I’m letting the children watch TV every night this week, and not just good TV. Bad TV. The fourteenth in the Air Bud series, in which the dogs are puppies and talk and you want to throw yourself against a wall so you don't have to watch anymore. Last night the boys settled down for a remarkably (I’m finding putting John to bed tiring, so I put it off) large part of Angels in the Outfield, a film that forces you to explain to your kids how parents can legally relinquish custody, and endorses cheating. And has angels. Freakish, smiling, cheating angels.

We watched part of Time Warp Trio on Tuesday. I actually consider this good TV—I learn so much!—except for the ads, which are targeted at broke grown-ups or young children, or both (McDonald’s). And yet I love some of the ads. Henry and I share a fascination with both the rocket blaster fishing gun, and the one for the cake decorating kit with three thousand attachments, all of which, except for the grass-making one, seem wonderful to Henry. When he saw the grass-making one spewing fake green icing grass onto a cake, he said, Okay, that one’s gross. But the rest are so cool. Can I have it? Please? I’ll pay for it with my own money.

He loses two more teeth and he’s got enough. Speaking of which, I had somehow forgotten I had the dentist today. Partial crown: mother fucking shit and piss. I’ve given up on the idea I’ll be able to watch TV there. If anyone has any ideas of what I should think about for the ninety minutes that I have to keep my mouth open, let me know.