I’ve been sporting an upper respiratory infection as of late, so anything that doesn’t involve coughing up internal organs hasn’t been high on my list of priorities. Every time I gave writing a shot the flu medicine influenced me to write something completely insane before lethargy and confusion took over. Here is an excerpt of my writing filtered through a medicine and phlegm induced haze:
“I would really like to see someone give birth in space. Like into an airlock or something so they could clean the baby off, pull it inside and then blow all of the unwanted stuff out into space. It would be a lot easier than having babies on a bed or in a pile of clothes.”
In the last few months, I have been spending a lot more time with infants and I have realized a few things. Spending any substantial amount of time with a baby requires a person to make a few slight adjustments to their normal behavior. The one that is probably the most difficult is the willingness to change a diaper. No matter how much you love any child, you will never ever love its excrement. Nobody wants to change a diaper because they know very well what is going to be in there waiting for them. I have given this a lot of thought and, if this were my world to make, I would change it up so you wouldn’t always know what you were getting. A lot of the time it would still be poop but, every so often, you’d find little treasures like a gold coin or a note from the baby thanking you. How sweet would it be to find a plastic dinosaur, half a sandwich or an autographed photo of Mark Twain in the diaper instead of just business as usual? I am suggesting that it would be very sweet indeed, my friend.
Note: Real babies cannot talk. That would be ridiculous.
I am unsure who I would go to in order to turn this concept into a tangible thing but it would be well worth their time. Imagine it for a moment. Instead of people trying to convince each other to change a baby, they’d be fighting to see who gets to that it first. “What sort of magical wonderment does it contain it this time?!” people would ask excitedly. Every time a baby grunted, a look of delight would come across the face of anyone within earshot. Parents would host elaborate parties for all of their friends and there would be games where people tried to guess the prize.
“Um, a bracelet! Wait! A Ship in a bottle! No, uh, a three cent stamp from 1924!”
“Wrong, it was Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits on cassette! That’s right, the Piano Man. Everybody drink!”
Decades later that same baby told his parents that this was going to Say Good Bye To Hollywood because he was in a New York State of Mind and moved to52nd Street where he worked at an Italian Restaurant until he married anUptown Girl and moved to Allen Town. Eventually though, he lost his job and shot himself. Don’t ask me why.
I hope you’re a BIlly Joel fan, or else I just wasted like seven jokes on you.
Baby magic aside, there are a lot things I’m working on right now. I honestly can’t say where I will be within a week on any one of them but it’s creatively, socially, medically and financially full steam ahead. I’m either going to make it all happen or derail like the Hammond circus train wreck of 1918. If that ends up the case, bury me at Showmen’s Rest with the rest of the Hagenbeck-Wallace Circus.
I’m not going to lie to you, I may have recently read a book about circuses of the twentieth century.