did you know about this? Did you know they were super smart too?”  He snorted out of his nose, laughing at our shock.  Sully and I looked at each other, the same startled expression in our eyes. “But…” was all Sully could say.  I at least managed two whole words before the full ramifications of an entire household of super smart dogs could hit me. “Oh boy.

She deflected direct questions with the skill of a fencing champ, with little parries that left us still engaged but pointed a few degrees off center.

He smoothed a little hair off her forehead. “I’m proud of you.” “It was so awesome.” “See? I knew you’d find something here to sink your teeth into.” He reached down, crossed his arms under her bottom and lifted her straight up so that her face was even with his. “Nowwww, what did we decide?” she asked, but her tone was teasing. Her smile was playful. “We decided that I would not kiss you.” “That’s right.” “I haven’t,” he said. “Maybe we should have talked about this,” she added, but she certainly didn’t struggle. In fact, this seemed oddly right. Celebratory. Like being picked up and swung around after the win of a big game. And that was how she felt—as though she’d just scored a touchdown. Arms resting on his shoulders, she clasped her hands behind his head. “We further decided that if you kissed me, I would let you,” he said. “You’re fishing.” “Does this look like fishing to you?” “Begging?” “Doing exactly as I’ve been told. Waiting.” What the hell, she thought. Absolutely nothing could feel better after the night she’d just spent than to plant a big wet one on this guy—a guy who’d keep his business open all night just in case they needed something. So she laid one on him. She slid her lips over his, opening them, moving over his with wicked and delicious intent, getting her tongue involved. And he did nothing but hold her there, allowing this. “Did you not like that?” she asked. “Oh,” he said. “Am I allowed to respond?” She whacked him softly in the head, making him laugh. She tried it again, and this time it was much more interesting. It made her heart beat faster, made her breathe hard. Yes, she thought. It is okay to feel something that doesn’t hurt sometimes. This wasn’t because she was grief-stricken or needy, this was because she was victorious. And all she could think about at the moment was his delicious mouth. When their mouths came apart, she said, “I feel like a total champ.” “You are,” he said, enjoying her mood more than she would ever guess. “God, you taste good.” “You don’t taste that bad,” she said, laughing. “Put me down now,” she instructed. “No. Do it again.” “Okay, but only one more, then you have to behave.” She planted another one on him, thoroughly enjoying his lips and tongue, the strength of the arms that held her. She refused to worry about whether this was a mistake. She was here, she was happy for once, and his mouth felt as natural to hers as if she’d been kissing him for years. She let the kiss be a little longer and deeper than she thought prudent, and even that made her smile. When it was over, he put her on her feet. “Whew,” she said. “We don’t have nearly enough births in this town.” “We have another one in about six weeks. And if you’re very, very good…” Ah, he thought. That gives me six weeks. He touched the end of her nose. “Nothing wrong with a little kissing, Mel.” “And you won’t get ideas?” He bellowed. “You can make me behave, it turns out. But you can’t keep me from getting ideas.” *

SURE? The Case of the Knockout Artist Bugs Meany’s heart burned with a great desire. It was to get even with Encyclopedia. Bugs hated being outsmarted by the boy detective. He longed to punch Encyclopedia so hard on the jaw that the lump would come out the top of his head. Bugs never raised a fist, though. Whenever he felt like it, he remembered Sally Kimball. Sally was the prettiest girl in the fifth grade—and the best fighter. She had done what no boy under twelve had dreamed was possible. She had flattened Bugs Meany! When Sally became the boy detective’s junior partner, Bugs quit trying to use muscle on Encyclopedia. But he never stopped planning his day of revenge. “Bugs hates you more than he does me,” warned Encyclopedia. “He’ll never forgive you for whipping him.” Just then Ike Cassidy walked into the detective agency. Ike was one of Bugs’s pals. “I’m quitting the Tigers,” he announced. “I want to hire you. But you’ll have to take the quarter from my pocket. I can’t move my fingers.” “What’s this all about?” asked Encyclopedia. “Bugs’s cousin, Bearcat Meany, is spending the weekend with him,” said Ike. “Bearcat is only ten, but he’s built like a caveman. Bugs said he’d give me two dollars to box a few rounds with Bearcat. “Bearcat tripped you and stepped on your fingers?” guessed Encyclopedia. “No, he used his head,” said Ike. “I gave him my famous one-two: a left to the nose followed by a right to the chin. I must have broken both my hands hitting him.” “You should have worn boxing gloves,” said Sally. “We wore gloves,” said Ike. “Man, that Bearcat is something else!” “Did he knock you out?” asked Encyclopedia. “He did and he didn’t,” said Ike. “His first punch didn’t knock me out and it didn’t knock me down. But it hurt so much I just had to go down anyway.” “Good grief!” gasped Encyclopedia. “H-he licked you with one punch?” “With two,” corrected Ike. “When I got up, he hit me again. I was paralyzed. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t move enough to fall down.” “Bearcat sounds like a coming champ,” observed Sally. “He’s training for the next Olympics,” said Ike. “Isn’t he a little young?” said Sally. “You tell him that,” said Ike. “He hurt me when he breathed on me.” The more Encyclopedia heard about Bearcat, the unhappier he became.

