Happy Hollandaise!

We, the crown in exile, are most pleased to wish all visitors to our little cyber palace a

Happy ChristmaHannuKwanzSticeEid and a Merry Diwali to YOU!

Hell, our palace is for everyone so how could we just wish happiness to a chosen few, now I ask ya!

With Affection,

The Shoestring Prince & The Old Queen (and for those who have asked NO, I am NOT Quentin Crisp!)

NUTCRACKER!

(The SP backstage after his first evening performance of The Nutcracker. He's loosened his coat and is showing me the shockingly tiny and cramped "gentlemen's dressing room"

In the time honored tradition of the female dominated world of the dance the girls get a whole floor for their dressing room while the three boys have to make do with some old flats propped together in a corner to spare their modesty. Hey, at least it's something!)

It's that time of year again; the time when every ballet school, ballet company, or person who has ever been in the same room with a pair of ballet shoes decides to produce a version of NUTCRACKER!
From ABT to the little ballet school down the road in Yourtown USA, comes the Tchaikovskian sound of nuts being cracked.

The prince's school is no different. Today he performed as...what else...the Nutcracker Prince in our own local Nutcracker.
I don't know if any of the other Nutcrackers feature a self deprecating royal personage who smiles wryly down on the dancers from his throne in the Kingdom of Sweets but this little Nutcracker did.

Every royal should have a good strong sense of the ridiculous. It keeps him from taking it all so seriously. The one thing the SP seems to take seriously is dance. I'm thinking this could be the real thing.

In The Bleak Midwinter

Well, I don't suppose it's quite midwinter but from where the prince and I sit it is certainly bleak.

There hasn't been much doing on the blog because, really, there isn't much doing here. We are still in preparation for the big Nutcracker production which will open next week.

I could eke out the blog by complaining about my boredom with Wisconsin winters. I personally am not a person who enjoys being glued to a house and a tv, eating and feeling my ass spread as I worry about driving conditions and other outcomes of weather extremism.
The original palace was in northern California where the first rain is justification for everyone to slow to about 5 miles per hour while hunched, white knuckled and grim lipped over the steering wheel.

Imagine how badly I handle snow! White outs?? You must be freaking joking!

Nope, I'm not a country queen. I, like Marie Antoinette, am happiest at the center of an active and funloving court---yes, yes, I know about the Hameau but even that was plunked down right in the center of the park of Versailles, where the action was.

There were no Home Depots, no McDonalds, and no JCPenneys in MA's little hamlet.

I need shopping (real shopping; self respecting women don't like shopping at a clothing store calling itself a "Barn"), and cabs, operas, and ballet companies, theatre and restaurants (No, not Olive Garden and Applebees)
And if I see another Hobby Lobby I will surely puke.

The prince needs to know that food comes in more ways than through a drive through or on a bun.
Winter, however makes it hard to get about, and that makes for a cranky queen.

Since even deposed queens should refrain from dumping on those around them I've kept shy of the blog.
As it is, I sit on the floor in a corner of my room, hugging myself and rocking back and forth as I monotonally (is that even a word? It is now!) murmur "Chicago" to myself over and over.

Hell, we'll take a train.

When Writers Do Inadequate Research...

Ella Joins The Guard

There is no earthly reason to keep six cats.

I never meant for it to be this way. My god it's like a bad marriage. You pull into the garage with the best of intentions; you only want to park the car for cryin' out loud. It's not as if you live in the country or something. You live in a LOFT...these things don't happen to people who live in lofts!

Crap.

So, we're standing surrounded by grocery bags, waiting for the elevator to come. The prince and I get on and turn to press the button for our floor when what do we see hiding behind the open garage door---a little gray back. A little gray furry back.

"Please," she mews, once her nervousness subsides "I want to join the Ammonia Guard, and be a great guardian of the royal beds, windowsills and food bowls. They say it is a tough life that requires napping for 16 hours a day...but I think I can do it."

