A boy in a home-made fez

Jack has recently turned 8 months old. I decided the time was right to introduce him to the world of alcohol. "In this cold world, who can you trust?" I asked my son. He looked up at me. "No," I said, "Not me. I'll betray you whether I mean to or not. Trust liquor. It's honest. It'll beat you up, depress you and make you want to vomit, but it won't BS you. No sir."

Of course, the above is fiction. Liquor will indeed BS you. It'll tell you everything'll be okay after the next shot of Jagermeister. It'll tell you that girl over there is beautiful and she'll think you're charming and hilarious if you drop your pants and make walrus noises. It'll seduce you then slip out in the morning without leaving so much as a note; just a pasty tongue and a litany on regrets just out of focus.

But Jack doesn't need to know that yet. He'll learn the hard way, just like the rest of us did. For now, let him take comfort in Santa Claus, The Great Pumpkin and the benevolence of drink.

Uncoached, Jack reaches for a Bushwakker beer. Wise beyond his years.


Jack has been introduced to the messiest way a child can eat: without assistance.


Jack and his pal Ben.


Jack delivers his first noogie.

And now, the picture from Halloween 2005 that will bring Child Services to my door. In case anyone with no sense of humour has stumbled upon this site, the can wasn't opened until Jack had passed out from natural causes and Dad needed to take the edge of.