Author: redgrange

Hey, everybody! One of the things about being young and cute is that you can get away with a lot. And while that is one of the themes running through this blog, it also means – if you’re ambitious enough – that you can meet people you may not have met otherwise. Charlie and I have always been Dick Cavett fans, since back in the late 2015s. Being the older sister, I obviously knew about him through various means that I am not at liberty to discuss (but suffice it to say that these means may or may not have involved the exchange of large quantities of back-channel Goodnight Moon Fan Club memorabilia through an Indianapolis-area pawn shop), and I passed along my appreciation to the Chuckster.

So one day we’re online, just tooling around, looking for blog ideas, when we happen upon a Dick Cavett fan site, coincidentally run by an old buddy of Charlie’s from fetus camp. Well, I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice it to say by the time the smoke cleared, A and The C had secured an interview with the wily old raconteur. As you can see, the interview had an inauspicious beginning, an awkward middle, and a violent end. Ha ha, I’m just kidding about the end. Well, not entirely kidding, I guess. Charlie “accidentally” reverse-head butted The Cav’s nose because he was laughing so hard at Dick’s old war stories. Anyway, here we go. Enjoy!

Dick Cavett: Well, good morning, Ava and Charlie – it is Charlie, not really The Chach?

Charlie Marsh: That’s right, Dick. Can I call you Dick?

Dick: Well, sure. That’s my name.

Charlie: Yeah, okay. Easy for you to say, you’re not one year old. This is all new to me.

Dick: Point taken, Charlie.

Charlie: I should hope so.

Ava: He should hope so.

Dick: I heard him, thanks.

Charlie: Dude, seriously. Why do you do that?

Ava: Do what?

Charlie: Repeat what I say, like I’m speaking gibberish, and you’re the only one who can understand me.

Ava: Because sometimes you speak gibberish, and I’m the only one who can understand you.

Charlie: Ba-BaaaAAA!

Ava: What?

Charlie: I’m just messing with you.

Dick: So, I’m ready when both of you are.

Ava: We’re ready, Dick. Can I call you Dick?

Dick: Yes, of course, I just –

Ava: Yeah, I was just kidding, Dick. Remember, I’m more than twice Charlie’s age.

Charlie: Knock it off, sis. Why you gotta bust balls?

Ava: Sorry, Chuck. You know that’s my thing.

Charlie: So anyway, we’re ready when you are, Dick.

Dick: Great, ask away. (Uncomfortable silence.)

Ava: I’m sorry, what?

Dick: I’m happy to answer any of your questions, except for questions related to my love life, as I’m sure my agent mentioned.

Ava: Wait, you think we’re asking you questions?

Dick: Uh, sure, that was my understanding.

Ava: Why would we do that?

Dick: Well, I mean, not to blow my own horn, but I was a pretty big deal back in the day.

Charlie: I just pooped a little.

Dick: (Clears throat.) Oh. Okay, I’m sorry you don’t seem to be a fan, but –

Charlie: No, I literally just pooped.

Dick: Oh, goodness. Well, let’s get you to a restroom!

Charlie: No, thanks.

Dick: I’m sorry?

Charlie: I’m good.

Dick: So you’re just going to sit there? In your excrement?

Charlie: Don’t judge, Dick.  You look pretty close to diaper status yourself.

Dick: No comment.

Charlie: Yeah. That’s what I thought.

Ava: Dick, look, he’s just a kid. You know how these millennials are. Anyway, let’s get something clear. Yeah, you’re an institution, an iconic figure from several decades ago. I get it. And Charlie and I, we’re big fans. But there are a couple things I need to point out.

Dick: Oh, okay. Go right ahead.

Ava: One: The thing you were so iconic about was interviewing people.

Dick: (Nodding.) Okay, point taken.

Ava: And two, Charlie and I are a combined 41 months old, and we have a Facebook page, a Twitter account, and a blog.

Dick: Ava – can I call you Ava?

Ava: Don’t be obtuse, Dick. Of course you can.

Dick: Remember when Charles Barkley said, “Any moron can score?”

Ava: Sure, who doesn’t?