Poor little baby is all skin and bones, we're talking hollow kitty. She is so thin that it's hard to feel anything when we pick her up and take her upstairs with us.

"What is your name?" I ask after she has explored the bedroom and refreshed herself with a bit of food and water.

"Ella" she tells us; then she licks herself clean as she can of the grime from the garage and curls up to rest on the bed, beginning her guard duties immediately.

Well, how can the SP and I resist? Little Miss Ella Kit has got the chops. She's a fine guard member, and is filliing out rapidly. I had held out hope that by dismantling the draft we would have no new guard members since it's tough for a monarchy in exile to provide the wherewithal to keep an army clothed, fed, neutered, spayed, you know the rest.

It seems, however, that even with the shingle taken down the recruits will find us, and we, will always take them in.

Forward, Into The Future!

To paraphrase an old Steely Dan song:

"He's an artist, a pioneer. He's got the right dynamic for the new frontier."

It is the custom for royalty to stay out of politics lest their views exert undue sway. Since the SP and the OQ are deposed royalty with no sway over anything except the Ammonia Guard (cats, my friends, cats) we feel safe in saying that we couldn't be happier with America's choice.

It was ours as well.

The Wonder of M. Photoshop

The SP and the OQ have always had a soft spot for the great M. Ingres. That guy sure could paint!
We were especially entranced by this painting of Napoleon on his throne which we saw live and in person when we visited St. Louis a couple of Julys ago.



Now, we have infinite faith in our own M. Photoshop's ability to reproduce any style of art and tailor it specifically to the needs of the SP, so we put it to M. Photoshop; could he create a portrait of our own little prince in the style of M. Ingres?
Ahhh, we should have known.
M. Photoshop merely chuckled and, eyes twinkling with delight he turned to his canvas. It was not long before he presented us with this



A delightful addition to the royal portrait gallery. I tell ya, that M. Photoshop is worth his weight in gold, and pardon me for the bias but I think M. Ingres would be envious of the superior gorgeousness of the subject.

Technical Difficulties

The Prine at the Fountain

Due to technical difficulties the court in exile will not be able to post as regularly as we usually do, nor will we be able to keep up with those whose wit and wisdom we follow regularly online.

We hope to have this situation under control within the next few days. Until then cheers from the court of the Shoestring Prince.

The Crown In Exile Is Pleased

...to present the newest work of M. Photoshop, court painter.
It's just a typical day in the life of the Shoestring Prince

This Is NOT a Political Blog...BUT...

(As a native of Berkeley, the Old Queen believes in a socially just monarchy, and in a monarchy where everyone sees themeslves as creatures of value whose worth is reflected in the faces of those who represent them. If you don't believe this read back posts about the importance of boys seeing men and other boys as professional dancers. It makes a huge difference in attitude. I think the time is ripe for little Barack Obamas to see themselves in the role of president...as no doubt little rail splitters did when they looked upon that other "inexperienced" Illinois Senator who rose to the post of president. Yep, it can happen, so keep dreamin' big kids! That's a royal order from The Shoestring Prince, and The Old Queen)

(From the royal library at Wiki.answers)

What is the origin of the name Barack?
In: Name Origins

"Barack" is a word that is shared among several languages. First, it is a word in the Semitic family of languages. As such it has a root in Hebrew (but written baruch), a version in Aramaic (berek), a version in Arabic (baraka). (See Strong's Hebrew Bible Dictionary, entries 1288-1294.) It also occurs as a loan word in non-Semitic languages that have been influenced by these Semitic languages. As often happens, cognate words are similar in pronunciation. What appears in a later-appearing language may sound like something else in the earlier language. And in English we sometimes see words that are pronounced the same and even spelled the same, but that have very different meanings. Barack or Barak means 'lightning' in Hebrew.

(Barachiel is the old queen's own patron angel for her birth month of February!)

