Gradon and I babysat for our one-year-old goddaughter, Katie Roze, last night; however, I’ve been going through a particularly nasty bout of insomnia lately, so I took what my friend Dana calls a “Heath Ledger cocktail” (i.e., a handful of barbituates), and dozed off on the couch, happily drooling on one of Gradon’s silk throw pillows as Katie and Gradon played in the floor.

I had been watching a really cool documentary on VH-1 Classics before I went to the Land of Nod about Pink Floyd (Sid Barrett really was a lunatic – don’t drop too much acid, kids), and when I rolled over a couple of hours later, I found Katie sitting in front of our 65″ plasma screen as Sir Bob Geldof shaved off his nipples in Pink Floyd’s seminal rock opera, “The Wall.”

“What the fuck are you letting her watch???” I slurred to Gradon, trying to find the remote somewhere in my haze.

“I don’t know, but she likes it,” he said.

“Jesus, Gradon, you’re gonna warp her for life,” I said, finally giving up on finding the remote (I was lying on it – no wonder I was so happy).

“Why?” he asked.  “It’s got cartoons in it.”

I looked down at Katie, who was very happily watching Sir Bob fall out of a high-rise window.

“You’re right. It does.” I went back to sleep.

I guess her mom can just forward the therapy bills to me.