Looky, Daddy!

Not Mad but Still Yelling

Turns out, music exists. I thought it didn't anymore. I thought, while I was away in Raffiland, music had simply stopped. It had driven down to the levy, and the levy had been dry. But it hadn't. It has been going on without me, and I can't say I'm very happy about it. Why didn't it even call?

And you! Some kind of friend you turned out to be. I bet you knew the music hadn't died, didn't you? Didn't you? And did you tell me? No, you didn't. Not even a simple phone call, saying, "Hey, The Dad, I was, you know, down at the mall and, well, I kinda heard some music. I just thought you ought to know. Don't be mad."

But I'm not mad, not anymore, not now that he shock has worn off. How could I be mad when I'm dancing around my house for two hours everyday listening to WHATEVER I WANT. Yes, that's what I'm doing instead of writing posts for you. Or laundry. Or making money. Don't get me wrong, I'm always one song away from doing all those things, one song away from sitting down and bringing you the funny, but then the next song starts and, wow, it's another one not about little red cabooses, or kangaroos, or how five is such a pretty number and how awfully glad I should be that I have five people in my family but right now its me, just me, and I'm dancing around to songs that are about drugs and booze and sex and say words that I can't say here because my mom reads this and that I sure couldn't say in front of my kids even though I'm pretty sure Lila said motherfucker yesterday as she crapped behind the couch but she didn't hear it from me and she didn't here it from my music although she'd sure be hearing it now because that's what somebody is yelling from my speakers and I'm yelling right along with it and it doesn't matter what else I need to be doing because this is rock and roll and rock and roll waits for nobody. Except when I pause it to go pee, because I evidently drank way too much coffee this morning.

I'm listening to it all. Everything I have. There are albums here from back when I wore an earring and thought I was alternative. There are albums here from back when I wore a nipple ring and really was alternative. There are albums here from when my hair was longer than my wife's and from when my head was shaved bald. There are even a few from the past few years that friends have sent me or I have gone out and gotten myself, but have never really listened to. Not like they should have been listened to, you know?

You know that slightly disturbed friend you had in college who made mix tapes for every occasion? The one who would sit down in front of his stereo and put together 90 minutes of music for every break-up, every first kiss, every grade better than a D in Spanish class? That was me. When I listened to music, I really listened, with every pompous fiber of my being I listened. And so did everybody in my dorm, because I turned my stereo up to eleven and made them. And they should have thanked me, instead of calling the campus police. Ungrateful bastards.

So here's what I was thinking: Let's make a mix tape. Right now, together. Throw out a song, a good song, in the comments. You can explain your choice or just let the song speak for itself. It doesn't have to be deep or pompous or obscure and it doesn't have to show off your amazing indie cred, unless of course you live in the Lower East Side and then you can't help it. It just has to be good. And then maybe I'll do something with it. I don't know what that something will be, maybe nothing if you guys have really sucky music taste, but maybe I'll compile it all onto a disc or two and give it away as the prize for our next poetry contest.

I'll start. The opening song on our mix tape, which will, incidentally, be titled Turned Up to Eleven, is Elise, Elise, by The Real Heroes. (Click on the link and find it under "Listen." You'll be happy you did.)

What's next?

I Possibly Had Too Much Time on My Hands as a Youth

When you were young, did you ever play an Alvin and the Chipmunks record on the wrong speed? You know, just slow enough to make the chipmunks sound normal and Dave sound like Satan?

No? Well, here's your chance. Happy holidays!

I Am Finally Cool

I am finally cool. I own an iPod.

It's an 80 gigabyte mother of an iPod, too, all sleek and black and shiny. And it was free.

I won't go into just how I landed a free iPod, but I will say that US Gypsum makes a fine sheetrock product. If you are planning on purchasing drywall for your home, you can't do better than US Gypsum. They allow you to design and build with confidence. That's US Gypsum, leading the building materials industry for more than 100 years.

And this iPod came just in time, because my entire imaginary life was collapsing upon itself. You see, an imaginary life can only hold so many lies. It needs a few solid truths on which to build its flimsy web of dreams. And now my imaginary life, my web of dreams, is firmly anchored upon my very real iPod.

Now all I need is a drastic downsizing of the number of kids and cats in my house (in fact, let's just do away with both of those departments altogether), a relocation to a cozy one-bedroom apartment in the Village, a pay-raise for The Mom, and a nice book deal for me and the rest of my imaginary life will be realized.

But until then, I think the iPod is a good start. Now does anyone want to come over and watch my kids while I load a few songs into this thing?

Anyone?

Hush Little Baby

I memorize things. Not important things, mind you. No, I memorize useless information.

It really bothers me that I can never remember necessary things like, you know, my age, but instead I've filled my mind with countless Bob Dylan lyrics and mathematical equations. I secretly justify this to myself by pretending that one day I'll be walking down the streets of Los Angeles and I'll meet Jay Leno who will offer me fame and fortune if only I can recite pi to 35 digits. So far, no luck.

But now that I have a blog, I can post snippets of my enormous stock of useless knowledge so that you, Gentle Reader, may benefit. It is in that spirit that I am writing today.

In the past I have spoken with more than a few parents of infants who have been quite perturbed by the fact that they can only remember two or three lines of the Mockingbird song . You know, "Hush little baby, don't say a word..." So, since the lyrics to that song are currently cluttering up my memory, I thought I'd share them here. Maybe this way I can put them to rest and have room to remember something new, like what size shoe my oldest daughter wears. That would be nice.

Oh, and you'll have to excuse me if, a long time ago, I changed the character in the song from Momma to Daddy. I figure, if I'm going to be home singing this song ad infinitum, then dadgummit, it's going to be about me.

Hush little baby, don't say a word

Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird won't sing

Daddy's gonna buy you a diamond ring

And if that diamond ring turns brass

Daddy's gonna buy you a looking glass

And if that looking glass gets broke

Daddy's gonna buy you a billy goat

And if that goat breaks from his cage

Daddy's gonna go through middle age

And if that crisis goes too far

Daddy's gonna buy a red sports car

And if that sports car really vrooms

Daddy's gonna date a girl with big bazooms

And if that girl informs your mom

Momma's gonna make a homemade bomb

And if that little bomb goes boom

Daddy's gonna take a trip to the moon

And if that Dad never comes back down

You'll still be the sweetest little girl in town

There, now you all know it, too. Go sing it to your little ones.

Nighty-night.