The name Barak is also mentioned in the Bible in the book of Judges. Barak was part of the story of the prophetess Deborah. Baruch (or Baruwk, Baruk, Strong, 1263) and its cognates berek and baraka all mean the same. Strong, 1288, says "barak, baw-rak', a primitive root; to kneel; by implication to bless God (as an act of adoration), and (vice-versa) man (as a benefit)."

http://www.virtualchristiancenter.com/biblestudytools/kjvstrongs/STRHEB12.htm

Regardless of how one spells the name, it gives two possible and not contradictory meanings. One is "a blessing from God," and another is "a blessing from God that the individual may pass on to others as a benefit to them."

The second meaning is very clear in the Sufi tradition in which the searcher for Allah, or as Jesus would have called Him Alaha, receives from his or her teacher a transmission of some key to seeing what Meister Eckhard called the "divine spark" within each of us. ) If you pray to Allah you may choose to call your child Barak. If you pray to Alaha you may choose to call your child Berek. If you think you are praying to different gods or bestowing names with different meanings you may benefit from further study.

...just sayin'.

Sir Ken Robinson 4 Minister of Education

While the fact that he has been knighted tends to convince us that our beloved cousin Elizabeth, by the grace of God, etc. has managed to get her hooks into him first, (you've won this round, Elizabeth, but it isn't over yet!) the SP and I are very interested in proposing Sir Ken Robinson's name for the post of Minister of Education should we ever regain our kingdom.

In the event that we never regain it...please, check out this very interesting video where Sir Ken considers whether education, as we currently define it, kills creativity.

Honestly, that Elizabeth gets all the luck!

http://www.ted.com/index.php/talks/ken_robinson_says_schools_kill_creativity.html

The Good, The Bad & The Dance Belt

(Nutcracker wearing a dance belt. Really, what else is there to say?)

It is a right of passage for every little girl who sticks with ballet long enough; she gets to wear a tutu, the ethereal spun sugar confection of which a million princess dreams are made.

For the boys, there is the dance belt.
A thong...yes, a thong, since the full bottom kind create what I suppose must be called, (forgive me little danseurs) "panty line" and in tights these lines are hideously apparent. Since other things are made much more apparent in tights as well, it is the job of the all important dance belt to preserve a gentleman's modesty and the sensibilities of the ballet audience who, while they may enjoy watching the dancer "fly" do not wish to see his junk do the same.

Not only that but dance belts, which are a kind of athletic supporter for dancers, can be a life saver when a ballerina's errant foot/knee/elbow makes contact with the wrong place.
Boys may not like the thong aspect, but without the protection afforded by a dance belt the 'Nut'cracker will do just that!

The whole dance belt situation just underscores the need for male ballet teachers, not only as role models, but for their practical experience in situations such as these.
How does one...er...situate oneself? Well don't look at ME?! While I can fake teaching the SP to shave, with the help of a leg razor and an indifference to embarrassment I can't even BEGIN to fake this one! For, while it may not have been my face I have shaved. I have never adjusted.

For those of you who follow this blog (and that means you are my son, so hey baby) here is a link to an interesting article from the New York Times on getting boys into ballet.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/19/arts/dance/19good.html?pagewanted=1&ei=5089&en=cdeaeb251dd0b13a&ex=1345176000&partner=rssyahoo&emc=rss

Crack a' Dem Nuts!

(Our unfortunate cousin Prince Ken. Smiling bravely in the face of a tragic physical deformity which has left him somewhat...anatomically incorrect. He will never, we fear, be able to produce an heir)

Royal families are slaves to duty. It is a well known fact that if you are from a royal family you cannot truly live for yourself. It is the price one pays for the position into which one is born.

Well, I guess that is equally true for deposed royalty, in fact, for us it is even more important to be above reproach and ever ready to answer the call, otherwise we are little more than just another joe schmoe with a heavy, funny looking gaudy hat hidden under the bed.

