117 By the standard of the Ike and Tina Turner Review

“Bazooka,” he was able to pronounce, just as he managed earlier to say “Get lost” to a gushy bicyclist.
With the firearm on his shoulder, baby Drew dipped to the left, and Aunt Kar rushed to his side.
It was entirely wonderful, she told him. He was learning how to talk. She clapped her hands together.
He turned and dipped to the right. “Oops, I Did It Again” was on the Good Hustle Ninja’s iPod – it may have set the tone – but baby Drew was thinking of the 1-4-5 rhythm progression of “The Hunter.”
“I got my love gun loaded
“With hugs and kisses
“And when I pull that trigger
“They ain’t gonna be no misses”
Aunt Kar hugged him, to which he responded inordinately but not grotesquely, his gift of natural good sense countervailing the grasp and clutch from the void. Parental neglect would not destroy or make repulsive this remarkable little fellow. Yet his graceful response was fervent, and he was, at that moment, all hers.
“Tina Turner is an excellent role model, Drew. You do well to follow in her footsteps.”
To which the boogaloo, left dip, right dip, shake and shake, slide and shimmy, knees and tummy, slip and slip, started, as if Marpessa Dawn was his spiritual dance instructor, while the entire Ike and Tina Turner Revue nodded its okay.
In dense throes of committed cogitation, paying attention neither left nor right, baby Drew began an impromptu rally-the-troops oration, words he could hear but not yet speak: “Hugs and kisses for BMWs. Blast them off the center stripe on Goodhill Road to kingdom come.”
He high-fived. The other baby dropped eclectic counting (seemingly, likely, to Pythagoreans, in their distant and beautiful time) and managed a fresh “Bazooka,” too.
“Get your kicks on Route 66,” Drew continued, in inchoate language.
“Smithereens,” the other baby elaborated, further separating himself from numbers compulsion. Yet the concept of infinity as well as chaos inhered in the notion of smithereens, as any respectable Pythagorean could attest.
The babies were of one mind, no counterplay on words intended. They imagined the fire out of the barrel of the bazooka, scattering BMWs in hot highway crosswinds.
“Won’t you get hip to this kindly tip
“When you make that California trip
“Get your kicks on Route Sixty-Six.”
Across the lawn, The Strollin’ Bluegrass Band did Nat King Cole proud.


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