Art and Mediums

A wanted to print this out, but I convinced him to put it on the blog instead.

In non-art news, A and I were eating the other day, and I admonished him to finish his food.  "That's Pinky's," he said.

"Who's Pinky?" I asked.  

"Pinky Gilbertson," said A.  

"Oh," I said, wondering if this was the first appearance of an imaginary playmate, and if Pinky Gilbertson would be blamed for a variety of misdemeanors.  "And who is Pinky Gilbertson?"

"Pinky Gilbertson lives over there," said A, pointing to the southeast end of the block.  "He's an old guy in his house for the longest time.   And then I died."

The meal was taking a Nostradamusian turn, and like parents everywhere who are suddenly taken to the Twilight Zone by their children, I simply nodded and said, "Oh."  

Yes; I Googled "Pinky Gilbertson."  No; I didn't find any such person listed -- or "Pinkie Gilbertson" for that matter.  I think that pinky might come from discussions about the anatomy of Dr. Seuss  characters' hands.  I'm guessing that "Gilbertson" might be a garbling of "Gilbert and Sullivan."   And A is figuring out what being dead means -- the other day he told my dad that he was going to die so he could bring Sierra (the no longer living family German shepherd) back.  I swear someday that kid is going to make my dad break down in tears.

By this time M had joined us, and A announced that he was going to get a big jack hammer so he could dig a really deep hole and then he was going to get into the hole and die.  When M explained to him that dead people don't get chocolate or to watch cartoons,  A changed his plans;  once the meal was over, we walked to the store for milk, bananas and chocolate.

Now there's a prescription for you.