That morning when I was cooking bacon and I heard little footsteps racing to the kitchen followed by Simon yelling "I smell bacon!"
My kids' cute little voices.
The way Simon asks to listen to "Jam" and he means "Millionaire" by Queens Of The Stone Age. Also, the day I introduced them to "Iron Man" and how Simon demanded to hear it a dozen times throughout the day.
The time Henry was all pissed off about doing his science homework until he started measuring things on the scale and got all into it.
The way Simon used to ask "What's his naaaaame?"
How the boys like to wrap themselves around my legs and make me walk them around the house.
How the boys like to wrap themselves around one of my arms and let me lift them up.
The way I'm able to make them both fall over laughing by pretending to be a dumb monster who's just stumbled across a lightsaber.
That Simon likes to sleep in a tent in his room.
Henry putting his arm around Simon and saying "we're little brothers!"
The time Simon shouted "I'm a princess!" and meant it.
Listening to Henry would rap along with "Egg Man" on the way to school during his kindergarten year.
Taking a walk with Simon and the treasures he found - a stick and a feather.
Taking the boys out of bed to go to the bathroom and the way they'll talk in their sleep. Or fart.
The way Henry asks to go to the donut store for breakfast by just saying in a deep voice "DOOOONNNUUUUUT."
Hearing Simon downstairs, singing to himself while he plays.
The way Henry ducks down in front of me, then leapfrogs up into my arms.
The time Henry went jogging with me, smiling the whole way, and how he said "I didn't think I could run that far" when we made it back to the house.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Sunday, September 09, 2012
Friday, May 04, 2012
Trying To Change The World
There's that saying about the unexamined life being not worth living. I'd have to say that anybody who goes from
Roses are red, sky is blue,
I got my barrel attcha neck so what the fuck you gonna do?
to
Well on the tough guy style I'm not too keen,
To try to change the world, I'm'a plot and scheme
inside the span of their lifetime was doing some pretty powerful self-examination. And the fact that he did it in a public setting in a genre of music that's, rightly or not, not often known for evolving towards kindness, is incredibly admirable. Rap, music, art, hell, the world could use more of that.
Rest in peace, MCA. And thanks for everything.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Writing Music
INT. - A STARBUCK’S IN A POSH PART OF TOWN
The joint’s packed with fancy folks. Lots of laptops, lots of bluetooths, lots of plastic surgery. The orders being placed and filled by the chipper baristas behind the counter are marvels of idiosyncratic expression. the music playing over the P.A. is in no danger of harming anyone. Sitting by the window with his tall coffee (“Room for cream?” “Yes, please.”) is The Holmes, typing away at his laptop, his head connected to the device via a pair of headphones. He types, stops, reads, considers, types, etc.
Outside the window by which The Holmes is camped out, we see a large truck, a Ford F-1-Asshole or whatever, shiny and black. It hops the curb into the parking lot, roars across the asphalt, and knocks a taillight out of a Lexus before screeching to a halt outside the coffee shop’s entrance. The driver jumps down and yells something unintelligible as he stomps around to the passenger side.
The Holmes is typing faster now, his body trembling with energy. People continue to walk in and out, the baristas continue their attempts to outdo one another with their displays of extreme courtesy.
Outside, the driver yanks the passenger door of the truck open. There is a struggle before the driver yanks his passenger out of the truck, another dude. They stumble and fall down in the parking lot in a heap, each trying to land blows on the other.
Oh, a Norah Jones/Barbra Streisand duet album! How nice, especially when paired with a triple venti sugar free, non-fat, no foam, extra caramel, with whip caramel macchiato.
Outside, the two dudes are still battling it out. They’re stumbling like they’re drunk, but their blows aren’t missing. One knocks the other to the ground and kicks him in the ribs, the one being kicked manages to catch hold of the other’s leg and knock him off balance to take the advantage. It’s quite a show, but despite his proximity to the window, The Holmes only has eyes for his monitor. He’s pounding on the keyboard now, rocking back and forth in a possessed rhythym. He’s catching a few looks. He pounds his coffee con gusto! and returns to his wordsmithing.
Outside, one dude has the other pinned. He punches him again and again, knocking the back of his head into the concrete. Lovers of fine caffeinated fare step around them as they traipse in and out of the franchise.
The Holmes is head-banging and typing while Coldplay kicks the treble over the P.A.
The dude who is pinned under the other one drives the heel of his free hand up into the bottom of his opponent’s jaw, clamping his teeth together and slicing off the end of his tongue. He screams and stumbles backwards, almost colliding with a mother and her children on their way in for Mommy’s afternoon treat. He slaps his hand over his mouth and blood flows out from between his knuckles. His opponent jumps off the ground and comes after him, punches him once, punches him again, then again. They grapple, fighting not with technique but with drunken fury. One shoves the other hard so that he slams into the window where The Holmes is sitting. The Holmes doesn’t notice, just types frantically as he bangs his head, eyes staring widely at something only he seems to be able to see.
One of the fighters charges the other and together they fly through the window, shattering the glass into thousands of pieces. They slam into The Holmes mid-headbang and knock him to the floor as they fly through a display of travel mugs like a wedding cake on a rainy day. His headphones stay on his head as he falls, the cord pulls free of the jack, and the store is immediately filled with the glorious sound of heavy metal, drowning out the feeble P.A.’s attempts at entertainment. The two fighters, covered in cuts and bruises and smears of blood, both rise to their feet and continue their battling, but before they get very far, one of them slams into a woman fresh from pilates class, causing her to spill her venti, non-fat, no foam, no water, 6 pump, extra hot, chai tea latte. With a curse, she shoves him hard into his friend, and together they fall across a table of what appears to be business associates, all of whom get pissed off and dump the table over.
In a matter of seconds, the entire Starbuck’s descends into moshpit anarchy. As the scene goes dark, The Holmes can be heard laughing.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Guitar Lessons
Guitar playing has been making more regular appearances in my life recently. Time was I played for hours every day, not because I was trying to master the instrument, but because playing the guitar is about a billion times more awesome than not playing the guitar. Simple fact.
But over the last few years, my guitars and all the stuff that went with them got shoved further and further back in various closets. At one point, I even sold my amp, the very amp with which I once stood in front of a room full of people and played a series of several of the more recognizable segments from the music of “Star Wars.” Have you ever heard The Force Theme through heavy distortion, chorus, and just a subtle, dare I say, sublime hint of wah pedal? Yeaaaah.
Probably my most rock star moment.
But aside from pulling the old girl out of the closet every now and then to blow through a few verses of “Daddy Farted,” there wasn’t a whole lot of music getting made around here other than the kind originating with magical fruit. Is there anything sadder than a neglected musical instrument? Well I guess there’s beached whales and war orphans and cancer and...so yes, lots of things are sadder than a neglected musical instrument. But still, I always let out a sigh at the sight all the dust gathered on the headstock. Dust shows up really well on black.
Nobody ever said, “I wish I’d played less music” on their deathbed.
So like George Michael, my guitar’s now out of the closet and has no plans to go back in. Next to it sits a single-speaker Marshall practice amp that, in my opinion, sounds an assload better than the old Fender I used to use. This is becoming a regular thing. As in daily. And it feels nice.
A funny thing happened while I was playing earlier. My five-year-old came down, watched me for a minute, then went and found the case with my ancient acoustic. The thing is tiny. As in, you could be forgiven for mistaking it for a large ukulele. It’s still a bit large for his little hands, but the way he’s growing, that won’t be the case for long. He sat down on the bed next to me and asked me to show him how to play the guitar.
Stop and consider that: my son asked me to teach him how to play the guitar.
The first and I guess only guitar teacher I ever had was a guy named Robert that was the spitting image of David Lee Roth’s hair and smoked cigarettes in the little room at the back of H&H Music where he taught classes. He spent the first five to ten minutes of every lesson noodling around on his guitar, presumably to show me how awesome I, too, could be if I kept practicing. The first song he taught me was “Wanted Dead Or Alive” by Bon Jovi. I wasn't what you'd call a Bon Jovi fan, but I practiced the shit out of that opening bit. Props, Richie Sambora. Props.
All the same, I won’t be teaching my kid any Bon Jovi.
So I showed him a few basics and then it was time for dinner and then we did some other stuff and then later we were all over the house all doing our own thing, my thing being playing my guitar again, and the little dude came back in, sat the acoustic on his lap, and declared:
“I almost forgot, it’s time for my guitar lesson.”
Time for your....? Oh, okay, um, yeah, we can do that. So here, let’s do....
So I showed him a few more things. He struggled, mostly because he’s still a little dude and his fingers just aren’t quite strong enough. But struggle he did.
“When do I get a guitar like that one?” he asked, pointing at my electric. It’s not anything fancy, an Epiphone (i.e. budget Gibson brand) version of the SG. But it does look cool, and it sounds nice.
“Before you can get one like this, you need to practice on this one,” I told him, indicating the acoustic sitting in his lap.
“But I like yours,” he said.
“I like mine too. But this one,” I said, placing my hand on the curve of the acoustic’s wooden body, “is the very first guitar I ever played. It’s the one I learned on. I told my mom I wanted to learn how to play the guitar, so she pulled this one down out of the attic and took it to the guitar store. They fixed it up for her, put new strings on it, and then she took me take guitar lessons.”