Dick: Well, the same thing applies to social media.

Ava: I’m sorry, what do you – oh, I get it. Yeah, you got a point there.

Dick: But I take your point about my iconicism as an interviewer. So I’ll ask the questions.

Charlie: Ha! Is that even a word?

Dick: Iconicism? (Chucking.) If it’s not, we just made it up, I guess. You know, language is an ever-evolving —

Charlie: No, not that word.

Dick: Oh, then what word?

Charlie: Interviewer.

Dick: Yes, that is a word.

Charlie: Okay, just checking.

Dick: Ah, to be young.

Ava: Ain’t that the truth.

Dick: So let’s get right to it. As young people, what kind of music are you two into?

Ava: Well, I’ll tell you, Dick. My brother and I, we’re not the easiest of audiences.

Dick: How so?

Ava: Well, look. Let’s just say the previous generation had pretty loose standards, and now along we come, and we see this stuff, and it’s like, who was in charge? Who didn’t make the bed? Who let the dogs out?

Charlie: Hah! See what she did there?

Dick: Sure, Charlie. Clever. Ava, can you give me an example of what you’re talking about?

Ava: I sure can, Dick: Look, you know that kid, Justin Bieber? The one with the haircut that looks like it came out of a Ronco blender?

Dick: I do know of him, Ava. That was the second worst haircut after the man-bun.

Ava: Bam! I knew I liked you, Dick! So anyway, he’s got that song where he says, “My mama don’t like you, and she likes everyone”? And it’s on the radio, and whatnot, right? But that sentence is internally inconsistent – if your mama likes everyone, she can’t not like the girl he’s singing to, right? Because she likes everyone. So right there, Boom. You lost me, Biebs.

Charlie: Word.

Dick: Okay, Ava. But don’t you think that’s asking a lot of an artist? Doesn’t he have some artistic license?

Ava: Not to maul the English language, he doesn’t. I mean, maybe that’s okay in Canada, or Michigan, or wherever he’s from. But here in the U.S., we don’t play that.

Dick: Michigan?

Ava: Yeah. Look, I’m just saying that language is a fragile thing.

Dick: It is?

Ava: Uh, yes, that’s why I just said it. Plus, the premise of the song is untenable: Like he’s the reasonable one in the relationship.

Dick: Aha. I agree.

Ava: I mean, he’s a total tampon.

Dick: A what?

Charlie: Hah! She just went there!

Ava: Whoops. Can I say that here?

Dick: You mean a douche?

Ava: You said it, I didn’t.  Whatever my mom uses, that’s what he is.

Dick: So, Charlie, how would you describe your relationship with your older sister?

Charlie: (Contemplating.)

Ava: I’ll take this one –

Charlie: Dude, come on!

Ava: What, you know I’m the verbal one. You’re more…. emotive.

Charlie: Now you’re making up words!

Ava: “Emotive”? It is totally a word. You can look it –

Charlie: I’m taking about “verbal”.

Ava: Seriously?

Charlie: Nah, I’m just messin’ with you, sis.

Ava: Good one, Chuck!

Charlie: (Leaning in and whispering to Dick.) So “verbal” is really a word?

Dick: It is.

Charlie: (Nods.) Okay. I thought I heard it all, but okay.

Charlie: So anyway, I’d say our relationship is complicated, but there’s a real bond there.

Ava: We crack each other up.

Dick: Is that so?

Charlie: Oh, yeah. Watching her try to grow hair? Gets me every time.

Ava: Seriously? You’re going there?

Charlie:  And I’m going there.  And I’m gonna order a pizza when I get there, because I’ll be there for awhile.

Ava: Dick!

Dick: Yes?

Ava: No, I was talking to Charlie. Dude, you know I’m sensitive about that.

Dick: I do see that Charlie has a full head of hair, bangs, and even a mullet. And Ava, I mean…

Ava: Yeah. I get it. I’m follically challenged. Actually, I probably have as much hair as Charlie, but my head is so freaking big, it just looks like I have less.

Charlie: Not sure that’s your best comeback, sis.

Dick: Let’s change the subject.

Ava: Let’s.

