"Tell Me When It's Time To Get Ready For Bed"

So says The Boy, normally a member of the I-Don't-Want/Need/Like-To-Go-To-Bed Club.

We are reading Cornelia Funke's Ghost Hunters and the Gruesome, Invincible Lightning Ghost, which The Boy found at a book store and insisted we simply must have, based entirely on the fact that he has read/had read to him The Thief Lord, Inkheart and Dragon Rider.

He is enjoying the Ghost Hunters series tremendously, and has taken to pontificating on the subject of the supernatural on a regular basis to a variety of audiences as an expert.

A neighbor just up the road isn't quite sure what to make of him. In one afternoon, he lectured her on the hazards of ghost hunting, and went on to lure her grandchildren into a game that cast her granddaughters as friendly Earthlings, and himself as the clone of an alien that had been killed by "military sources" sent to Earth to discover what had happened to him. Er . . . him the original alien, not him the clone.

He had to eat cow brains so he could extract the cow's DNA and memories.

I didn't have the heart to tell him that cow memories consist almost entirely of "Ooooh! Grass!"

My neighbor was very impressed, and thinks The Boy should write science fiction when he grows up. I didn't have the heart to tell her that he simply plays video games, and integrates them into his life.