I don’t mind telling you, I got a bit misty recounting that memory to my son. My mom did that for me. She didn’t know the first thing about guitars other than that her kid wanted to know how to play one. She could have put me off, maybe I’d have found a way on my own, or maybe I’d be walking around all these years later with a guitar shaped hole in my soul. And wouldn’t that suck? But she didn’t. She found a way to make it happen.
“Can I get guitar lessons?” he asked.
“Yes, with me," I said, feeling like I should grab a fly out of the air with my chopsticks as I said it. "And I’ll make you a deal.”
Here’s the part where I make a deal.
“If you’ll do some lessons with me and practice and keep it up over the next year or so, then we’ll see about getting you something that’s a little nicer. In your size, of course. What do you think of that?”
“Good.”
So who knows where it’ll go. He might forget all about the stupid guitar tomorrow, or he might decide after a few lessons that guitars are for chumps.
But not before he learns how to play a power chord.
But over the last few years, my guitars and all the stuff that went with them got shoved further and further back in various closets. At one point, I even sold my amp, the very amp with which I once stood in front of a room full of people and played a series of several of the more recognizable segments from the music of “Star Wars.” Have you ever heard The Force Theme through heavy distortion, chorus, and just a subtle, dare I say, sublime hint of wah pedal? Yeaaaah.
Probably my most rock star moment.
But aside from pulling the old girl out of the closet every now and then to blow through a few verses of “Daddy Farted,” there wasn’t a whole lot of music getting made around here other than the kind originating with magical fruit. Is there anything sadder than a neglected musical instrument? Well I guess there’s beached whales and war orphans and cancer and...so yes, lots of things are sadder than a neglected musical instrument. But still, I always let out a sigh at the sight all the dust gathered on the headstock. Dust shows up really well on black.
Nobody ever said, “I wish I’d played less music” on their deathbed.
So like George Michael, my guitar’s now out of the closet and has no plans to go back in. Next to it sits a single-speaker Marshall practice amp that, in my opinion, sounds an assload better than the old Fender I used to use. This is becoming a regular thing. As in daily. And it feels nice.
A funny thing happened while I was playing earlier. My five-year-old came down, watched me for a minute, then went and found the case with my ancient acoustic. The thing is tiny. As in, you could be forgiven for mistaking it for a large ukulele. It’s still a bit large for his little hands, but the way he’s growing, that won’t be the case for long. He sat down on the bed next to me and asked me to show him how to play the guitar.
Stop and consider that: my son asked me to teach him how to play the guitar.
The first and I guess only guitar teacher I ever had was a guy named Robert that was the spitting image of David Lee Roth’s hair and smoked cigarettes in the little room at the back of H&H Music where he taught classes. He spent the first five to ten minutes of every lesson noodling around on his guitar, presumably to show me how awesome I, too, could be if I kept practicing. The first song he taught me was “Wanted Dead Or Alive” by Bon Jovi. I wasn't what you'd call a Bon Jovi fan, but I practiced the shit out of that opening bit. Props, Richie Sambora. Props.
All the same, I won’t be teaching my kid any Bon Jovi.
So I showed him a few basics and then it was time for dinner and then we did some other stuff and then later we were all over the house all doing our own thing, my thing being playing my guitar again, and the little dude came back in, sat the acoustic on his lap, and declared:
“I almost forgot, it’s time for my guitar lesson.”
Time for your....? Oh, okay, um, yeah, we can do that. So here, let’s do....
So I showed him a few more things. He struggled, mostly because he’s still a little dude and his fingers just aren’t quite strong enough. But struggle he did.
“When do I get a guitar like that one?” he asked, pointing at my electric. It’s not anything fancy, an Epiphone (i.e. budget Gibson brand) version of the SG. But it does look cool, and it sounds nice.
“Before you can get one like this, you need to practice on this one,” I told him, indicating the acoustic sitting in his lap.
“But I like yours,” he said.
“I like mine too. But this one,” I said, placing my hand on the curve of the acoustic’s wooden body, “is the very first guitar I ever played. It’s the one I learned on. I told my mom I wanted to learn how to play the guitar, so she pulled this one down out of the attic and took it to the guitar store. They fixed it up for her, put new strings on it, and then she took me take guitar lessons.”
I don’t mind telling you, I got a bit misty recounting that memory to my son. My mom did that for me. She didn’t know the first thing about guitars other than that her kid wanted to know how to play one. She could have put me off, maybe I’d have found a way on my own, or maybe I’d be walking around all these years later with a guitar shaped hole in my soul. And wouldn’t that suck? But she didn’t. She found a way to make it happen.
“Can I get guitar lessons?” he asked.
“Yes, with me," I said, feeling like I should grab a fly out of the air with my chopsticks as I said it. "And I’ll make you a deal.”
Here’s the part where I make a deal.
“If you’ll do some lessons with me and practice and keep it up over the next year or so, then we’ll see about getting you something that’s a little nicer. In your size, of course. What do you think of that?”
“Good.”
So who knows where it’ll go. He might forget all about the stupid guitar tomorrow, or he might decide after a few lessons that guitars are for chumps.
But not before he learns how to play a power chord.
Monday, April 18, 2011
It Was So Nice Of Me To Make This Mix For You
When you put headphones in your ears and hit play, you're basically saying, "This is my bubble, and I am going to be alone in it for a while, just me and this music." Sometimes when I make this bubble, I like to be extra alone. That is, I don't want any other voices in there with me. Particularly when I'm writing and trying to make something happen with words, I just want a little soundtrack, nobody else's words rattling around in my head. When I'm in this mood, I turn to this mix that I made in my iTunes that has several days worth of instrumental music of all kinds. Super mega nice person that I am, I thought it would be fun to make a randomish mix of it for you....just me shuffling through until I picked out a nice dozen. Go listen if you want to. Below is the track list along with tweet sized, er, not sure what you'd call these....responses? that I came up with for each of them while listening. Enjoy. Or don't, whatever.
Tipsy - "Nude on the Moon" from the album Trip Tease
You can either look up at the moon and be entranced or ignore it altogether, kind of like this song.Blockhead - "Tricky Turtle" from the album The Music Scene
Sidewalk strolling, sun rising over rooftops, casting the city in blinding shades of beautiful. Everybody wake up.Madvillain - "Do Not Fire!" from the album Madvillainy
Long hallway, narrow, lit only by blinking fluorescents. Unlocked rooms on either side housing the insane. The exit is chained.Holy Fuck - "SHT MTN" from the album Latin
Awake. Up. Move. No time for mistakes. Go time, motherfuckuuuurk SKRONK! urk urk SKRONK SKRONK!Curtis Mayfield - "Think" (Instrumental) from the Superfly soundtrack
"Everything's gonna be all right" is a lie, but there are brief periods where all is right with your little world.Tom Waits - "Knife Chase" from the album Blood Money
Our people are everywhere, friend. Hide at the bottom of the ocean, we got a shark with our logo on his fin ready to eat you right up.Medeski, Martin, & Wood - "Bloody Oil" from the album End of the World Party (Just in Case)
This desert's never going to let us out alive.The RZA - "Afro's Father Fight" from the Afro Samurai Soundtrack
*Looks up at ceiling* "Did you hear that?"The Gaslamp Killer - "Ruskie Electric" from the album My Troubled Mind
We are at the bottom of the ocean in enemy waters and it would appear that the entire crew has been dosed with LSD. Your orders, captain?RJD2 - "I Really Like Your Def Jux Baby Tee" from the Definitive Jux Presents II compilation
At the start of each day, she held a tiny funeral for the previous one.El-P - "Jump Fence, Run, Live" from the album Weareallgoingtoburninhellmegamixxx3
You were allotted three badass moments for this life. You’ve used none. You have ten minutes to live. Care to set up a combo?Explosions In The Sky - “Catastrophe And The Cure” from the album All Of A Sudden I Miss Everyone
My favorite thing about this band is the fact that they attempt to recreate their name in every song.
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Let It Be Known That From This Day Forth, I Am A Fan Of Kanye West
I've never been a huge Kanye West fan. Nothing against the guy, it's just not my preferred brand of hip-hop. I tend to like things a bit, I don't know...grimier. But I'm a fan now because last South by Southwest, he did this:
That band behind him is from Austin's very own Reagan High School, the Soul Raider Marching Band. Reagan, by many standards, is considered to be one of the worst high schools in the city, and hilariously enough, it's where our kids are zoned to go based on where we currently live (hint: not exactly the best area of town). My wife and I are all over the map as to the question of whether we're willing to send the boys there when the time comes. The school's got plenty of problems, the stats don't lie. But that's the thing about statistics: as honest as they may be, as much of a story as they may tell, they don't quite manage to tell the whole story. It's so cool to see these kids get an opportunity like this.
That band behind him is from Austin's very own Reagan High School, the Soul Raider Marching Band. Reagan, by many standards, is considered to be one of the worst high schools in the city, and hilariously enough, it's where our kids are zoned to go based on where we currently live (hint: not exactly the best area of town). My wife and I are all over the map as to the question of whether we're willing to send the boys there when the time comes. The school's got plenty of problems, the stats don't lie. But that's the thing about statistics: as honest as they may be, as much of a story as they may tell, they don't quite manage to tell the whole story. It's so cool to see these kids get an opportunity like this.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
John Williams Ruins Everything
I remember one such occasion in my own life when I was hanging out with my friends Lucas and Tim. Somebody, I don’t remember who, started singing the theme to “Sanford and Son.” Now that I think about it, I think it was me. I like singing the theme to “Sanford and Son.” There’s a relaxing quality to it. My friends, Lucas and Tim, told me that John Williams had written the theme to “Sanford and Son.” This is the John Williams who wrote the theme to “Star Wars.” Oh wait, you know what? We might have been singing the theme to “Star Wars” when this happened. Whatever theme it was, Lucas and Tim told me that John Williams of “Star Wars” theme fame had also written the theme to “Sanford and Son” and because I am sometimes gullible, I believed them. “Really? Really?” I asked. And not in a skeptical tone, but a really excited one. I was so happy to hear that John Williams, the guy who had written duuuuun DUUUUUN dun dun dun DUUUUUUUUN dun, dun dun dun DUUUUUUUUN dun DUN DUN DUN DUUUUUUN had also written bowm bowm bownowm. bowm bowm bownowm bowmown bowm.
