Linux, musical road-dogging, and daily life by Paul W. Frields
A little hair of the dog.

A little hair of the dog.

Despite her illness, Evie is back to shutterbugging tonight, and as usual her brother was her main Muse. “Stand over there.” “Now put your hand up like this.” We weren’t sure whether we should be pleased about bringing up the next Annie Leibowitz or worried about her creating a toddler-set Zoolander.

We did like the way she photographed us together and cooed, “Aww! You guys are so cute together!”, just like a trained paparazzi, which set off our inner Oscar alarm a little early. Eleya started walking down the kitchen runner as if it were a red carpet, waving and throwing kisses at Ethan and a perplexed Abby. I did a backflip onto the couch to show my undying love, but I think I sprained something.

Then she took this picture of her brother looking like he just rolled out of a paraphrenalia-strewn bed on the wrong side of town. We’re not posting it directly on the page because we hear that Social Services has a “three strike” rule for front-page incriminating photos of your toddlers, and there was that whole dust-up with Verne Troyer last year that Ethan would just as soon have behind him, thank you very much.

But Evie’s application for the Rolling Stone internship? IN THE BAG, BABY!


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