Charlie: Ask her if she gets food in her diaper!

Ava: Excuse me?

Dick: Food in her diaper, Charlie?

Charlie: She knows what I’m talking about.

Dick: Ava, Charlie has leveled a fairly, uh, potent allegation. What do you have to say?

Ava: Well, first off, Dick, I think it’s an intriguing question if you consider the source.

Dick: Oh, how so?

Ava: Well, look, I’m not going to deny that Mom and Dad occasionally find some shredded Colby Jack Cheese in my privates –

Charlie: Ask her about the cheddar!

Ava: Okay, I guess perhaps other types of cheese as well. It really depends on what they feed us for dinner on a given night. Keep in in mind, by the way, that most children’s clothing doesn’t have pockets.  So if we want to snack later, we have to put it somewhere. But I’ll be darned, Dick, if I’m going to sit here and listen to these kinds of accusations from a guy who regularly has all four food groups mixed in with his fecal matter – and by the way, I’m not talking about digested food, either. Fully formed blueberries, pieces of toast, hardboiled egg, mac and cheese, chicken –

 Dick: I think I get the picture.

Ava: I mean, seriously. Where does he get off?

Charlie: Cheese in your diaper!

Ava: So immature. I want my paci.

Dick: Your what?

Ava: My paci, my paci.  I want my green paci.

Charlie: She means pacifier, Dick.

Dick: Oh, that’s why you wanted only green pacifiers in your dressing room.

Ava: I am what I am, Dick.

Dick: Okay, here we go.  We’ve got someone bringing you a green pacifier.

Ava: Clip it.

Dick: Pardon?

Ava: Clip it!

Charlie: She wants you to clip the pacifier to her shirt.

Dick: Oh, okay.

Charlie: And I’m the immature one.

(Pacifier clipped.) 

Dick: Okay, then. Well, that was edifying. How about your relationships with your parents?

Charlie: How about it?

Ava: Yeah, that’s a little broad, Dick.

Charlie: That’s what she said!

Ava: Sorry, Dick. We – and when I say, “we”, I mean Charlie — can be a little young for our age sometimes. Anyway, I guess our relationship with our parents is pretty standard. They’re all sincere and loving, and we’re all manipulative and just enjoying ourselves.

Dick: Manipulative? What do you mean?

Ava: You know, they don’t want us to throw our food, so we throw our food. They don’t want us to lean over our high chairs and give food to the dog, so that’s what we do.

Dick: Wow. You’re so open about it.

Ava: Yeah, because what are they going to do about it? Corporal punishment went out with Hogan’s Heroes, you know? It’s just not cool anymore.

Dick: Okay, so how do they respond when you disobey them?

Charlie: Very sternly. (Ava and Charlie laugh.) And then Ava says to them, “Don’t throw food,” in this high-pitched voice. It’s pretty funny.

Dick: Well, that seems pretty advanced for your ages. Ava: Actually it’s pretty textbook,

Dick. We all learn that stuff growing up.

Charlie: But not everyone can execute it that well.

Ava: True that.

Dick: But where do you learn it from?

Ava: (Sighs.) Oh, I don’t know, Dick. We – and by “we”, I mean “I” — read a lot of Boynton, Dr. Seuss, stuff like that. You just pick it up as you go.

Dick: Well, guys, it looks like we’re out of time.

Ava: Really? I was going to sing “Uptown Funk”!

Dick: Oh, well maybe I can get us a few extra minutes. In fact, the cameraman over there is also a talent agent for a major record label. This could be your big break!

Ava: Really?

Dick: No.

Ava and Charlie: Dick!

Charlie: Told you we should have gone with Koppel.

Ava: Ssshhh!

Dick: Good night, everybody!

Ava and The Chach comin’ at you wall to wall and treetop tall

Hello, boys and girls!  Welcome to “our thing”, or Cosa Nostra, as they say in nine out of 10 Martin Scorsese movies.  Be assured, though, no heads will roll here.  The only thing rolling will be Mom’s eyes when Dad makes a joke.  Ha ha!  No, this is Charlie and my blog, a combined rebranding of our respective Facebook pages, Ava Reese is a Kick-Ass Baby/Kid, and The Chanicles.  Facebook is okay, but it’s kind of yesterday, and that Mark Zuckerberg is so old.  (Don’t tell him I said that. I still consider him a friend.)  More importantly, there are no bold or italics on Facebook, and limited “hyperlink functionality” (which my Dad says was his nickname in college), which Charlie and I both agreed were very troubling omissions.