There is about our house a need. The running, pulsating restlessness of the four boys as they struggle to learn and grow; the world embraces them….All this wonder needs a counterpart. We need some starched crisp frocks to go with all our torn-kneed blue jeans and helmets. We need some soft blond hair to off-set those crew cuts. We need a doll house to stand firm against our forts and rackets and thousand baseball cards. We need a cut-out star to play alone while the others battle to see who’s ‘family champ.’ We even need someone…who could sing the descant to “Alouette,” while outside they scramble to catch the elusive ball aimed ever roofward, but usually thudding against the screens. We need a legitimate Christmas angel—one who doesn’t have cuffs beneath the dress. We need someone who’s afraid of frogs. We need someone to cry when I get mad—not argue. We need a little one who can kiss without leaving egg or jam or gum. We need a girl. We had one once—she’d fight and cry and play and make her way just like the rest. But there was about her a certain softness. She was patient—her hugs were just a little less wiggly. Like them, she’d climb in to sleep with me, but somehow she’d fit. She didn’t boot and flip and wake me up with pug nose and mischievous eyes a challenging quarter-inch from my sleeping face. No—she’d stand beside our bed till I felt her there. Silently and comfortable, she’d put those precious, fragrant locks against my chest and fall asleep. Her peace made me feel strong, and so very important. “My Daddy” had a caress, a certain ownership which touched a slightly different spot than the “Hi Dad” I love so much. But she is still with us. We need her and yet we have her. We can’t touch her, and yet we can feel her. We hope she’ll stay in our house for a long, long time. Love Pop

The houses were left vacant on the land, and the land was vacant because of this. Only the tractor sheds of corrugated iron, silver and gleaming, were alive; and they were alive with metal and gasoline and oil, the disks of the plows shining. The tractors had lights shining, for there is no day and night for a tractor and the disks turn the earth in the darkness and they glitter in the daylight. And when a horse stops work and goes into the barn there is a life and a vitality left, there is a breathing and a warmth, and the feet shift on the straw, and the jaws champ on the hay, and the ears and the eyes are alive. There is a warmth of life in the barn, and the heat and smell of life. But when the motor of a tractor stops, it is as dead as the ore it came from. The heat goes out of it like the living heat that leaves a corpse. Then the corrugated iron doors are closed and the tractor man drives home to town, perhaps twenty miles away, and he need not come back for weeks or months, for the tractor is dead. And this is easy and efficient. So easy that the wonder goes out of work, so efficient that the wonder goes out of land and the working of it, and with the wonder the deep understanding and the relation. And in the tractor man there grows the contempt that comes only to a stranger who has little understanding and no relation. For nitrates are not the land, nor phosphates; and the length of fiber in the cotton is not the land. Carbon is not a man, nor salt nor water nor calcium. He is all these, but he is much more, much more; and the land is so much more than its analysis. The man who is more than his chemistry, walking on the earth, turning his plow point for a stone, dropping his handles to slide over an outcropping, kneeling in the earth to eat his lunch; that man who is more than his elements knows the land that is more than its analysis. But the machine man, driving a dead tractor on land he does not know and love, understands only chemistry; and he is contemptuous of the land and of himself. When the corrugated iron doors are shut, he goes home, and his home is not the land.

The houses were left vacant on the land and the land was vacant because of this. Only the tractor sheds of corrugated iron, silver and gleaming were alive, and they were alive with metal and gasoline and oil, discs of the plows shining. The tractors had lights shining, for there is no day and night for a tractor, and the discs turn the earth in the darkness and they glitter in the daylight. And when a horse stops work and goes into the barn, there is a life and vitality left. There is a breathing and a warmth, and the feet shift on the straw, and the jaws champ on the hay, and the ears and the eyes are alive. There is a warmth of life in the barn and the heat and smell of life, but when the motor of a tractor stops it is as dead as the ore it came from. The heat goes out of it like the living heat that leaves a corpse. Then the corrugated iron doors are closed and the tractor man drives home to town, perhaps twenty miles away, and he need not come back for weeks or months, for the tractor is dead. And this is easy and efficient. So easy, that the wonder goes out of work. So efficient, that the wonder goes out of land, the working of it, and with the wonder, the deep understanding and the relation. And in the tractor man the grows the contempt that comes only to a stranger who has little understanding and no relation, for nitrates are not the land, nor phosphates, and the length of fiber in the cotton is not the land. Carbon is not a man, nor salt, water, nor calcium. He is all these, but he is much more, much more. And the land is so much more than its analysis. The man who is more than his chemistry walking on the earth, turning his plow point for a stone, dropping his handles to slide over an outcropping, kneeling in the earth to eat his lunch, that man who is more than his elements knows the land that is more than it's analysis. But the machine man, driving a dead tractor on land he does not know and love understands only chemistry, and he is contemptuous of the land and of himself. When the corrugated iron doors are shut he goes home, and his home is not the land.