The Prince has seen the ominous fate of ex-kings who allow themselves to forsake royal duty for mere publicity seeking. Next thing you know you are using your royal robes to become a shill for a fast food joint that cranks out paper replicas of your crown for children to wear while they are having burgers "their way". DON'T be that king!

In the interest of duty the SP has answered the call that sooner or later comes to every young prince who is enrolled in a dance class. He has been called upon to pick up his sword and lead a fighting force of superior armed little girls into battle against an army of mice. The battle field---in the shadow of a gargantuan Christmas tree.

Think of it as a sort of Saving Private Ryan with dancing desserts and tutus.

My son is to be....The NUTCRACKER!

In a bizarre example of art imitating fabricated life the SP is going to play the Nutcracker Prince for his dance school's version of The Nutcracker.

His prior nutcracking experience was as one of that hard bitten band of mouse fighters in the trenches. In that production the Nutcracker was an adult man with years of dance training and experience so the SP didn't stand a chance of usurping that particular throne.

This year he is swimming in a much smaller pond where one year of on and off (I couldn't afford $500 a month for dance for a 11 year old boy!) ballet lessons does not stand in the way of the title role in THE Christmas ballet.

Ah well, what he lacks in experience he makes up for in gorgeousness. That Clara is a lucky girl...here's hoping she is also tiny and easy to lift!

Ham Radio Redux

Take two vain, individuals with an aesthetic just this side of Sun King (the Prince has been known to crank up Lully and rock out in the car. Ballet de la Nuit is great for that), a taste for obscure cultural pursuits; (baroque dance, anyone?), expensive clothes, surroundings and damned good food. Make them the sort of people upon whom bizarre and embarrassing mishaps descend like headlice on a kindergarten. Next make these two charming but misguided people voice actors with a radio dramatic company and what do you have...?

An episode of Frasier?

Well no, you have real life for the S.P. and his Queen Mother.

We auditioned in hopes of joining a local radio theatre company, and we were both accepted!
As of today we are well on our way to becoming the next Frasier & Niles!

I think this calls for a celebratory meal of tossed salads and scrambled eggs.

Royal Birthday

Sunday September 14th saw the celebration of the 13th birthday of the S.P. As befits a deposed prince it was a small celebration held at home with the deposed queen and the royal cats (The Ammonia Guard)

Luckily this is not France in the era of Louis XIV or he would now be officially "of age" and able to ascend the throne in his own right.
I hope the "subjects " like Avatar, Mario Kart and pizza...that's all I'm sayin'.

Life Among The Savages

Well, it's been two weeks of "back to school" for S.P. and I must say the whole thing has been successful beyond my wildest dreams. The Prince loves his new school and has made some nice friends. The court treasury being what it is I found a Catholic school for him since parochial schools offer the best chance for a non-millionaire to get their young one into a less overwhelmingly huge and crowded environment.

So, is there a difference between private and public schools? To be honest I think there is less than is usually imagined. Yes private schools have more control over the academic program they emphasize and they can offer some specialized classes that state controlled schools don't have the ability to offer, but the main difference seems to be the financial standing, and security level of the parents and how this freedom from fear of want affects the attitudes of the kids.

One of the reasons I selected the school I did was because the S.P.'s school offers foreign language classes beginning in 7th grade. That's a very good thing considering how often you hear people whinging away about the ease with which one can learn a language when one is young and how it becomes progressively more difficult as the years pass. So, if this is so widely believed, why don't we offer foreign language classes universally, in elementary school?

They do that in Europe. In the public schools too! Ever wonder why just about every Dane/German/Frenchman can handle his or herself in English when push comes to shove...languages are standard, even in primary school. In some countries swimming is a requirement as well.

But to get back to the point: Got time? Got money? Not scared to death that at any moment you may be homeless or hungry, or may get sick and not be able to do anything about it without losing a crap job that barely paid you enough to live on anyway?