So, acknowledging that “the Book” had been very good to us during the infancy (hah!) of our social media journey, we decided to go in a different direction.  Of course, the Zuck was not pleased, but you can’t run a business on friendship.  And he was gracious enough to invite us to dine with him and his lovely wife Priscilla at their Palo Alto-area home.  Suffice it to say we “liked” the place quite a bit.  (Yeah.  I went there.  And I’ll go there again, so buckle up, sweetheart.)  So we said goodbye over a dinner of wine and crepes (Zuck and Priscilla), and milk, raisin bread toast with butter, and banana-cream flavored waffle wheels (Charlie and me).   The Zuckster was very gracious, and the dinner went well, until it inevitably deteriorated at the end, when I — as I am wont to do — poured a bowl of apple-cherry GoGo Squeez apple sauce on my head, and Charlie — as he is equally wont to do — regurgitated his entire meal all over his lap. “How immature,” said Zuckerberg, who wears the same outfit to work as he did to Kindergarten.   Suffice it to say we had to beat a hasty retreat to the airport  (thank goodness for UberJr) to catch a red-eye back to the Chi before Mom and Dad noticed us missing.

UPDATE: It would seem at our respective tender ages of 1 and 2ish that Charlie and I have already aged out of the social media expertise window, but we’re doing the best we can to figure this all out.  This is our understanding right now: Whatever we post from here on out will automatically generate a tweet from our Twitter account, and a new post on our new Facebook Page, Ava and The Chach.  Our previous FB pages will no longer be hosting new posts.  So make sure you follow the new FB page.  BTW, we may be completely wrong about this, so we’re going to verify it with some 3-month old IT guys who Charlie met at fetus camp.   Anyway, feel free to like our new FB page and follow us on Twitter.  We’ll be doing additional tweeting as well, so don’t miss out!

Anyhoo….

So here we are, blogging our cute little butts off.  Did you see that sweet domain name?  Charlie got it through a buddy of his.  Anyway, in order to produce this fine example of literary genius, Charlie and I had to seriously pool our resources, the origins of which we cannot officially disclose, but suffice it to say that said resources may or may not have involved copious transactions of black market Cheerios with nations that may or may not be on the State Department’s Most Ridiculous Nations (MRN) list.  Did you know they had a list like that?  I didn’t.

Now, you may be thinking,  Ava and the Chach!  Where have I heard that before?  Or, you may be thinking that these kids are really overdoing it with the italics.  Well, I’ll tell you something: if you think we overuse italics, wait ’til you see how we abuse the hyperlinks!  

Anyway, A&TC is based on the title structure of one of television’s most iconic — dare we say life-altering — shows, a program that taught us more about what it was like to be an American in the late 1970s than perhaps any other ostensibly fictional series before or since.  Of course, I’m talking about BJ and the Bear, the humorous, heartwarming, and let’s face it — hairy — story about a man and his chimp that definitely was not a cheap rip-off of Every Which Way But Loose.

Hah!  Hey there, Huey.  Don’t sue us, bro!  Anyway, in the meantime, feel free to follow us on Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Inkwell, Mayonnaisejar, Armpit, Toenail,  Navelgaze, or any other two words you feel like randomly combining (what a country!).  However, we may get an actual Twitter account if Charlie’s contact in the western suburbs (he won’t tell us which one — oooh, so mysterious!) comes through with the fake IDs and passports.

I remain skeptical, but you never know with the Chach.  For a kid his age, he’s been known to pull off some doozies.  Respect!

So we’re throwing in some recent totally cute pics to tide you over as you go through the old stuff.  In the future, we’ll have video and whatever else they let us put on this site, which I can’t tell you how we obtained except to say that it may or may not have involved copious expired condiment transactions with a certain group of retired Foosball referees in Southeast Asia and Milwaukee.  Charlie got us the hookup.  See what I mean?  Pretty connected for a 1-year old.