So you can imagine how upset I was when I saw the smiles on Lucas and Tim’s faces that told me that they were just pulling my stupid leg. I wasn’t upset that I had been tricked. I was upset that this vision they had set before me was not reality. I really wanted John Williams to have written the theme song to “Sanford and Son.” Wouldn't that be a wonderful world to live in?
Goddammit, John Williams. You ruin everything.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
What's Wrong With Your Mind?
I realized a while back that the music loaded on my iPhonamapod was lacking something: good ugly brutal drill-seargent-mean workout music. Sure, I had plenty of uptempo jams in there, some of them plenty aggressive, even. But I had no individual albums loaded up that could drive me all the way through from warm-up to that final agonizing “DON’T YOU FUCKING GIVE UP YOU FUCKING PUSSY!” set and on into the cool-down. So this past weekend while I was making some adjustments to my carrying-around music, I remedied this situation by uploading one of the most perfect workout albums ever recorded, Pantera’s 1992 Texas metal masterpiece, Vulgar Display of Power.
Except for the last song because it’s a piece of shit.
Understand, I was sixteen years old when this album came out, so I was at a point in my life when I was all about the blind screaming rage. As far as I was concerned, this album was the pinnacle of humanity’s creative endeavors. I don’t recall exactly what I was so very pissed off about all the time. The usual package of teenage boy woes with a crate of fat kid afflictions piled on top of it. But really and truly, the specific focus of one’s anger is of secondary importance when you’ve got power cords, double-kick drums, and demonic vocals providing the sonic backdrop for your angst. I had that shit on constant rotation.
So the other day I went to the gym, ready to give it a try. The gym I go to is in the bottom floor of the building next door to where I work. I go there because it’s free and because there’s hardly anyone there. I’ve often got the whole place to myself. As I walked over, I detected -- what is--? Is that apprehension? Nervousness? See, I had not actually listened to this collection of songs in ages. What would my beloved Vulgar Display sound like to me lo these many years later? Would the production sound shitty compared to the quality of recorded music now? Would it seem so silly as to be painful? Or, horror of horrors, would the music of my youth be too aggressive for these aged sound receptacles of mine?
But as soon as “Mouth For War” came thundering in, all these worries went and fucked off somewhere. It was exactly what I had been looking for. I’m not going to go into the details of my exercise routine because then I’d have to punch myself in the face for being one of those people, but suffice it to say that by the time “Fucking Hostile!” rolled around, I was feeling, well, not exactly fucking hostile, but at least reasonably hostile. There was definitely some hostility emanating from my person, but in a positive sense. The blood was pumping, the music was aggro -- I was in a good place.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door open and a person enter. I turned to see who it was and damn near dropped a weight on my foot. It took a long moment to register what I was seeing, but when the synapses finally got to firing, I realized that, yes, standing in front of me was none other than my old friend Jennifer. What was she doing in town? At my gym no less? What the hell was she smiling at? I pulled the buds out of my ears and stood there breathing heavy for a moment, trying to regain the ability to speak. Between gasps, I forced out the question.
“Jen?”
Something about her looked strange, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. She laughed and shook her head.
“I can’t believe you’re still listening to that shit.”
While it may not have been the absolute last thing I would’ve expected her to say, it wouldn’t have been among my top hundred guesses. I’d barely started to babble out a response -- “Whahuhwhowhat’reyouhuh?” -- when the door opened yet again and in walked another old friend, my oldest friend actually. I’ve known Chad damn near my entire life, since we were just little kids having sword fights with curtain rods and watching the skies over our suburban Houston homes for UFOs. He walked in and stood next to Jennifer. They didn’t look at each other, only at me, like they’d planned this little meeting. And just as I’d noted with Jen, he looked strange somehow. He laughed too.
“I can’t believe you, man.” he said.
“What?” There was clearly a joke here that I was on the outside of. “You can’t believe -- Pete?"
And then who else should walk in but none other than my freshman year crackhead roommate, Pete. And when I say crackhead, I don’t mean he busted his skull open while diving into the wrong end of the pool; I mean that he started off our freshman year at the University of Texas as a harmless pothead and was inhaling rock through a glass tube by the next summer. Until this very moment, that was the last I had seen or heard of him.
“Hey T-man, what’s happening?” He smiled and lit a cigarette. He always was the kind to ignore No Smoking signs, then act surprised when someone in authority pointed them out to him. Oh gosh, I’m so sorry!
And there they stood in a line, all facing me, watching me pant and sweat. An odd reunion in which I seemed to be the only person surprised at its happening. These three and I, the four of us, had never been all friends together. The three of them had maybe met each other at some point or another, but my relationships with each of them had been separate. So the way they’d all gathered here, completely unsurprised to see me or each other, it was highly suspicious. I had the strange feeling I was being intervened with.
And then it dawned on me, Pete’s scraggly hair, his acne-scarred cheeks, the inch and a half long cylinder of ash at the tip of his cigarette that would crumble under its own weight at any second and fall down on his hand -- he was exactly as he was the last time I saw him over fifteen years ago. And Chad with his wide eyes, long hair, and rail-thin body, Jennifer with her jet black hair pulled back with little butterfly clips and that scent of vanilla that followed her like so many admirers -- these weren’t the people they are now; these were the people they were then, back in the day, so to speak, back when the album I currently had blaring in my headphones was one of my mainstays. Pete’s cigarette ash looked close to teetering, but if he was worried about it, it didn’t show. “Seriously man, you still listening to this metal shit?”
“What?” I was totally thrown off. Were these really my friends from over a decade and a half ago standing before me in this gym? What were they doing here? Why these three? Were there more coming? Was one of my exes about to walk through that door?
“You’re what, 30-something now dude?” asked 17, 18, maybe 19 year old Chad. “You haven’t mellowed out yet?”
“What? No! I mean, yes, I have. I haven’t listened to this in years. I--what’s your problem? You come from the past to hassle me about my music?”
“Who is this again?” asked Jennifer.
“Fucking Pantera,” drawled Pete. “Y’all, I remember this fool used to play this shit all the time. And sometimes he’d strap on that guitar of his and fucking play along with it. He’d be all--” and then he proceeded to demonstrate for Chad and Jen what I looked like when I did my dorm room rock god routine. I don’t recall being quite so spastic, but I didn’t argue. I was faintly aware of a guitar solo emanating from my dislodged ear buds. I left it alone, leaving Dimebag Darrell, R.I.P., to do as he pleased.
“Okay Pete, first of all, fuck you dude. I couldn’t listen to classic rock for an entire year after living with you. A year! You made me not want to listen to Zeppelin! And The Doors still irritate me.”
“And you’re still wearing that?” asked Chad, pointing at the ratty old Tool tee-shirt I was sporting.
“Oh my god! You had that in college!” said Jennifer.
“He had it in high school!” said Chad. “We both got that exact same shirt when we saw ‘em in concert senior year.”
“Trav, come on.” said Jen. “I had slightly higher hopes for you than this. Buy some clothes, would you?”
“I’m just wearing it to exercise!” I protested.
“It’s like you haven’t grown up at all.” she continued.
“Yes I have! Seriously, look at this thing. It’s covered in holes. I only wear it to work out or to mow the lawn or -- oh! I have a lawn! I have gardens! I have kids! A wife! Chickens! See? Grown-up stuff.”
“So are you still listening to Tool?” asked Chad.
“On occasion, yeah, and so are you, I might add. Current you, I mean. In fact, you just saw them in concert not long ago.”
“Really? They’re still around?”
“Yep. You went and put the pictures up on your Facebook.”
“What’s a face book?” he asked.
“A book with faces in it?” said Jennifer.
“Why would I put pictures of a concert in a face book?”
“Maybe they were pictures of faces?”
“That sounds stupid.”
“It is stupid.” I said.
“So hey man,” said Pete, “it looks like you ain’t done a whole lot with yourself since college, huh?”
“What?!” I laughed because this had all become so ludicrous. A crackhead was standing here telling me that I hadn’t done much with my life. Three inches of ash hung precariously off the end of his cigarette. “Dude, I’ve done plenty. Probably more than you have, wherever the fuck you are. For all I know you’re fucking dead.”
“Oh now that’s just mean.” said Jennifer.
“Naw, he may well be right.” said Pete. “I ain’t exactly been walking a righteous path.”
“Still, it’s not a nice thing to say.” she said, looking at me. “Be nice.”
“Yeah,” said Chad. “It’s not our fault you’re all old and still pissed off, listening to this shit.”
“I’m not old.” I said.
“They playing Metallica on classic rock radio yet?” he asked
“He was always so angry.” said Jen. “What were so angry about anyway?”
