Kuiper Sophie Smith was born on 1/13 weighing 7 lbs. 4 oz. and standing 20 inches tall. She’s perfect and we’re all on a babymoon.

And for inquiring minds and their wanting to know…

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kuiper_belt

A drama in two parts.

Me, calling downstairs neighbor: Hey there Fidel, this is Kables from upstairs.

Fidel, the Ivy-League-Educated Socialist: Hey. I can smell the stench of money emanating from your capitalist pores from down here on the bottom floor, otherwise known as the Proletariat Paradise™.

Me: Cool. I bathe in nickels. Anyway, our free internet and TV is no longer working. They must’ve figured us out.

Fidel: You must have told them, scum, to aid the wealthy in getting wealthier.

Me: Yeah. No. You know I’m poor, right? That each quarter I incur more and more debt in order to finance my education?

Fidel: I don’t believe you. The only debt you’re incurring is the debt your soul must pay for the poor black kids and homos this country piles on each other so you may climb their rotting bodies as you ascend to your shiny glass penthouse in the sky (aka, Belltown).

Me: Dude, my floor slopes. And I have a mold problem. And let’s not forget that I have to pile my laundry into a basket every week and go find some place to do it because I don’t have access to YOUR basement.

Fidel: LIAR!

Me: Whatevs. Anyway, we need to order internet. I’m not interested in getting TV, because I don’t really watch it. (Which is true — I watch shows on my computer long after their original air dates. –ed.)

Fidel: But . . . But . . . We want TV. We NEED TV!

Me: Uh, well, I’m not going to order it. I really am unwilling to pay for it.

Fidel: Maybe we should put the bill in our name, since you’ll likely be moving out next summer.

Me: Suit yourself, mofo.

Intermission.

Fidel, calling on the celly two days later: Hey, Kables, this is Fidel from downstairs.

Me: All praise be unto Rummy. What’s the fuss, Gus?

Fidel: So we ordered internet. You can pay for 1/3. We’ll let you know how much. Oh, and we got TV. I had this coupon, so we go the digital gold package for cheap, like only 40 shekels a month for the first six months. It’s pretty sweet. We get like 700 channels, which should keep us busy 23 out of the 24 hours we live. Good also for, you know, tokin’ the ganja at night.

Me: All right, dude.

Fin.

Rather than go on at length about the hypocrisy in all this, I’ll just say this: thanks to a sweet splice job Josh and I executed last spring, the commies are paying for my cable television. As the capitalist say, w00t!

John read through the letter one last time. ”Dear Thomas…” ”We, like they, are misunderstood.” That was good enough. That worked. It was clear at least, he thought. Earlier at the cafe he sat writing the letter when a crabby old woman suddenly and without provocation accused another immigrant of stealing her coffee and piece of cake. John had watched with interest as the scene played out.

–Come here and…, she’d said.

–Foreigners…, she’d muttered.

John had seen it all from the very beginning but didn’t dare step in to help the situation. After all, this was Sweden. It would have been truly un-Swedish to get involved even if one could remedy the situation. Even if, from the very beginning one could help avoid it altogether.

That was probably the biggest lesson John had learnt since moving to Sweden. So many years now. How long had it been? 20 years? 30 years? 10 years? Jesus! John couldn’t remember the half of it. Is a person really so old if they can’t remember the years?

But that woman. That crazy bitch. Arrogant and egotistical. She thought she knew everything about everyone. She considered herself a proper role-model. There was something familiar about her as she ran out of the cafe. Something with the say she wrapped her coat around herself. And especially with the way she looked back, one last time, into the cafe before disappearing.

When he was a young boy, John’s mother knew how people saw her. A single mother whose husband suddenly and without a single word just up and left his family. Heard from but one single time afterwards. People talked. They whispered, glanced across the supermarket aisles and avoided any eye contact. Jack had given absolutely no warning that anything was wrong. That he was thinking of leaving. Did he actually think about it? Was he dead? Was he here, walking around in this very town, incognito, watching their every step? Did he care at all that his son was growing up without a father? A boy needs a male role model. But maybe no role model was better than a bad one.

She knew that it was mean and wrong to tell John that his father had died but it was so much easier than telling a truth which she herself didn’t properly understand. When the letter came and when John saw the unmistakable photo of his father standing next to the statue at Gustav Adolfs Torg, exactly the spot where she and Jack had met so long ago during that strange blend of American Backpackers in Europe, she couldn’t bear to lie again.

“There it is then…He is alive. But for me he is dead,” she said. John never mentioned it again.

That was how she reassured herself as she pushed the cart through the grocery story while John stretched his arms trying to pull down cereal boxes and packages of cookies from the shelves. When she said that he didn’t need cereal or cookies he looked her straight in the eye and said, “They aren’t for me…they’re for Iggy.”

That damned Iggy. John invisible friend. Who the hell knew what type of role model he would turn out to be.

She knew that he sometimes caught her looking at him. She couldn’t help herself. He looked exactly like his father. She wondered if he trusted her, believed her. If the day would ever come when he would resent her for not telling him the truth, for not knowing the truth of why his father left.