Hi, there. Charlie here.  I wanted to talk about my neurological development, AKA how I learned to manipulate my parents. Let me tell you a story.

A few weeks ago, Ava and I went out for lunch with Mom and Dad. Chicago Joe’s, on Irving Park. It looked good, but I just had a pouch and a bottle.  It was the middle of my gluten-free phase. Anyway, on the way over, we’re talking in the back, which we do quite a bit during drives. Mom will ask Ava what I’m doing, because I always futz with the mirror so she can’t see me. Who needs all that pressure? I’m onstage enough as it is. So Ava always says, “Cha Cha’s sleeping.” Even if I’m not. One thing you can say about my sister, she’s no rat. So anyway, she asks me if I want to make 40 bucks. Forty bucks, are you kidding me!  Who doesn’t? I mean, I didn’t know what 40 bucks was, to be honest. I still don’t, but it sounds pretty sweet, if you ask me.  Which, per the story, she did.  So I say yes, and she says she’ll find a way to get me the dough (so 40 bucks is some kind of starchy food, I gather) if I can get our parents to pick up my sippy cup from the ground 40 times. So I’m like,  How do I do that? and she’s all, Dude. Just watch and learn.  So we get to the restaurant, I’m in a high chair, she’s in a booster seat. So they give her a sippy cup, per the protocol. So she gives me this look — not quite a wink, maybe an eyebrow raise — and she drops it on the ground. No rhyme or reason, just….whoops. But she doesn’t even look like she made a mistake.  Not an ounce of guilt on her face.  (This “no guilt” business is intriguing to me. I’ll have to ask her about it later.)  I would have been horrified, but she’s all, whatevs.  She just goes back to asking for more bread, innocent as a butterfly.  I remember thinking, The cajones on this girl!

So anyway, I watch in fascination as my mom goes under the table to pick up the sippy cup or whatever. She doesn’t get mad, she just does it, like it’s her freaking job. Ava and I just look at each other — I’m still sweating like Abe Vigoda in June, but she’s like, Bam. That’s how you do it. I nod: still skeptical, very intrigued, and literally peeing myself.

So I grab my blue sippy cup, all innocent and whatnot, and pretend to take a sip. Dad’s watching, so I pretend to miss my mouth, like I don’t know where it is.  He smiles paternally (which, I guess, is how you’d expect your father would smile). I hold out the cup with my left hand, my face implacable, my eyebrow arched nonsensically like Charlie Sheen offering life advice to Johnny Manziel.  Inside, I’m completely shpilkes.  Then I wait for Dad to look away, but instead he leans in and starts raspberrying me in my face and neck.  I giggle, and put the plan on hold. I mean, it is ticklish. But then, when he finally looks away, Bam, I let it go. And down Dad goes to pick it up. He puts it back on my tray, and I grab it again. He is none the wiser. Okay, I think. But how is this going to work 40 times? At some point, they’re going to figure it out and give me a wedgie, or make me watch a Julia Roberts movie or something equally horrific. So I look at Ava, and she gives me this look, like, Again.  I’m like, No way, dude. They’ll figure it out.  But she’s just staring a hole through me, and she mouths the words,  Do. It. Again.  But I freeze. So when my parents are distracted — my Dad’s making some awful joke to the waitress, Mom’s got the eye-roll in hyperdrive — a familiar dynamic — Ava leans over and says through gritted teeth, You want the 40 bucks or not, bitch?  I think maybe I made up that last word, but it sure felt that way.  I mean, to Mom and Dad I’m sure she looked like Lisa from The Simpsons, but to me she was Orange is The New Black like nobody’s business.  And not the blond, either. So anyway, I whisper back to her, One, I seriously doubt you could get your hands on 40 bucks. And two, I don’t even know what that is.  Then she’s like, What is “one” and “two”?  And I was like, Dude, I have no idea.  Then, just as Mom starts looking back in our direction, Ava tells me, Cheese it.  And returns to her business.

