Waste My Love On A Nation

I can't help it. When Pete says, "You're so pretty," I hear Johnny Rotten.

Damn, I love those boys more every year.

But enough cuddly crap: I've got a potential human to protect from the evil of pastels. Miss Sasha, who has taken to heart my desire to eschew dumb baby garbage and get trashy, forwarded a few links to unusual purveyors purveying unusual merchandise with the advice, "Here, make your dream come true."

Tata: What exactly is my dream?
Miss Sasha: To dress your grandson like the Ramones.
Tata: Right...right! Well, it's collar spikes and torn up jeans for him, then!
Miss Sasha: One of these sites has lullabye versions of Nirvana, Metallica and The Cure!
Tata: What, no Bauhaus?

Look at these fashionplates. Who wouldn't want to dress up babies like Joey and Dee Dee? It's all I can do to hold off buying a leather jacket in toddler sizes. And I sure hope someone makes leather bracelets for pre-schoolers, because if not, I'm prepared to take up leatherworking just for this. That's the kind of sacrifice I'm willing to make!

In the meantime, I'm TOTALLY cleaning them out for black onesies and embroidering the Anarchy symbol where most kids wear Barney.