My baby got da blues

Of all the times not to have a video camera...

Yesterday (Sunday), Joseph was being a little jerk. He was well-fed, well-cleaned and well-loved, but nothing satisfied. He whiiiiined. It isn't the worst sound I've ever heard, but prolonged exposure could easily lead to patching holes in walls. Judie has heard this whine a lot more than me, and I could tell from the way her coffee cup would shake in her hand that she was just...this...close to snapping.

We decided to go on a field trip to the zoo.

Unfortunately, I completely forgot about Life Rule #27--NEVER drive into the city on a nice, temperate Sunday afternoon. I mean, I haven't been this naive since, well, since I bought a massively overpriced condo and trusted that "it would all work out..."

I'll spare you the details because they're almost totally irrelevant, but the point is that we never found a parking spot at the zoo, and more than an hour after leaving our place, we finally gave up on Joe's first zoo experience. (Like he would have cared anyway). So, we decided to get a snack in Old Town, Alexandria and kill some time before Mass (and hopefully cool down--city driving puts me into a black rage).

So, we walked along the waterfront where the boat we used for our reception is docked. The usual cast of characters was there--skinny magician man with the child molester mustache (who makes balloon characters that make you raise an eyebrow), 17th century guitar player who can do a really good "Star Spangled Banner" with his hands, and the "Way of the Master" street evangelists who were trying a new tactic--they had a booth set up with a hand-drawn sign asking "Are you good enough to go to Heaven? Take the quiz and find out!" I've seen how Way of the Master operates--obviously nobody is good enough to go to Heaven. I was tempted to take the quiz, knowing full-well that I'm not good enough to get there on my own, and see the results. I can imagine that they'd be shocked--"This guy knows he's not good enough to go to Heaven, which means...he might go to Heaven!" Then their heads would explode and my work would be done for the day.

Wow, sorry for the tangent.

There was another guy I don't recall seeing before. He was a blues musician and he had the whole setup--dobro, drum set, harmonica. He played them all together so well even I forgot about my dignity and started shucking and jiving against my own will. Hey--it was sunny, warm, on the water, with my beautiful wife and (for the moment) happy son. It was a good day.

He also had a hell of a voice. I don't know how many packs a day you have to smoke to get a blues voice like that, but he should keep it up. Or double it.

We stood there with the crowd and watched a bunch of kids dance to the, well, somewhat naughty song. I think it was called "I dust my broom," and well, I'm not sure what exactly that meant, but the rhythm was fine.

Joseph started dancing then. I was holding him in my arms, his back to my stomach so he could watch, and he just went wild. Arms flailing, little (powerful) legs kicking, eyes wide and focused intensely on the musician. Then he started singing. "Uhhh--ooo--ah--ga--ooo---uhhh!"

I told him that was more jazzy than bluesy, but he didn't care. He was IN to it.

So, my baby got da blues. Go fig. I think I'll start calling him "Joey Fats" or something.