“I wasn’t--! Look, is there something you need from me? Something you need to tell me? Or did you just travel into the future to give me shit?”
“You’re being awfully defensive.” said Jennifer.
“No I’m not!”
My hostility, it was increasing.
“You fuckers are standing here giving me shit about my life just because you happened to catch me listening to Pantera for the first time in literally years when in fact I’ve...” and I started babbling, stammering, spilling out an incoherent bullet list of my life in no particular order, things I’d done, things that had happened to me, accomplishments, failures, the most random of memories, any and every thing I could think of to prove that my life hadn’t gone on pause all this time, that I’d been living, doing. And it wasn’t until I heard myself actually say, “I’m a different person now!” It was only then, as I stood there with cool air-conditioned sweat dripping down my face, that I looked at the three of them and realized the obvious.
These stupid kids don’t know a damn thing.
Well, they know how to travel through time
I suppose there’s that.
I laughed. “You fucking kids...you don’t know shit, you know that?” And then they laughed, seemingly with me rather than at me for the first time during this exchange. The ash of Pete’s cigarette fell to the floor whole and silently exploded into dust on the industrial carpet. He didn’t seem to notice. We just stood there laughing like idiots. A gym employee passed through, but barely gave us a glance.
With the tables flipped over in my favor, I thought I’d have some fun and drop a few hints about what the future had in store for them.
“So Chad...” I started, ever thought about joining the Army? But before I put voice to the question, he disappeared. Pop. The air rushed to fill the space that had become unoccupied so quickly. Jen and Pete looked at each other, at me, then they disappeared too. Pop. Pop.
Well, I thought, that was....
By this time I was all cooled off and didn’t much feel like hopping back into the routine. I shouldered my backpack and headed out the door, slipping the buds back into my ears. It was right in the middle of a song.
Except for the last song because it’s a piece of shit.
 |
| Dude got punched |
So the other day I went to the gym, ready to give it a try. The gym I go to is in the bottom floor of the building next door to where I work. I go there because it’s free and because there’s hardly anyone there. I’ve often got the whole place to myself. As I walked over, I detected -- what is--? Is that apprehension? Nervousness? See, I had not actually listened to this collection of songs in ages. What would my beloved Vulgar Display sound like to me lo these many years later? Would the production sound shitty compared to the quality of recorded music now? Would it seem so silly as to be painful? Or, horror of horrors, would the music of my youth be too aggressive for these aged sound receptacles of mine?
But as soon as “Mouth For War” came thundering in, all these worries went and fucked off somewhere. It was exactly what I had been looking for. I’m not going to go into the details of my exercise routine because then I’d have to punch myself in the face for being one of those people, but suffice it to say that by the time “Fucking Hostile!” rolled around, I was feeling, well, not exactly fucking hostile, but at least reasonably hostile. There was definitely some hostility emanating from my person, but in a positive sense. The blood was pumping, the music was aggro -- I was in a good place.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the door open and a person enter. I turned to see who it was and damn near dropped a weight on my foot. It took a long moment to register what I was seeing, but when the synapses finally got to firing, I realized that, yes, standing in front of me was none other than my old friend Jennifer. What was she doing in town? At my gym no less? What the hell was she smiling at? I pulled the buds out of my ears and stood there breathing heavy for a moment, trying to regain the ability to speak. Between gasps, I forced out the question.
“Jen?”
Something about her looked strange, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. She laughed and shook her head.
“I can’t believe you’re still listening to that shit.”
While it may not have been the absolute last thing I would’ve expected her to say, it wouldn’t have been among my top hundred guesses. I’d barely started to babble out a response -- “Whahuhwhowhat’reyouhuh?” -- when the door opened yet again and in walked another old friend, my oldest friend actually. I’ve known Chad damn near my entire life, since we were just little kids having sword fights with curtain rods and watching the skies over our suburban Houston homes for UFOs. He walked in and stood next to Jennifer. They didn’t look at each other, only at me, like they’d planned this little meeting. And just as I’d noted with Jen, he looked strange somehow. He laughed too.
“I can’t believe you, man.” he said.
“What?” There was clearly a joke here that I was on the outside of. “You can’t believe -- Pete?"
And then who else should walk in but none other than my freshman year crackhead roommate, Pete. And when I say crackhead, I don’t mean he busted his skull open while diving into the wrong end of the pool; I mean that he started off our freshman year at the University of Texas as a harmless pothead and was inhaling rock through a glass tube by the next summer. Until this very moment, that was the last I had seen or heard of him.
“Hey T-man, what’s happening?” He smiled and lit a cigarette. He always was the kind to ignore No Smoking signs, then act surprised when someone in authority pointed them out to him. Oh gosh, I’m so sorry!
And there they stood in a line, all facing me, watching me pant and sweat. An odd reunion in which I seemed to be the only person surprised at its happening. These three and I, the four of us, had never been all friends together. The three of them had maybe met each other at some point or another, but my relationships with each of them had been separate. So the way they’d all gathered here, completely unsurprised to see me or each other, it was highly suspicious. I had the strange feeling I was being intervened with.
And then it dawned on me, Pete’s scraggly hair, his acne-scarred cheeks, the inch and a half long cylinder of ash at the tip of his cigarette that would crumble under its own weight at any second and fall down on his hand -- he was exactly as he was the last time I saw him over fifteen years ago. And Chad with his wide eyes, long hair, and rail-thin body, Jennifer with her jet black hair pulled back with little butterfly clips and that scent of vanilla that followed her like so many admirers -- these weren’t the people they are now; these were the people they were then, back in the day, so to speak, back when the album I currently had blaring in my headphones was one of my mainstays. Pete’s cigarette ash looked close to teetering, but if he was worried about it, it didn’t show. “Seriously man, you still listening to this metal shit?”
“What?” I was totally thrown off. Were these really my friends from over a decade and a half ago standing before me in this gym? What were they doing here? Why these three? Were there more coming? Was one of my exes about to walk through that door?
“You’re what, 30-something now dude?” asked 17, 18, maybe 19 year old Chad. “You haven’t mellowed out yet?”
“What? No! I mean, yes, I have. I haven’t listened to this in years. I--what’s your problem? You come from the past to hassle me about my music?”
“Who is this again?” asked Jennifer.
“Fucking Pantera,” drawled Pete. “Y’all, I remember this fool used to play this shit all the time. And sometimes he’d strap on that guitar of his and fucking play along with it. He’d be all--” and then he proceeded to demonstrate for Chad and Jen what I looked like when I did my dorm room rock god routine. I don’t recall being quite so spastic, but I didn’t argue. I was faintly aware of a guitar solo emanating from my dislodged ear buds. I left it alone, leaving Dimebag Darrell, R.I.P., to do as he pleased.
“Okay Pete, first of all, fuck you dude. I couldn’t listen to classic rock for an entire year after living with you. A year! You made me not want to listen to Zeppelin! And The Doors still irritate me.”
“And you’re still wearing that?” asked Chad, pointing at the ratty old Tool tee-shirt I was sporting.
“Oh my god! You had that in college!” said Jennifer.
 |
| Holeyer than thou |
“Trav, come on.” said Jen. “I had slightly higher hopes for you than this. Buy some clothes, would you?”
“I’m just wearing it to exercise!” I protested.
“It’s like you haven’t grown up at all.” she continued.
“Yes I have! Seriously, look at this thing. It’s covered in holes. I only wear it to work out or to mow the lawn or -- oh! I have a lawn! I have gardens! I have kids! A wife! Chickens! See? Grown-up stuff.”
“So are you still listening to Tool?” asked Chad.
“On occasion, yeah, and so are you, I might add. Current you, I mean. In fact, you just saw them in concert not long ago.”
“Really? They’re still around?”
“Yep. You went and put the pictures up on your Facebook.”
“What’s a face book?” he asked.
“A book with faces in it?” said Jennifer.
“Why would I put pictures of a concert in a face book?”
“Maybe they were pictures of faces?”
“That sounds stupid.”
“It is stupid.” I said.
“So hey man,” said Pete, “it looks like you ain’t done a whole lot with yourself since college, huh?”
“What?!” I laughed because this had all become so ludicrous. A crackhead was standing here telling me that I hadn’t done much with my life. Three inches of ash hung precariously off the end of his cigarette. “Dude, I’ve done plenty. Probably more than you have, wherever the fuck you are. For all I know you’re fucking dead.”
“Oh now that’s just mean.” said Jennifer.
“Naw, he may well be right.” said Pete. “I ain’t exactly been walking a righteous path.”
“Still, it’s not a nice thing to say.” she said, looking at me. “Be nice.”
“Yeah,” said Chad. “It’s not our fault you’re all old and still pissed off, listening to this shit.”
“I’m not old.” I said.
“They playing Metallica on classic rock radio yet?” he asked
“He was always so angry.” said Jen. “What were so angry about anyway?”
“I wasn’t--! Look, is there something you need from me? Something you need to tell me? Or did you just travel into the future to give me shit?”
“You’re being awfully defensive.” said Jennifer.
“No I’m not!”
My hostility, it was increasing.
“You fuckers are standing here giving me shit about my life just because you happened to catch me listening to Pantera for the first time in literally years when in fact I’ve...” and I started babbling, stammering, spilling out an incoherent bullet list of my life in no particular order, things I’d done, things that had happened to me, accomplishments, failures, the most random of memories, any and every thing I could think of to prove that my life hadn’t gone on pause all this time, that I’d been living, doing. And it wasn’t until I heard myself actually say, “I’m a different person now!” It was only then, as I stood there with cool air-conditioned sweat dripping down my face, that I looked at the three of them and realized the obvious.