So I say fine. I mean, what could they really do to me? Sell me to a Republican? They wouldn’t do that. I think. So anyway, short story long, I do it again. My heart’s in my throat! I mean, here I am, flaunting every social norm there is (at least that I knew about), acting like I had “accidentally” dropped the cup, when it’s plain for everyone to see that it had been securely in my viselike grip. I hold my breath and waited for the backlash. And wait. And wait.  I’m still sweating like Abe Vigoda at the beach, but I somehow manage to keep it together. Next thing I know, there’s Dad, putting the cup back on my tray, like nothing had happened. I exhale, and he smiles and puts his hand through my hair, like, Attaboy! How ’bout a Fresca!, like I’m going to understand a Caddyshack reference.  Or worse, like he’s actually going to get me a Fresca, at my age.  Either way, I’m totally freaked out at this point.

So I look at my sister again, and she looks back, like, Yup. I couldn’t believe it! So I did it again. And again. I mean, it was so rude, making my parents pick this thing up literally the whole meal. But they loved it! It was the first time I realized: They don’t hold me accountable for anything. I could rob a bank. I could wear white after Memorial Day. I could be nominated for president by a major party just by acting like a jackass. Later on, in the car, Ava and I are talking about it, and she brings home the point to me. She says, Dude, they manually remove the feces from your butt, just because.  I think that was when I really got it. These people work for me. And all I have to do is be cute and give them that big ol’ toothless grin once in awhile, and the good times will just keep on coming, presumably throughout my life.  I’ll just live at home and they can clean my butt and pick up my sippy cup.  Life is some sweet action.

Giddyup!

Hello, everybody, let me introduce myself: I’m Charlie. And let me introduce my sister, who you already know: Ava Reese. You might be asking yourself, if you’re reading this in chronological order, Self, why is Charlie introducing himself during his second post? Well, I’ll tell you — because this isn’t my second post. That’s right, folks. Because my “legendary” sister hacked my previously non-existent account, and wrote up her own version of The Chanicles, v. 1, AKA A Chach is Born. That’s right, that fawning post about my wonderful sister, who’s “blazing her own path at the tender age of two”?  Simmer down, Sis.

Why would she do such a thing? You’ve met her, right? Ava does what she does, and to her credit, it’s usually for the betterment of us all, provided that first and foremost it makes her laugh. But I suspect there’s another reason why she did it: pure jealousy. Look, I’m 15 months younger than her, and I weigh 2 pounds less than she does. I’m not just big, I’m big-time.  (And yes, I figured out the italics key, too.)  I crawl into her personal space, and I take what I want. Hey, I’m not even saying that’s okay. It’s rude, frankly. But I’m also 10 months old, and she has to allow for my relative youth and immaturity. So what does she do when I show up and dominate in an impromptu game of Snatch-the-Paci? Does she gently confront me, use it as a teaching moment? No, she goes behind my back and writes up a fake blog post praising herself to the skies. Talk about passive-aggressive.

I mean — look — I love old girl, and I’ll cut her a lot of slack. She’s a cut-up. You gotta love that about her. And to be honest, it doesn’t even bother me that much. You know, she’ll get hers. I’ll show up before she expects it, using my patented Quick-Crawl method, take whatever it is that she’s playing with, sit on my ass and just turn around and do whatever, like it’s nothing but a thing.  Then she’ll start wailing like Trump does when he’s criticized by a woman (You’re not treating me nicely! My hair is on fire! No it’s not, that’s just the way y hair looks!  Bwaaahhhhh!), and she’ll say through her crocodile tears — I love this — “Baby Cha Cha”– and the rest will be incomprehensible. But what she will mean to say is, “Baby Cha Cha, 15 months my junior, waltzed in here and took my stuff, and there was nothing I could do about it.” And you will see not even the remotest hint of a reaction from Yours Truly. Because I’m just a baby. Heh heh.

Below are a couple of pics of us before my growth spurt, and a couple after. Times have changed, Ava Reese. Times have changed.

