Friday night in early January. Baby is sleeping soundly in crib, so no chance of going out. Nothing on the idiot box but fat, bored, middle-aged married couples with cellulite getting flogged. No, seriously. This is the new low into which television has sank. Hey, I'm all for sexual emancipation, but couldn't the sexually emancipated (on TV) be slimmer, younger and lacking in bum acne or cellulite? Is that so much to ask?

Ah well. I'm feeling kinda ... blech. I suspect that it's these unrelenting grey, overcast skies contributing to the general malaise of my soul. Oooohhhhh, I like the sound of that -- malaise of the soul -- sounds like a phrase borrowed from a nineteenth-century romantic novel in which some unfortunate heroine dies of consumption or goes mad and wanders about on the moors.

Shit. I must be bored. Here's something that's sure to lift my spirits: a photo of my kiddo. Oh yeah, I can hear ya'll groaning behind your respective keyboards. I don't care if I've transformed into one of those parents who brattles on obsessively about her child. Shut up.

Ridley in his Che Guevara bodysuit. I wonder what Ernesto the Marxist revolutionary would make of the fact that I shelled out $35 for an article of baby clothing emblazoned with his image? Ironic? I'd say. In fact, I came across an interesting article that addressed the controversy felt by Cuban-Americans surrounding the pop culture use of the Guevara image. Here's an excerpt:

"Ernesto "Che" Guevara's face is a familiar one around the world, stamped on shirts, hats, postcards, lighters and other items. To some, the famous picture of the revolutionary with the beret, long hair, scraggly moustache and faraway gaze, symbolizes idealism and rebellion. To many Cuban exiles, however, he's a ruthless killer who helped establish a totalitarian regime in their homeland."

Hmmm, seems like they have a valid point. Still, knowing what I know about Guevara (which admittedly is more than most, but still not much) I chose to buy this baby bodysuit. Evil capitalist swine that I am.

While pushing the stroller along Queen Street East the other day, I came across a t-shirt in a store window with the familiar Che Guevara image. This particular t-shirt took the irony a step further with a caption underneath Che which read: "I don't know who this is". It just killed me.