These stupid kids don’t know a damn thing.
Well, they know how to travel through time
I suppose there’s that.
I laughed. “You fucking kids...you don’t know shit, you know that?” And then they laughed, seemingly with me rather than at me for the first time during this exchange. The ash of Pete’s cigarette fell to the floor whole and silently exploded into dust on the industrial carpet. He didn’t seem to notice. We just stood there laughing like idiots. A gym employee passed through, but barely gave us a glance.
With the tables flipped over in my favor, I thought I’d have some fun and drop a few hints about what the future had in store for them.
“So Chad...” I started, ever thought about joining the Army? But before I put voice to the question, he disappeared. Pop. The air rushed to fill the space that had become unoccupied so quickly. Jen and Pete looked at each other, at me, then they disappeared too. Pop. Pop.
Well, I thought, that was....
By this time I was all cooled off and didn’t much feel like hopping back into the routine. I shouldered my backpack and headed out the door, slipping the buds back into my ears. It was right in the middle of a song.
....then when confronted we ask them the questionHell if I know, Phil. Hell if I know.
What's wrong with their mind?!?!
What's wrong with your mind?!?!
Monday, May 10, 2010
We Are Not For Them
I've been trying to spend more of my free time doing this writing thing, trying to bring some closure to some things I've been working on, get some other things started, keep some of my longer term plans going so they don't stall out like so many projects before them. I've even succeeded here and there. Some of it may end up on this site, some over at DadCentric. The rest of it, uh, won't. In the meantime, here's a cool video for a cool song by one of my favorite new-to-me artists. It seems to kind of say it all.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Fat Cigars and Bass Guitars
One morning not too long ago, on the way to drop my kids at daycare, I was waiting at a red light when what should pass before me but a perfectly fine excellent example of a quintessential old man. He navigated his shiny gold Chrysler slowly through the intersection. Funny, though it was a newer model, it still seemed to float with the boatlike grace of a much older vehicle. Fedora on his head, suit on his back, big fat cigar nestled between a smile that told me there just had to be music in that car. Something big-bandy and jazzy.
After dropping the boys off, I found myself waiting at yet another red light because that’s just the kind of luck I have. Walking through a parking lot next to me was a boy of about sixteen. He wore those tight jeans that all the kids are so fond of these days and a Batman tee-shirt of the style that was so popular around the time that Tim Burton’s take on the Caped Crusader hit theaters. But the detail most compelling about this lad was the black bass guitar he carried. He had it slung over his shoulder as if it were a literal axe. No case, no amp, just the instrument itself, as if he’d just gotten his hands on it, perhaps borrowed or purchased after scrimping and saving for months so he could finally take that first step from just listening to music to making it. I hoped he wasn’t headed to a pawn shop.
I saved an entire summer to buy my first guitar. I know it sounds like a fucking Bryan Adams song, but it’s true. It was a black Ibanez and it had a whammy bar. Nobody should die without striking a power chord at least once in their life.
Have you ever had a thought just pop into your head? Of course you have. I might as well ask if you’ve ever farted at an inopportune moment. As I pulled away from that intersection, it occurred to me, “I bet that kid is that old guy’s grandson.” Why in the world I thought it, why it should be so, I can’t tell you. But I liked the idea. I liked the thought of this cigar-chomping old man and his teenage grandson riding around in that gold Chrysler, each trying to impress upon the other an appreciation for the music that they loved. Like maybe after a few of Benny Goodman’s greatest hits, the old fellow would let the boy pop in his band’s CD. And even if it’s not his cup of tea, which of course it won’t be because nothing compares to the music of one’s youth, the old man will glow with pride that his grandchild is doing his part to organize sound and noise into something recognizable as music.
It’s true, no music touches us as deeply as the music of our formative years. All the same, I hate it when people bitch that there hasn’t been any good music created in X number of years where X = Bitching Person’s Current Age - Bitching Person’s Most Recent Formative Age (typically somewhere between 18 and 23).
The old man pulls up to a house, the house of his grandson’s friend, the friend whose dad has a bunch of old musical equipment in the garage that he lets the kids use, even though he hates their sound. They sit for a moment, letting the song finish. The old man has softened a bit with age, and finds it easier to express to his grandson the kind of praise that he wishes he had lauded more freely upon his own children. He was always proud of them, sure, but for whatever reason, he was never able to muster the kind of enthusiasm for his children’s pursuits that he feels for this boy’s first foray into making music. The boy gets his bass out of the back seat and goes to band practice smelling like cigar smoke.
At least that’s the way I imagined it.
After dropping the boys off, I found myself waiting at yet another red light because that’s just the kind of luck I have. Walking through a parking lot next to me was a boy of about sixteen. He wore those tight jeans that all the kids are so fond of these days and a Batman tee-shirt of the style that was so popular around the time that Tim Burton’s take on the Caped Crusader hit theaters. But the detail most compelling about this lad was the black bass guitar he carried. He had it slung over his shoulder as if it were a literal axe. No case, no amp, just the instrument itself, as if he’d just gotten his hands on it, perhaps borrowed or purchased after scrimping and saving for months so he could finally take that first step from just listening to music to making it. I hoped he wasn’t headed to a pawn shop.
I saved an entire summer to buy my first guitar. I know it sounds like a fucking Bryan Adams song, but it’s true. It was a black Ibanez and it had a whammy bar. Nobody should die without striking a power chord at least once in their life.
Have you ever had a thought just pop into your head? Of course you have. I might as well ask if you’ve ever farted at an inopportune moment. As I pulled away from that intersection, it occurred to me, “I bet that kid is that old guy’s grandson.” Why in the world I thought it, why it should be so, I can’t tell you. But I liked the idea. I liked the thought of this cigar-chomping old man and his teenage grandson riding around in that gold Chrysler, each trying to impress upon the other an appreciation for the music that they loved. Like maybe after a few of Benny Goodman’s greatest hits, the old fellow would let the boy pop in his band’s CD. And even if it’s not his cup of tea, which of course it won’t be because nothing compares to the music of one’s youth, the old man will glow with pride that his grandchild is doing his part to organize sound and noise into something recognizable as music.
It’s true, no music touches us as deeply as the music of our formative years. All the same, I hate it when people bitch that there hasn’t been any good music created in X number of years where X = Bitching Person’s Current Age - Bitching Person’s Most Recent Formative Age (typically somewhere between 18 and 23).
The old man pulls up to a house, the house of his grandson’s friend, the friend whose dad has a bunch of old musical equipment in the garage that he lets the kids use, even though he hates their sound. They sit for a moment, letting the song finish. The old man has softened a bit with age, and finds it easier to express to his grandson the kind of praise that he wishes he had lauded more freely upon his own children. He was always proud of them, sure, but for whatever reason, he was never able to muster the kind of enthusiasm for his children’s pursuits that he feels for this boy’s first foray into making music. The boy gets his bass out of the back seat and goes to band practice smelling like cigar smoke.
At least that’s the way I imagined it.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
A Song For Grandma
A hospital room. An old woman lies unconscious in the bed. She’s attached to a whole variety of machines that beep and chirp and whoosh and buzz. It’s just her on stage for a bit, long enough to establish the rhythm of these machines helping to keep her alive.
The door opens and Mama walks in, followed by her two sons, Lance and Chris. They are both in their early 20’s. Lance wears military fatigues and his hair is buzzed Marine length. He carries an acoustic guitar. Chris is dressed in ill-fitting khakis and a polo shirt that bears the emblem of the shitty retail establishment where he works his shitty job. He even has a shitty little nametag. He carries a small portable stereo. Lance and Chris are both a bit emotional at the sight of the old woman in the bed. They kneel at her side.
Now she’s unconscious, but the doctor says she can still hear you.
Pause. Lance and Chris struggle with tears.
The boys look at each other.
Grandma? It’s me, your Chrissy.
Turns back to Grandma, starts to speak, but can’t. Smacks Lance again.
Damn dude, you made me forget what I was gonna say!
Chris smacks him hard, Lance smacks back, a smack fight ensues, a continuation of the same smack fight that they’ve had going since they were little boys.
They stop.
MAMAJust say whatever you would say to her normally.
Mama adjusts Grandma’s bed, her pillows, and her head so that she’s facing towards the boys. But of course, her eyes are still closed. Both boys are freaked out.
MAMAOh for heaven’s sakes! You can go halfway around the world to get shot at by a bunch of Muslims but you can’t even talk to your grandma without turning into a big baby.
Chris is also crying now.
MAMAWell it ain't doing her a damn bit of good having you two come in here and bawl like a couple of babies. Good lord. Now pull it together, the both of you. Chris, why don’t you tell your grandma something nice that you remember about her?
Pause for a moment.
Lance nods.
Lance nods.
Pause.
Lance grabs his guitar and starts tuning it.
Chris queues up the portable stereo. Lance is seated, guitar in his lap, ready to play.
Lance nods. Chris presses play on the stereo which bursts forth with a southern-style hip-hop beat. Chris dances accordingly, Lance bobs his head and taps his foot, but he does not, I repeat, he does NOT play a note on his guitar. Mama sits and watches, seemingly pleased.
Finally it’s lyrics time. Lance and Chris trade off back and forth.
This repeats for as long as necessary in order for it to go from ridiculous to just plain stupid. Somewhere during the song a nurse enters to check some vitals. She pays them absolutely no mind while she goes about her business, then exits.