Well, if you can say yes to the above I'd be willing to bet that unless you are a total evil, selfish, psychotic piece of garbage your children will do pretty well even in public school.
This is directly traceble to how often YOU can smile and how often YOU can get to this meeting and that meeting of the school, and how often YOU can find someone you trust to pick the kids up early or stay with them on one of the many and seemingly arbitrary days the school is closed.
The public/private divide becomes dire when the public kids have no one at home with the time, the energy or the knowledge to supplement what the schools can offer.

Not being religious---in the monarchy church and state were firmly divided---we don't care much for "indoctrination"
Since none of the people who teach the Prince are actually dead (I hope!) their guess about the spiritual world is worth as much as mine or my cat's. Still the church history and judeo-christian theology aspect of the school are interesting from the standpoint of the significance of the Catholic church in western culture. That religious stuff shaped our history.

Passtimes In Good Company

...to paraphrase the title of a song written by another (and much richer) prince who would grow up to be that multiple marryin', turkey-leg-gnawin' romantic sociopath Henry VIII.

Our court researcher has found two ways of passing the time that will not only provide good compay for any little princes you might know, but will do it for a song...and in the case of one of the passtimes, I quite literally mean a SONG!

For those of you who are mourning the lack of access to the arts in the public school systems have you considered trying out for a supernumerary job with a local opera company? These (unpaid) roles require no singing talent, since all you do is fill in as a sort of background extra, and they frequently have roles for children!
At the very least your little prince or princess can gain exposure to some lovely, timeless tunes, as well as gaining the cultural literacy that learning the historical contexts of these operas can provide.

Some "super" jobs even offer a stipend for transportation!

Here is a link to a list of questions and answers about super roles from the Cincinnati Opera, but even if you are in another town, or a smaller town give it a try. Homeschooling parents might be interested as well.
If your royal family can't afford a box at the opera...I say take the stage!

While supernumerary roles are equally available to princes & princesses, those with princes might be lucky enough to live in an area that offers free or discounted ballet classes for boys. It's a known and accepted fact that it is notoriously hard to get and keep boys in ballet---oh the TEASING!---the fact that many ballet schools are "pink princess academies", complete with Hello Kitty ballerina decor doesn't help.

In recognition of the difficulty of attracting the lads, many serious ballet schools offer deeply discounted or sometimes FREE classes for boys. It gets them in the door and learning an art form that offers tremendous, strength, physical control and discipline. Ballet also exposes young men to some of the worlds' most famous and beautiful music.
If you find it hard to afford organized activities that offer a chance to nurture talents, cultural exposure, and a chance to interact with some talented, and focused folks...do look into these opportunities.

Children Are A Joy

Ugh, just because you are expecting a thing that doesn't make it any less icky when it happens.

The S.P. was not raised to be the sort of child who quietly sits back and accepts whatever strange mood he is presented with by the adults in his life. While respecting the assumed wisdom of those with more life experience, there are far too many "adults" (that is people who have made it past puberty and into physical adulthood) who are deserving of nothing like respect since the only thing life experience has given them is a superior ability to justify nastiness and damaging behavior.

That being the case the S.P. has always been offered a relatively fair---after all, I'm not perfect either---hearing.

Considering that most 12 year olds are not adept at knowing just when to loose their arrows of unsolicited opinion I shouldn't have been surprised when the serpent decided to bare its sharp, sharp tooth...

We'd just left his practice after skating class, and the S.P. was getting his skates off and telling me what he'd done on the ice. Since I, like countless other skater parents, sit and watch the lad occaisionally when he's practicing I notice what he's working on.

Now, I don't have him in skating lessons because I expect him to be an olympian. If he turns out to be that good, well then, more power to him. The real reason I wanted to give him the gift of skating as well as swimming ability is that I want him to have something enjoyable that he can do for the rest of his life.
When he is a 53 year old man who has had a nasty fight with his wife, or my grandchildren tell him that they hate him and didn't ask to be born, I'd like the Prince to be able to head down to the rink or the pool and spend a couple of hours losing himself and dissipating his frustration through the outlet of positive physical activity.

