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The other night I was FaceTiming with my granddaughter, M, who (as you might know) lives in Tokyo with her father (my son) and daughter-in-law. When I visit, as I often do, I always bring a puppet companion, Monkey-Monkey; he’s kept M engaged in our FaceTime conversations since she was young enough to imagine that she and the handsome simian might one day marry. (She even tailored—out of paper—a remarkable simulacrum of a wedding suit for him.) Anyway, M was introducing me to a new stuffed animal she’d recently acquired and thought Monkey-Monkey might be interested in seeing his hairdo, which called to mind Monkey-Monkey’s own Don King coiffure. I agreed there was a similarity Monkey-Monkey might appreciate.
“So… is he around?” asked M.
It’s true that many of the inanimate objects in my apartment seem to have taken on a life of their own. Which I’ve come to believe is not entirely fanciful—unlike some sales pitches I’ve heard recently.
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