The song finally ends with boy boys yelling:
Lance strums an A-minor chord.
Lance stands, chest puffed out all fighting rooster-style.
MAMABoys! That’s enough. It sounded very nice, whatever chord it was.
The boys take turns kissing Grandma goodbye and telling her they love her. They exit, followed by Mama.
Grandma is once again alone on stage, and I find myself with a choice to make. Part of me wants to do something fucked up like have her heart stop, as indicated by having her heartbeat monitor go flat line, with the little beeps suddenly turning into a long continuous beep. Nurses rushing in and all that. But that seems so cliche. On the other hand, I want to do something kind of sweet like have her give a sign of life, maybe a twitch of her hand, or maybe even open her eyes, maybe even say something. But that seems cliche too.
I seem to run into this question a lot in my writing: do the fucked up thing or the sort of sweet thing?
In the end, what I would probably go with is to have nothing change. Just leave Grandma on stage, just as she was at the beginning, as the lights fade out. Visiting hours are over.
What'chall think?
The door opens and Mama walks in, followed by her two sons, Lance and Chris. They are both in their early 20’s. Lance wears military fatigues and his hair is buzzed Marine length. He carries an acoustic guitar. Chris is dressed in ill-fitting khakis and a polo shirt that bears the emblem of the shitty retail establishment where he works his shitty job. He even has a shitty little nametag. He carries a small portable stereo. Lance and Chris are both a bit emotional at the sight of the old woman in the bed. They kneel at her side.
MAMA
Pause. Lance and Chris struggle with tears.
MAMA
Well go on, say something to her. The boys look at each other.
LANCE
You first, dude.CHRIS
Works up nerveGrandma? It’s me, your Chrissy.
Lance chuckles. Chris smacks him.
CHRIS
Me and Lance came to see you. LANCE
I came from Iraq.CHRIS
Shut up, dude! Damn. Always interrupting. Turns back to Grandma, starts to speak, but can’t. Smacks Lance again.
Damn dude, you made me forget what I was gonna say!
LANCE
I didn’t make you do nothing. CHRIS
Dumb jarhead. LANCE
At least I got in.Chris smacks him hard, Lance smacks back, a smack fight ensues, a continuation of the same smack fight that they’ve had going since they were little boys.
MAMA
Boys!They stop.
MAMA
I swear, what is the matter with you two? If y’all can’t behave for Grandma, then by God, you might as well just go on home. Honestly. Now Chris, you’ve had your chance to speak, why don’t you let your brother take a turn?LANCE
I don’t know what to say. MAMA
LANCE
But she ain’t normal.MAMA
Well just pretend she is. Just.....here. Mama adjusts Grandma’s bed, her pillows, and her head so that she’s facing towards the boys. But of course, her eyes are still closed. Both boys are freaked out.
MAMA
There now, just pretend like she’s got her eyes open and y’all are having a little visit.
Lance clearly does not like this. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He babbles for a few moments, then breaks down in tears. Chris is too freaked out to even make fun of his brother for crying.
MAMA
LANCE
She’s not right!Chris is also crying now.
MAMA
CHRIS
Uh, well, uh....LANCE
Fig newtons. CHRIS
Fig newtons! LANCE
In that glass cookie jar up on the counter in her kitchen. CHRIS
Next to the T.V.LANCE
And she kept that old step stool right there next to it. CHRIS
So we could reach ‘em when we were little. Damn, I don’t even like Fig Newtons, but I ate a ton of ‘em every time we were over there. LANCE
Me neither. They only tasted good at Grandma’s house. Pause for a moment.
LANCE
I been in Iraq, Grandma. I been being careful like you told me to. Ain’t nothing bad happened yet. Not to me anyway. Dude in my company got blown up pretty bad.CHRIS
You shoot anybody yet? Lance shakes his head. Chris nods understanding.
CHRIS
Seen anybody get shot?Lance nods.
CHRIS
Bad guys? Lance nods.
CHRIS
Cool.Pause.
MAMA
Boys, why don’t y’all tell Grandma about your music? CHRIS
Oh yeah. Um, should I just tell her about it?MAMA
Well of course. Go on. LANCE
Go ahead, dude. CHRIS
Grandma, you remember how me and Lance used to have a band with Trevor and them? We had to quit when Lance went off to the Marines.LANCE
Y’all ain’t had to. CHRIS
We ain’t had no guitar player, dummy. LANCE
What about Lucy’s brother? CHRIS
I don’t like that dude. I’m trying to talk to Grandma here. LANCE
Then talk. CHRIS
Damn. Um....what was I saying?LANCE
The new song. Lance grabs his guitar and starts tuning it.
CHRIS
Oh right. Um, Grandma, we been writing this new song since Lance got back a couple of days ago. We were gonna play it for you, if you want us to.MAMA
I think she’d like that. LANCE
You sure the doctors and them ain’t gonna mind?MAMA
We’re paying for a private room, ain’t we?CHRIS
You sure she can hear us?MAMA
I don't see why not. Go on. Play your song.Chris queues up the portable stereo. Lance is seated, guitar in his lap, ready to play.
CHRIS
Ready? Lance nods. Chris presses play on the stereo which bursts forth with a southern-style hip-hop beat. Chris dances accordingly, Lance bobs his head and taps his foot, but he does not, I repeat, he does NOT play a note on his guitar. Mama sits and watches, seemingly pleased.
Finally it’s lyrics time. Lance and Chris trade off back and forth.
Bitch!
Take them panties off!
Take them panties off!
Bitch!
Take them panties off!
Take them panties off!
Take em off!
Take them panties off!
Take them panties off!
Bitch!
Take them panties off!
Take them panties off!
Bitch!
Take them panties off!
Take them panties off!
Take em off!
Take them panties off!
Take them panties off!
This repeats for as long as necessary in order for it to go from ridiculous to just plain stupid. Somewhere during the song a nurse enters to check some vitals. She pays them absolutely no mind while she goes about her business, then exits.
The song finally ends with boy boys yelling:
Beeeyotch!
Lance strums an A-minor chord.
CHRIS
Dumbass! E-minor!LANCE
I like A-minor better. CHRIS
I don't care what you like. It’s supposed to be an E. LANCE
Says you. CHRIS
That’s right, says me. LANCE
I’m the guitar player.CHRIS
You’re the dipshit. Lance stands, chest puffed out all fighting rooster-style.
MAMA
LANCE
A-minor.MAMA
Okay, that’s probably enough for today. We should get going. We’re meeting your Aunt Louise at the Golden Corral in 30 minutes and I need to swing by the Wal-Mart for some pantyhose. Y’all kiss Grandma goodbye now.The boys take turns kissing Grandma goodbye and telling her they love her. They exit, followed by Mama.
Grandma is once again alone on stage, and I find myself with a choice to make. Part of me wants to do something fucked up like have her heart stop, as indicated by having her heartbeat monitor go flat line, with the little beeps suddenly turning into a long continuous beep. Nurses rushing in and all that. But that seems so cliche. On the other hand, I want to do something kind of sweet like have her give a sign of life, maybe a twitch of her hand, or maybe even open her eyes, maybe even say something. But that seems cliche too.
I seem to run into this question a lot in my writing: do the fucked up thing or the sort of sweet thing?
In the end, what I would probably go with is to have nothing change. Just leave Grandma on stage, just as she was at the beginning, as the lights fade out. Visiting hours are over.
What'chall think?
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Wanderer
Shaolin shadowboxing,
“Hmm?”
and the Wu-Tang sword style.
“Whazz?”
If what you say is true, the Shaolin and the Wu-Tang could be dangerous.
“The hell?”
Do you think your Wu-Tang sword can defeat me?
That’s the kind of question that pulls you out of your sleep, especially when you haven’t the faintest idea who’s asking it. It was then that I rolled over to find the almost-two year old, my almost-two year old, sitting on the floor next to the bed holding my swiss army phone. He had pulled up the iPod and found his way to the Wu-Tang Clan’s 36 Chambers album, and hit play on track 1, “Bring Da Ruckus,” which opens with the dialogue sample above. He smiled up at me, overjoyed either by his own cleverness or by the fact that I was awake.
This was how I started that day.
We only just switched the little guy from his elevated cage of a crib to a toddler bed that he can easily climb in and out of. Actually, it had gotten to the point where climbing in and out of his crib was only a slightly greater challenge for him. We had this silly notion that when he woke up in the morning, he would enjoy being able to climb out of bed and play with his toys while we slept soundly. This vision has not yet manifested itself in our reality. Instead, he’s developed this pattern where he toddles downstairs to our room, walks his little self all the way around the bed to my side, and climbs in with me. He brings Cookie Monster too. He wiggles and talks and makes with all manner of the cuteness, which is nifty and all, but it brings the sleeping part of bed occupancy to an end. Apparently, he likes his parents better than his toys. Which is just goddamn inconvenient.
Protective helicopter parent that I am, I snatched the phone out of his little hands before The RZA began shouting for somebody to bring the mothafuckin ruckus. Not sure who he’s talking to, but he really wants them to get on with this ruckus bringing business.
The second night he was in the new bed, The Ash awoke to the sound of a repetitive clicking noise somewhere in the house. Just imagine that. Dark house, middle of the night. All is quiet save the hum of the baby monitor, and somewhere across the house, click.......click.........click. She followed it out of our bedroom, past eldest’s room, through the living and the dining where she found the little guy standing at the door that leads out to the garage, locking and unlocking the knob-lock. Had the deadbolt not been set, he’d have wandered into the garage where we would still be searching for him in all the accumulated debris.