S.P. and I met a chap who is in his 80s and works part time as an assistant at the Petit Ice Center in Milwaukee.
This fellow skates around seeing that the kids who come for the public skate days are doing okay on the ice. The ability to spend ones 80s in a wholesome, useful and upbeat endeavor surrounded by happy people enjoying some exercise sounds like a great long term gift for the Prince!

To that end I've set the little Omen up with a very nice local coach with whom he meets once a week (In summer twice a week but school is his main concentration now...see, I'm NOT expecting an olympian) We also hit the ice whenever there is free time so that S.P. can practice what he's learned and just enjoy larking about on the ice.

Today, however, was a lesson day and I hoped the Prince would use his extra ice time going over what he'd learned...at least a little bit so when he came off the ice and mentioned that one of the moves he'd just been taught was hard to master I shrugged and said that I was happy to see him out there struggling and stumbling a bit because it meant he was practicing what he'd just been taught and would get the hang of it sooner.

Here's where it got ugly:

Coldly, his Highness turned and looked at me with the dead eyes of the utterly contemptuous.
(Bear in mind he is a boy and boys don't roll their eyes like girls do. I guess the cold gaze thing is the male version) and in a snippily offhand tone that would have left Nellie Olson gasping in admiration he said,

"Just let me enjoy the sport."

I took a long, deep breath. I considered regicide, but since the S.P. is only the Prince and not a reigning monarch throttling him on the spot would not be regicide. Hmmmm, all that was left for me was to be dangerously, ultra civilized.
Miracle of miracles, I didn't yell! No heads were lopped off, and no towns or even small villages were razed!
Birds continued to chirp happily in the trees.

I did explain calmly and, evilly that the skating lessons, the ballet, and the ice time when they were added up, cost the court treasury dearly. To that end, IF S.P. wished only to play about on the ice for a few hours and not apply himself to the subjects of his lessons. I would save a great deal of money if I cancelled the lessons and let him just come to public skate now and then...I would also be spared the looming, grinning, spectre of $500.00 figure skates which haunts my dreams both asleep and awake.

I think S.P. was truly sorry. He must have realized just how shoddy he'd sounded, especially in light of the sacrifices it takes for me to keep skating as an option for him. This is not some Hollywood Celebu-kid hobby that regardless of expense costs nothing in the sense of "costing" the family. In our household maintaining his skating tuition and its accoutrements takes a substantial bite out of the treasury, a bite that could easily go toward other things.
Because the skating costs so much more for us than it does for the families who have five SUVs and could spend a thousand dollars a weekend and not feel it S.P. is obliged to either do his bit to improve with the program...or call it a day.

Rudeness is NOT an option since the Prince KNOWS the score and is hardly one of those kids who is or, indeed, can be isolated from the reality of life and money. I don't believe in that sort of thing even if he could be done.

A prince knows the worth of things. He knows the worth of what is done for and given him. He doesn't simply take things mindlessly for granted. A Prince while he may be entitled is NOT ungrateful, and he does not make it harder on his court through sheer wanton lack of mental strength and self discipline. He develops sympathy for others and a strong understanding.

The other road leads to revolution.

Back 2 School

(The S.P. himself---and you thought he was imaginary---taken with a cell phone camera while he was getting his hair and hands done for the new school year. Here's a BIG HELLOOOO and thank'ee to the gang at Truefitt & Hill in Chicago! )

Oh Noooooo! All over the land at about this time of year you can see harried parents doing the back to school shopping.
If you are a "real" prince you have staff to do the grunt work of dragging from shop to shop, wading through a sea of "I 'heart' Troy Bolton" notebooks in search of something more---er---MASCULINE.