Hey all, welcome to The Chanicles! How do you like the name? It’s a combination of my nickname, Cha Cha (or The Chach, or Chach-Dillyicious (my dad’s responsible for that one, I don’t get it), The Chachmeister, and the list goes on), and Chronicles, as in — you know — tell the tale. Anyway, I personally don’t think I’ve collected enough experiences to warrant all of these nicknames  — I haven’t been to college or even been in a major league baseball locker room, the two places that research suggests the majority of American males earn their nicknames, so I don’t know why this is all happening. But there you have it. Some of us live faster than others, I guess. And it has been a wild nine months since I was forcefully removed from atop my mom’s sciatic nerve (sorry for the inconvenience, Ma, that was back in my wilder fetus days). Anyway, back to the title, I was considering The Chronicles of Cha, but I thought that would sound too pretentious, and maybe a little bit eastern religiousy. Not that I’m against a Zen mentality, especially at this age. I mean, my peers as a group tend to be a pretty spazzy lot, and I’m no exception. Frankly, we could all benefit by chilling the heck out.

Anyway, on my inaugural post, I want to give a shout-out to my sis, the young legend Ava Reese. As interesting as you might imagine life is with her in the house, you would be imagining correctly. She’s a firecracker, that one. I mean, let’s face it, she won’t be starring in the sequel to the 1979 counter-culture film Hair, (ha ha! pretty good one, Chach!), but she’s really blazing her own path at the tender age of two. In fact, she’s the one who stuck me with the Cha Cha moniker (the Chaniker?), and she says my name more than virtually any other word. I don’t know what she sees in me, and I’m still early in my neural development, but I’ve lived long enough to know a true friend when I see one. Look, at our stage of the game, it’s no secret: it’s all about the pacis these days (pacifiers for the uninitiated), and Ava and I have logged hours grabbing our respective pacis from each other, in contests of will that grow exceedingly competitive, as my focus and my strength increase, and as I work my way through Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. But somehow, the harder we grab, the closer we get, and the stronger our bond becomes. I can’t wait to grow up with her as my older sister. Barely older, but still. I doubt I’ll be able to catch up.
p.s. I’m not reading The Art of War. I’m nine months old, for pete’s sake. I’m barely through the early Steinbeck works.

Hey, guys. Ave Reese here.  Long time, right? I know, we’ve all been busy. You’ve got your various life events, reading the paper, going to the theater, using deodorant, bowling, etc. And I got so many words now, I can’t even keep track. I got nouns, verbs, nouns I use as verbs, words I don’t know what they are, like “why,” etc. Of course, I’m always refining and exploring what word I should use as my default word when I don’t know what to say. Currently, it’s “Daytah,” but it has changed in the past and I’m not above changing it again, should the need arise. Look, when you’re two, these things matter. I’m not an idiot, but I still have a ways to go vocabulary-wise, if you know what I mean and I think you do. So there’s that. And then I have my colors, my numbers, names, stuff like that. I got a lot on my plate.

But lately, I’ve been fascinated by pop culture, and specifically, the song I refer to as “Funk,” except without the “n” sound. Because I like to see how people react when I say it like that. Because I’m two and I can get away with it.  And frankly, at this point, seeing what I can get away with is my current mission in life.  Anyway, the proper name of the song is Uptown Funk, by my man Bruno Mars, along with someone else I don’t know. Maybe it’s Bieber, whatever that is.

So here’s the lyrics issue we’re all having in the Marsh-hold: Those in the family who can read claim the chorus goes:

“I’m too hot (hot damn)
Called a police and a fireman
I’m too hot (hot damn)
Make a dragon wanna retire man.”

“Make a dragon want to retire, man?”  

WTF (“Where’s The Funk”) in that ridiculous line?  That’s not funky, it’s just wrong.  Dragons don’t retire.  Dragons don’t have pensions.  (Of course, probably no one else in Illinois does either, but that’s a subject of a future post.)

Dragons don’t get watches.

Dragons kick ass forever.

Many charter members of the Osoyoos Golf Club turned out on Friday to celebrate the club’s 40th anniversary. These three ladies were with the club since its earliest days. Fran Engel (left) joined shortly after the club started, while Ethel Van Duzee (centre) and Barb Snyder are charter members. Van Duzee is still golfing at the ripe age of 91.

