I would have made a great crime-scene photographer

I'm trying to come up with a wry caption here, something that doesn't smack of an ironic Successory...it's eluding me.

I almost didn't make it home today. One block to go, and Andrew Bird's latest tune came on, so I did a slow drive around the neighborhood. Passed the house again. Then George Harrison; more loops. I'd say the hardest part of driving, ever since I was 17 or so, is timing the drive to end right at the terminus of a really good song. It's hard.

What helps is not being in a rush to arrive. Jen was not yet home, and babies #1 and #2 were in the back seat jabbering happily. I lack the heart to put an end to such circumstances. Andrew Bird, blue skies, babbling babies...you'd have circled, too. I found myself particularly happy with the decision when, while waiting for a light at Bloomington, I peeked back and saw them both looking out their respective windows smiling at the world. It was a nice, subtle moment from the monkeys.

We finally made it home where sweet, satisfying anarchy ensued, as captured in these photos.

Day four.

Who amongst us doesn't relish the sweet nectar of security passes?

Abby adores her reflection, but we're only equipped with one mirror on the main floor, and it's part of the dining room buffet. Resting her atop that perch was dodgy; grabbing my camera for a picture was kinda reckless.

Barricaded. The gate is shut, and they come relentlessly, this swarm of zombies. The kitchen is my last refuge. I have enough beer to last the night...