Real princes also have the option of having their school uniforms made to measure. The more deposed among us must, however, slog through a grisly day of shoving at Target, and the Ralph Lauren Outlet as we consult our supply and uniform list and pore over packets of pens looking for the eraseable ones the school requires.

Naturally my prince, who feels it his job to make these things as easy for me as he can, has grown out of the size 14 uniform pants I bought him THREE WEEKS ago (He swore they fit! Who was I to disbelieve him?) and now requires a 16---so it's back to Ralph Lauren and the bitterly congested area around the uniform chinos.

This time of year is also the time when all of the summer schedule must be changed to make allowances for the school schedule. Since the S.P. starts back up at the end of August skating and Latin must be rearranged so that they are in the later afternoon. Ballet and swimming are in workable time slots as it is.

None of this, however, is as tough on the old queen here as the thought of Prince Baby going to school at all.
Sigh, last year I homeschooled him---I wasn't familiar with the schools around here and was too late to get him into the place I preferred---we did the tutor thing for those classes I couldn't hope to teach, while S.P. and I worked on literature, chemistry, and economics from workbooks and through the reading of selected books.
Fist, Stick, Knife, Gun by Geoffrey Canada was one of the books. I'd strongly recommend it for a boy. Boys tend to enjoy real books about issues which boys rather than bookish, female English teachers deem important.
This particular book also opens the way to interesting discussions about youth & adult violence and the misery that leads to such scary lifestyles.

S.P. loved homeschooling. Being at home is first of all, a very safe feeling.
You eat when you wish, the curriculum is tailor made ( princes like things that are tailor made) and the biiiig plus is that you get to sleep in!

The main problem was me. I'm notoriously incapable of saying "NO!" and making it stick for longer than...oh, say...a day and a half. I LOVE to see him smiling, and not being one of life's fighters I'm too easy to get 'round.
I'm sure I'm lovely as an adoring parent, but I'm shite as a rigorous teacher. Knowing this, and the future damage it could do to S.P. I set out to get him into a school with good lab facilities (he likes science and math) and a decent academic program all around.

I realize he needs to be out and about, learning from people who don't consider themselves duty bound to protect his joy as well as to stuff his brain with those topics that will enable him to specialize and make enough money to live safely when he's an adult---that is, after all, the point of it, if we're honest.

S.P. gets a kick out of my reaction to the sillier and more pointlessly retrograde conventions of the school dress code.
While wearing a uniform isn't the problem, lord knows I wore one when I was in school, some of the grooming requirements strike me as silly considering how we adults all lived through the '80's. We saw that Flock Of Seagulls hair will no more cause planets to collide than did Beatle boots, but what the hell let's pretend it's 1959 and because we're adults we're shocked by EVERYTHING!

Our final blowout, as free men (more or less), was a trip to Chicago where the above picture was taken while the S.P. was at his favorite barber getting gussied up for the new school year. After this he had every boy's favorite, Steak Frites at the, cute, friendly little Bistrot Zinc.

I'd highly recommend such a day if you have a son on the cusp of teen hood and he's starting to actually WANT to look and smell good.

Ugh, I don't want to think abou it...my baby's growing up!

A Fairy Tale

(This image from the royal archives shows the actual Shoestring Prince before the deluge. It is one of the greatest works of the royal artist M. Photoshop)

Once upon a time there was a little prince.

He was born to an impoverished and deposed queen but she loved him more than any other child, prince or pauper, who had ever lived on earth.
This queen swore that somehow, someway, she would raise her son with as many of the princely perquisites as possible.

If this poor, silly queen had two working brain cells to rub together she would have bought the kid a happy meal, plopped him in front of the trusty Game Cube and left it at that...she didn't however...and this is the story of a very poor prince and how the sole remaining member of his court moved heaven and earth to gain his kingdom back for him.

Now and again, the Shoestring Prince himself may comment on just how mad his queenly mother is.