Perhaps because of my focus on exposed male genitalia at a certain celebrated San Francisco road race recently, Missy innocently assumed that the true menace to American morals (boobies) were somehow missing in action from the festivities.

Nothing could be further from the truth. There were plenty of them. Plenty. And more where that came from (those almost made up for these guys, and this giant vagina, and all the old nudists in the flourescent-green hats who no one took pictures of, because camera lenses have been known to crack under such conditions).

The presence of so much unfettered boobage was a fact not lost at all on my 15-month-old daughter. Despite, or perhaps because of, her gradual weaning, one of Juniper's favorite words is still "boo-boobs" or even "boobies." Half her days are spent either with her hand down the front of Wood's shirt or manuevering into a position to get her hand down Wood's shirt. She's getting more action than me these days.

After finishing the race last Sunday, we all walked back through the park from the ocean, against the tide of costumed revellers and nudists. I recently wrote about how Juniper has a keen sense of observation, and even notices things before me sometimes. Sadly, this is also true with respect to topless women. Every time a naked female runner passed, Juniper inevitably turned to me and said excitedly, "Booboobs!"

And I was all, "I know, dude. TOTALLY. . .Not as nice as your mom's though."

"Most def," came the baby's smug reply.