I wonder what he thought about as he wandered through the house in the dark, unmonitored. I’m free! Free! I have vague memories of being little and wandering around the house at night. I remember doing that at my grandparent’s enormous house and feeling like I was really up to something dangerous, even though I never set foot outside. Freedom is relative, I guess. And the little guy just acquired a wee bit more.
Friday, March 20, 2009
I would have gone with The Hospital Bombers myself
So I'm sorry to be posting one of those crappy youtube videos where it's just a single image all the way through, but I didn't get around to researching a better way to put a song in a post, but at least this way you get a look at the album cover, for what it's worth.
This is my current favorite song, and it has been stuck in my head for like three weeks now. Perhaps it's because I grew up in Texas, and thus can recognize Jeff and Cyrus so very well. They're good kids, just a little misunderstood, and probably smarter than you give them credit for.
This is my current favorite song, and it has been stuck in my head for like three weeks now. Perhaps it's because I grew up in Texas, and thus can recognize Jeff and Cyrus so very well. They're good kids, just a little misunderstood, and probably smarter than you give them credit for.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The Happy Song
So if yesterday's post with the most was about the songs that were implanted in my brain during my childhood, then today's is about the music being drilled into the skull filler of my own children. I guess it was about a couple of months ago that my eldest started developing his infatuation with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. It started with just one song, "Pin", a 2 minute bit of rocking goodness that he affectionately dubbed with the alternate title of "Dinna Dinna" because of the chorus, which goes pretty much
I have no intention of carrying out this experiment. Our morning commute's a bit longer than two minutes, so I had to expand our listening into the rest of the band's repertoire. It took a bit of doing to convince Henry that there might actually be another song that he'd like, but he came around, and I figured out that as long as it was rocking enough, he would dig it. Of course, some of the songs have a bit of profanity, so you'll have to excuse the kid if he ever refers to you as a "no good di-i-i-i-i-i-i-ick" or tells you he's got a man that makes him wanna kill. He doesn't mean it.
So now we had a bit of variety in the music of our morning commute, though not quite enough. While we were no longer listening to just one song, we were still listening to just one band, which eventually has the same affect, though it takes longer to set in. One day, I'd just had enough. Much love to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, but I needed something else. I don't know why I chose it, but something else turned out to be "Gratitude" by the Beastie Boys. I popped it on, assuring the boychild that awesomeness was on the way. I watched his face in the rearview as the opening riff played. Then the lyrics. After the first verse, he asked me an interesting question.
"What's this one about, Daddy?"
Holy shit, I thought, he knows that songs can be about stuff.
"It's, uh," think Holmes think, this is important! "It's about being happy!" Oh brilliant. "Yeah, it's about being happy with yourself and what you've got."
"Like with my toys?"
"Uh..." sort of? maybe? not exactly? "Sure!"
Since then, I've always been able to work in a bit of the Beastie Boys along with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, especially when I play "Gratitude" aka "The Happy Song." I had to take the boys with me to the store this evening and it happened to come up in the rotation. When we got home, Henry walked into the house and started singing to noone in particular.
"Gratitude. And that's riiight. Gratitude. And that's riiight."
Music to my ears.
BOM BOM BOM BOMAs for the rest of the lyrics, I don't know. They might be dirty or they might be telling a story from a grenade's point of view or they might be about acupuncture gone horribly wrong or the plight of a mounted insect or something else entirely. Who am I to say? Sure, it's an awesome enough song, but it's only 2 minutes, and it's the only song he wanted to hear, and, well, have you ever listened to one 2 minute song over and over and over and over and over again? It's a pretty surefire way to start building a hatred towards a song, any song. But I have to wonder, if you pushed through the hatred and kept listening, would a certain type of madness set in? Would you begin to love and need the song in a sick desperate kind of way? Would you begin to identify with its plight, like some sort of musical Stockholm Syndrome?
BOM BOM BOM BOM
DINNA
DINNA
DINNA
DINNA
I have no intention of carrying out this experiment. Our morning commute's a bit longer than two minutes, so I had to expand our listening into the rest of the band's repertoire. It took a bit of doing to convince Henry that there might actually be another song that he'd like, but he came around, and I figured out that as long as it was rocking enough, he would dig it. Of course, some of the songs have a bit of profanity, so you'll have to excuse the kid if he ever refers to you as a "no good di-i-i-i-i-i-i-ick" or tells you he's got a man that makes him wanna kill. He doesn't mean it.
So now we had a bit of variety in the music of our morning commute, though not quite enough. While we were no longer listening to just one song, we were still listening to just one band, which eventually has the same affect, though it takes longer to set in. One day, I'd just had enough. Much love to the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, but I needed something else. I don't know why I chose it, but something else turned out to be "Gratitude" by the Beastie Boys. I popped it on, assuring the boychild that awesomeness was on the way. I watched his face in the rearview as the opening riff played. Then the lyrics. After the first verse, he asked me an interesting question.
"What's this one about, Daddy?"
Holy shit, I thought, he knows that songs can be about stuff.
"It's, uh," think Holmes think, this is important! "It's about being happy!" Oh brilliant. "Yeah, it's about being happy with yourself and what you've got."
"Like with my toys?"
"Uh..." sort of? maybe? not exactly? "Sure!"
Since then, I've always been able to work in a bit of the Beastie Boys along with the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, especially when I play "Gratitude" aka "The Happy Song." I had to take the boys with me to the store this evening and it happened to come up in the rotation. When we got home, Henry walked into the house and started singing to noone in particular.
"Gratitude. And that's riiight. Gratitude. And that's riiight."
Music to my ears.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Merle Fucking Haggard
Man, all's I know is that I got in the car the other day around lunchtime, turned it on, and the radio was parked on the public radio station where I left it that morning. And what comes out of my speakers but an Austin City Limits recording from the 70's of Merle Haggard singing his song, "Silver Wings."
And I just...sang.
I have not heard that song in a good two decades, but when I was a kid, I must have heard it a bajillion times on trips that my Mom and I took. Back then, my grandparents lived down in the Rio Grande Valley, so every time we went to see them -- Thanksgiving, Christmas, weeks during the summer -- we packed up the car and set out on an 8 hour journey down the Eastern leg of Texas. And along with our luggage and my arsenal of toys, we always packed up these two fake leather cassette tape carriers of my mom's, both filled to capacity with tapes of all the stuff she liked, mostly stuff that I would find absolutely torturous today, but that I liked just fine back then. Let's see, besides old Merle, there was George Strait, Lee Greenwood, Eddie Rabbitt, Alabama, Conway Twitty, Barbara Mandrell, Dolly Parton, Tammy Wynette -- I guess Dolly and Tammy are aight -- and, oh God, have you ever heard of this clown named, are you ready for this? Englebert Humperdinck. I think even as a kid, I gave my mom shit about that one, if only for his name.
So yeah, not exactly my current tastes. But when I heard that song, it just clicked and I knew every last word. I didn't even have to dig back into my memory, the lyrics were just right there. I can't say I particularly like that song all that much, but I like the associations, the pictures that come up when I think about it. I didn't even mind having it rolling around in my head for the rest of the afternoon.
God, music is just the best.
And I just...sang.
I have not heard that song in a good two decades, but when I was a kid, I must have heard it a bajillion times on trips that my Mom and I took. Back then, my grandparents lived down in the Rio Grande Valley, so every time we went to see them -- Thanksgiving, Christmas, weeks during the summer -- we packed up the car and set out on an 8 hour journey down the Eastern leg of Texas. And along with our luggage and my arsenal of toys, we always packed up these two fake leather cassette tape carriers of my mom's, both filled to capacity with tapes of all the stuff she liked, mostly stuff that I would find absolutely torturous today, but that I liked just fine back then. Let's see, besides old Merle, there was George Strait, Lee Greenwood, Eddie Rabbitt, Alabama, Conway Twitty, Barbara Mandrell, Dolly Parton, Tammy Wynette -- I guess Dolly and Tammy are aight -- and, oh God, have you ever heard of this clown named, are you ready for this? Englebert Humperdinck. I think even as a kid, I gave my mom shit about that one, if only for his name.
So yeah, not exactly my current tastes. But when I heard that song, it just clicked and I knew every last word. I didn't even have to dig back into my memory, the lyrics were just right there. I can't say I particularly like that song all that much, but I like the associations, the pictures that come up when I think about it. I didn't even mind having it rolling around in my head for the rest of the afternoon.
God, music is just the best.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
I Build and I Sing and I Sing and I Build
My mom's Christmas present to the boys was a big backyard playset, complete with swings, a slide, a treehouse, the whole works. It arrived at my house in three enormous cardboard boxes, every piece separate, not a lick of it pre-assembled or labeled. I've now devoted approximately 2.5 days to its construction, and I estimate I've got at least another day left before it's done.
Most of today was spent working on the enclosed cabin part of the structure. This is the place where I predict the boys will go when they're mad at us. I expect those walls will be witness to many a hatched plan, conspired conspiracy, and gathering of small people. I wonder how long until one of them decides to snag some extra fabric from Mom's sewing room to hang in the windows so's nobody can see what they're up to.