Sophisticated New Yorkers complained that their city had none of the exuberance and spectacle of Paris—no Place de l’Étoile, no Place de la Concorde, none of the monumental statuary, arches, bridges and vistas that Baron Hausmann had created. New York lacked the intimate, formal little squares of London’s Mayfair and Belgravia. Instead of a Piccadilly or a Champs Élysées, New York had Broadway, and the most that could be said for Broadway was that it was very long.

A Tribute to my Daughter well well well....twenty nine years have come and gone and oh so too quickly.... I tearfully remember my very first child and the dramatic night you came into our lives...you changed us forever Xio...you Blessed our lives....I remember also the first day you looked me straight in my eyes.. you were being held in my right hand after a bath..you turned your head towards me and stared at me like you had never done before...the instant that happened I knew you were acknowledging the fact that I was yours...that's how that look felt... you placed the stamp of your soul in my hands... I knew in that moment that my role as a Father had truly begun... that look told me so... you made it very clear.....no person on this planet ever touched my very soul the way my baby girl did with that first stare..the beautiful brown eyes.. the inquisitive little look that quickly turned in to a very meaningful stare... I actually had to take a sharp breath....I was hooked...hooked for life... now you have grown from the baby we so loved and took care of... the little girl we watched grow...the smart little teenager you became.. I remember our lovely trip to England and Paris.. somehow that trip was meant to be...just the two of us...my little girl and me....you were so very young....I remember the flight...the landing...the excitement in your face...the look in your eyes...and somehow on that trip as we walked along the Champs-Elysees in Paris....I caught a glimpses of the young lady that was in you... I saw the big heart, the loving smiles. the kindness you so openly show... and here we are now.. many years later....you have matured into a very fine young woman.. a bright future... a work of art. At 58 I have met many souls, thousands I think... people of so many types and personalities...so many differences, in so many different places.. yet every time I look at you and especially when I see that beautiful smile...I think to myself... God is real...and man oh man He's really...really....good. I wish you a wonderful Birthday Xio and many many more to come....God Bless you Xio... God Bless you. Love you this much, Dad

Paris,” a Seventh Army soldier wrote his wife. “It was wonderful, but I slept on the floor because the bed was just too much like sleeping in butter.” A woman working for the OSS described fleets of vélos, odd contraptions like “canvas-covered bathtubs and drawn or propelled by motorcycles or bicycles,” carting around GIs “who little count the cost in their exuberance at being alive.” The writer Simone de Beauvoir concluded that “the easygoing manner of the young Americans incarnated liberty itself.” Troops packed movie theaters along the Champs-Élysées, and two music halls featured vaudeville shows. Post Number One of the American Legion served hamburgers and bourbon, and bars opened with names intended to entice the homesick, like The Sunny Side of the Street and New York. Army special services organized activities ranging from piano recitals to jitterbug lessons, while distributing thousands of hobby kits for sketching, clay modeling, and leather craft. The Bayeux Tapestry, long tucked away for safekeeping, reemerged in an exhibit at the Louvre, with the segment depicting the Norman defeat of the Anglo-Saxons in 1066 tactfully