My point exactly.

As a two-year old, I’m pretty sure I can speak with a certain amount of authority on this subject.  So look, Bruno, if that is your real name (which it’s not), here’s how it should read:

I’m too hot (hot damn)
Called a police and a fireman
I’m too hot (hot damn)
Gonna drag ’em out of retirement.”

Now that makes sense.  Bruno (i.e. Peter) can still sing about his interest in retirement and pension issues, but in a way that doesn’t do damage to dragonhood, and that actually works on a conceptual level.  Cops and firemen do retire, and thus, they can be drag(ged) out of retirement to handle any heat-related public crisis.  You’ll probably have to pay them serious time-and-a-half, but that’s above my pay grade.  Come to think of it, so is everything else.  I don’t even have a pay grade. WTF (“Where’s The Finances”)??

Chicka-Chicka, everybody. Ava Reese, out! There’s a pouch somewhere there with my name on it, and I aim to eat most of it, then throw it on the floor when I’m done so my mom can pick it up.

Dudes, safe to say I have lived a life, am I right? It has been a whirlwind, girlfriend. First, I was born. Whoah. When was the last time you guys did that? Holy smokes, and it was less than two years ago! Total out-of-body experience (literally!) if you know what I mean and I think you do. And then someone else was born, and now he’s my best pal. Yeah, the Chach! And in between all that we moved, the basement flooded (so I heard, boy did I hear about it. The kvetching! Oy!). And I’ve been getting older pretty quickly. At one point, I was doubling my age every few days!  (I’m told that technically that could only happen once. Math is not my strong suit.  Have you met my dad?)  Who does that? You? Don’t kid yourself, that hadn’t happened to most of you since Eisenhower! (I don’t know what “Eisenhower” means — he may have been the dude in Breaking Bad — but I hear a lot of people say that such and such hasn’t happened since Eisenhower, so I used it.) Anyway, as I was explaining, it’s been a rich and compelling 20-some months, but nothing could compare to what happened to me tonight. Just look at these photos! Yeah! My own slice of pizza, compliments of Jen and Andy Rubin, and their totally bitchin’ family. Glenview’s where it’s at, kids, at least that part of G’View that has Jen and Andy’s house and that sweet slice of heaven with mozzarella and tomato paste in my sweet little mouth! So anyway, just wanted to extend my family’s thanks to the Rubinses for making my taste buds the most excellent place to be tonight. (p.s. I’ve still got some of that mozzarella in my mouth, and I plan to keep it in there ’til I get my driver’s license at least.). Oh and by the way, I had blueberries with my slice. I sh*t you not. It’s how I’ve rolled since ’14. Reese out!

So the other day, I’m practicing my fake cry that morphs into a hyena laugh and back again when I notice the estimable C. Richard Marsh bawling like nobody’s beeswax. If anyone has two thumbs and knows a real cry, it’s this gal (you have to imagine me pointing at myself with my thumbs. I saw it on Scrubs once.), so I go over to him, and I’m like, “Hey bud, what’s wrong?” He looks at me and kind of shakes his head, and he goes, “I just learned the Doobie Brothers broke up”. I go, “Come on, Chaz, I know you got that from that scene in “Romancing the Stone” where Michael Douglas gets all pissed that the Doobies broke up because he’s been in the wild for so long.” So the little guy just looks at me like I’m crazy, and he goes, “Dude, I’m like three months old. I can barely hold my neck up. When am I going to see a Michael Douglas movie?” Which I thought was a good point. But then I was like, “Wait a minute, then how do you know about the Doobie Brothers in the first place?” So he shrugs and goes — get this — “I don’t know, from around, I guess.” What the hell does that mean? He sounds like a teenager. So I said, “Do you even know what a Doobie is?” He goes, “Well, I guess when one member of the band is on his own, like in a record shop or something. Then he’s just a Doobie.” Which was a ridiculous thing to say, but before I could respond, he spontaneously spit up, signaling that the conversation was over. I could only sit and marvel at the audacity of youth. Well played, Cha-Cha. Well played.