Anyway, while I was sitting four feet off the ground in the cabin, Henry kept looking up at me and asking if he could climb up with me. I kept telling him that he couldn't come up until I had it all built, but then it occurred to me, aw crap, once thing thing is all put together, he'll be climbing all over it. I wonder how long before the first good fall? I gotta shred me up some tires before somebody breaks an arm.
So while I was screwing in the billion-odd wooden slats that make up the house's walls, I had rap lyrics running through my head, one of which was Talib Kweli saying "It's a small wonder like Vicki/that I'm picky..." and I don't remember what comes after that, but I got stuck on that part because my internal singer--you know, the little person inside your head that sings when you don't feel like singing out for all the world to hear? Well that little guy started singing the theme song to "Small Wonder." And before I knew it, he'd sung the whole goddamn song. I let my drill hang at my side and took my finger off of its trigger while I let that little fact sink in: Holmes, you know the entire theme song to "Small Wonder." Sometimes when I remember old shows like that, I'm not certain if I should trust my memory. Like "Parker Lewis Can't Lose" or "Square Pegs." I ask myself, were these shows really on T.V. at one point? Or do I just have some false memory of them? Could it be that perhaps I was the only person in the world watching them?
I was pondering all of this later on while I was rocking Simon to sleep. It occurred to me that I could've tweeted about knowing the "Small Wonder" theme, but the moment was passed. Ah well, I can live with a bit of tweetgret.
Tweetgret: noun. The feeling of regret that one experiences upon realizing that an opportunity to tweet has passed.
I shouldn't have been surprised that I knew that song. My brain is a magnet for lyrics that I don't want to remember. Like the other day, I was being silly and I started singing the chorus to a Tori Amos song, thinking that I would only sing a line or two, but then I realized that I knew the whole fucking thing. And yes, I sang it out. You might say I belted it. I'm not what you'd call a Tori Amos fan, more like an antifan. But somehow, every woman that I've ever dated, married, or otherwise had cause to exchange fluids with over the course of a significant span of time has been a Tori devotee. Which is why if you put on Little Earthquakes, I could probably sing along with 80 - 99% of it. And I'd do it too, just out of spite. Spite for who or what? Can't say, my friends. I just can't say.
Maybe I'll post about the holidays at some point.
Most of today was spent working on the enclosed cabin part of the structure. This is the place where I predict the boys will go when they're mad at us. I expect those walls will be witness to many a hatched plan, conspired conspiracy, and gathering of small people. I wonder how long until one of them decides to snag some extra fabric from Mom's sewing room to hang in the windows so's nobody can see what they're up to.
Anyway, while I was sitting four feet off the ground in the cabin, Henry kept looking up at me and asking if he could climb up with me. I kept telling him that he couldn't come up until I had it all built, but then it occurred to me, aw crap, once thing thing is all put together, he'll be climbing all over it. I wonder how long before the first good fall? I gotta shred me up some tires before somebody breaks an arm.
So while I was screwing in the billion-odd wooden slats that make up the house's walls, I had rap lyrics running through my head, one of which was Talib Kweli saying "It's a small wonder like Vicki/that I'm picky..." and I don't remember what comes after that, but I got stuck on that part because my internal singer--you know, the little person inside your head that sings when you don't feel like singing out for all the world to hear? Well that little guy started singing the theme song to "Small Wonder." And before I knew it, he'd sung the whole goddamn song. I let my drill hang at my side and took my finger off of its trigger while I let that little fact sink in: Holmes, you know the entire theme song to "Small Wonder." Sometimes when I remember old shows like that, I'm not certain if I should trust my memory. Like "Parker Lewis Can't Lose" or "Square Pegs." I ask myself, were these shows really on T.V. at one point? Or do I just have some false memory of them? Could it be that perhaps I was the only person in the world watching them?
I was pondering all of this later on while I was rocking Simon to sleep. It occurred to me that I could've tweeted about knowing the "Small Wonder" theme, but the moment was passed. Ah well, I can live with a bit of tweetgret.
Tweetgret: noun. The feeling of regret that one experiences upon realizing that an opportunity to tweet has passed.
I shouldn't have been surprised that I knew that song. My brain is a magnet for lyrics that I don't want to remember. Like the other day, I was being silly and I started singing the chorus to a Tori Amos song, thinking that I would only sing a line or two, but then I realized that I knew the whole fucking thing. And yes, I sang it out. You might say I belted it. I'm not what you'd call a Tori Amos fan, more like an antifan. But somehow, every woman that I've ever dated, married, or otherwise had cause to exchange fluids with over the course of a significant span of time has been a Tori devotee. Which is why if you put on Little Earthquakes, I could probably sing along with 80 - 99% of it. And I'd do it too, just out of spite. Spite for who or what? Can't say, my friends. I just can't say.
Maybe I'll post about the holidays at some point.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Further Dispatches From The Holmesfront
Between all the rememberating that's been going on here on this little blog, there's also been a wee bit going on around here in real life, and some of it might even be worth recording for my posterity's posterity to look back on and think, "Damn, Grampa T wasn't always an incoherent ass-grabber." So let me drop a few bullet points.
- Crawlariffic - this kid'll be mobile soon. He sees his big bro on the go, and he wants to join in the fun. Once that happens, I get to join the ranks of y'all who already get to enjoy chasing multiple kiddos around. It should make trips to places like Target that much more life-affirming.
Oh, and let's not forget the sitting up:
So much better than the spitting up:
- Agree to disagree - so I knew kids could be disagreeable little beast dwarves at times. What I was not prepared for, however, was my child's ability to completely ignore any and all facets of this thing called reality, even when they are sitting right there in front of him, politely introducing themselves. "Hi there, I don't believe we've met. We're Facts. And you are?" Here are a few things Henry has argued with me about in the past few weeks:
- I am beautiful in the mornings:
This is not so much news, but more of a reminder. Don't front, you know you'd love to peer over your morning coffee at this vision of manly loveliness.
- I am the best husband on my block - So we bought one of those little kiddo crawly tubes from Ikea so that Henry could have something to crawl through other than the underside of our deck. I stepped out of the shower one lovely weekend morning to hear my wife calling for help. I walked downstairs and found this:
I hummed "Mack the Knife" to myself as I strolled to the office to fetch the camera, grabbed it with a flourish, then danced back to the playroom to snap a few pictures. The awareness that I was creating photographic evidence of her predicament served as sufficient motivator for The Ash to work her way out of the child-sized tube, so you see, I was actually just helping her out. And creating blog fodder. It should be noted also that I asked her if it was okay to blog about this, and got the yeah-totally-for-sure on the condition that I point out that she was NOT stuck because she's fat, because she's not fat. No, she was stuck because the tube is made for a child...so my wife isn't fat, she just doesn't think things through sometimes.
- Aesop Rock - Hip-hop show buddy and I headed out for another night of hipping and hopping, this time with the mighty Aesop Rock.
It's funny, I live in a city full of music, but on the rare occasion that I take a night out, this seems to be the music I'm interested in seeing lately. I may be on course for a bit of genre burnout, but no biggie.
- And one last thing - See this face? It's gonna rule the world.
- Crawlariffic - this kid'll be mobile soon. He sees his big bro on the go, and he wants to join in the fun. Once that happens, I get to join the ranks of y'all who already get to enjoy chasing multiple kiddos around. It should make trips to places like Target that much more life-affirming.
Oh, and let's not forget the sitting up:
So much better than the spitting up:
- Agree to disagree - so I knew kids could be disagreeable little beast dwarves at times. What I was not prepared for, however, was my child's ability to completely ignore any and all facets of this thing called reality, even when they are sitting right there in front of him, politely introducing themselves. "Hi there, I don't believe we've met. We're Facts. And you are?" Here are a few things Henry has argued with me about in the past few weeks:- Whether or not I am hungry...not him, but me.
- Whether or not the dog is hungry.
- Whether or not Simon is hungry/sleepy/upset.
- Whether or not I'm driving the right way to Grandma's (I was, thank you very much).
- Whether or not dinner is on the table.
- Which shoes I wanted to wear.
- Whether or not Yoda is a Jedi Master - I found this one particularly upsetting, so much so that I actually allowed myself to get pulled into the discussion. Always a mistake.
- I am beautiful in the mornings:
This is not so much news, but more of a reminder. Don't front, you know you'd love to peer over your morning coffee at this vision of manly loveliness.- I am the best husband on my block - So we bought one of those little kiddo crawly tubes from Ikea so that Henry could have something to crawl through other than the underside of our deck. I stepped out of the shower one lovely weekend morning to hear my wife calling for help. I walked downstairs and found this:
I hummed "Mack the Knife" to myself as I strolled to the office to fetch the camera, grabbed it with a flourish, then danced back to the playroom to snap a few pictures. The awareness that I was creating photographic evidence of her predicament served as sufficient motivator for The Ash to work her way out of the child-sized tube, so you see, I was actually just helping her out. And creating blog fodder. It should be noted also that I asked her if it was okay to blog about this, and got the yeah-totally-for-sure on the condition that I point out that she was NOT stuck because she's fat, because she's not fat. No, she was stuck because the tube is made for a child...so my wife isn't fat, she just doesn't think things through sometimes.- Aesop Rock - Hip-hop show buddy and I headed out for another night of hipping and hopping, this time with the mighty Aesop Rock.
It's funny, I live in a city full of music, but on the rare occasion that I take a night out, this seems to be the music I'm interested in seeing lately. I may be on course for a bit of genre burnout, but no biggie.- And one last thing - See this face? It's gonna rule the world.
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