The Razorbacks would play Duke, the NCAA champs in 1991 and 1992. Duke had a host of great players, but their star was Grant Hill, a consensus pick for national Player of the Year honors. The day before the championship, Richardson grew pensive. He was reasonably proud of his accomplishments, but something was nagging him. Richardson had been the underdog so long that despite his team’s yearlong national ranking, he still felt dispossessed. He found himself pondering one of Arkansas’s little-used substitutes, a senior named Ken Biley. Biley was an undersized post player who was raised in Pine Bluff. Neither of his parents had the opportunity to go to college, but every one of his fifteen siblings did, and nearly all graduated. “I had already learned that everybody has to play his role,” Biley says of his upbringing. As a freshman and sophomore, Biley saw some court time and even started a couple of games, but his playing time later evaporated and he lost faith. “Everyone wants to play, and when you don’t you get discouraged,” he says. On two occasions, he sat down with his coach and asked what he could do to earn a more important role. “I never demanded anything,” Biley says, “and he told me exactly what I needed to do, but we had so many good players ahead of me. Corliss Williamson, for one.” Nearly every coach, under the pressure of a championship showdown, reverts to the basic strategies that got the team into the finals. But Richardson couldn’t stop thinking about Biley, and what a selfless worker he had been for four years. The day before the championship game against Duke, at the conclusion of practice, Richardson pulled Biley aside. Biley had hardly played in the first five playoff games leading up to the NCAA title match—a total of four minutes. “I’ve watched how your career has progressed, and how you’ve handled not getting to play,” Richardson began. “I appreciate the leadership you’ve been showing and I want to reward you, as a senior.” “Thanks coach,” Biley said. He was unprepared for what came next. “You’re starting tomorrow against Duke,” Richardson said. “And you’re guarding Grant Hill.” Biley was speechless. Then overcome with emotion. “I was shocked, freaked out!” Biley says. “I hadn’t played much for two years. I just could not believe it.” Biley had plenty of time to think about Grant Hill. “I was a nervous wreck, like you’d expect,” he says. He had a restless night—he stared at the ceiling, sat on the edge of his bed, then flopped around trying to sleep. Richardson had disdained book coaches for years. Now he was throwing the book in the trash by starting a benchwarmer in the NCAA championship game.

Cracking one eye open, I saw Kash sitting on the edge of my bed just staring at me with an amused expression. “Can I help you?” I mumbled against the pillow. “I’m hungry and want pancakes.” “You want . . . What are you, five?! Make your own. I even bought the easy-make pancakes last weekend. All you have to do is add water.” I rolled over and groaned. “Seven thirty? Kash, we didn’t get back from work until after one. You have got to stop waking me up so early. And how are you even in here?” He looked like he was fighting a smile and his eyes kept flashing up above mine. “Candice let me in.” Trying to act like I didn’t notice where his eyes kept going, and like I wasn’t flipping out because I was sure my hair looked like a hot mess, I slowly brought my arm up to brush back the hair from my face when my hand hit something that tugged at my forehead. “What the hell?” I tried to look straight up and even leaned my head back to try to follow whatever was at the very top of my forehead. I saw a blue tip and grabbed at it before yanking it off and holding it in front of my eyes. “A Nerf dart?!” Kash shamelessly pulled up a Nerf gun and waved it at his side. His eyes slid back up to my forehead and a hard laugh burst from his chest. Rolling back, he fell off the bed and landed with a dull thump on the floor. “What?” I snapped, and scrambled out of bed. As I made my way to the bathroom, I was hit once in the butt and once on my calf by more darts. “You’re such a child, Kash!” Flipping on the light, I blinked against the brightness before focusing on the mirror. A loud gasp filled the small room. “Logan Kash Hendricks! What did you do?” He was still cracking up as he got to his feet and came to stand behind me. “I just had to make sure it was on there real good. So I tested it a few times . . . you’re a really heavy sleeper, by the way.” “There is a hickey on my forehead!” His body was shaking from the laughter he was trying to keep in now. “It’s not funny! This better be gone by the time we go to work tonight.” “Don’t be mad, Sour Patch.” He planted his chin at the top of my head and brushed at my bangs. “You have those, they’ll cover it. Can we have pancakes now?” My eyes went wide and my jaw dropped as I continued to stare at him in the mirror. “No! Go make them yourself.” He frowned and brought the toy gun up in front of us. “I’ll let you shoot me.” I chewed on my bottom lip for a moment. Pancakes sounded really good right now. With a heavy sigh, I held my hand out. “Give me the gun.” As soon as it was in my hand, I went around collecting the three darts and put them back in with the other three still in there before aiming it right at his forehead. Kash smiled, closed his eyes, and took all six darts like a champ. When I was done he had little red marks all over his forehead, and though I knew his would be gone in a few minutes, I felt like he’d gotten it worse than I did. “Feel better?” “A little.” I handed the gun back to him and turned toward my door. “Let’s go make pancakes.” I’d barely hit the kitchen when I realized I didn’t hear him behind me. “And don’t even think about shooting me again, or you’ll be on your own for breakfast!” Whirling

I… I can’t. I wish I were a little bolder.” “What for?” the Hatter asked. “Being a small rock wouldn’t be much fun.

I am lucky with Sebastian. He has managed to get past seventy without going doolally, getting depressed, splashed by nerve poison, changing his nature, trusting demented therapists, chasing after little girls as some men do, forgetting to zip up his flies, dribbling his food, champing false teeth, shuffling in slippers, quarreling with neighbours, cursing his enemies, shaking his fist Lear-like at the skies: all the things — Wanda is quite right — that men tend to do as they get older.

When you stay FOCUSED and execute on those activities like a champ, the little things will fall into place and take care of themselves.