Sometimes my drive home from you-know-where is like taking a train ride through Land of The Futile.
I always try to leave work at a reasonable time, which means about two hours after I was supposed to.
No matter how early I leave to get to work I am always ten minutes late, and no matter what time I attempt to leave I am always two hours late getting home. Strange indeed.
So I start my little tour of the absurd by sitting in traffic. There is always an abundance of traffic here. Thanks to my uncomfortable, fuel eating, overpriced lemon-of-a-VW for at least having a kick-ass stereo.
I sit in a molten pool of lower lumbar pain with Blixa Bargeld. Blixa asks me, "Wo ist der Schlussel? Wo ist mein Hut?" He then states, "Ich gehe jetzt."
Too bad I am not going too. I sit through the same traffic light for twenty minutes. Next to me an anemic skinny blonde in a Goliath SUV chats it up on her little silver phone. Never can tell when you might have to storm an Ann Taylor. Horse power always comes in handy to the weak.
As I look homeward (sorry Thomas W.) I am confronted by two scenes of total futility. A scrawny Hispanic man blows grass clippings into the street with a leaf blower only to have them curl back to the curb behind him as traffic whizzes by.
Undaunted he blows on. Of course this would not happen in my lane.
In front of him is a bronze, rather muscular woman riding a stand-up riding mower (imagine a chariot if you will, for heroic landscapers) talking on a cell phone. She screams into the phone and blows grass into the street and all over the little man walking behind her with the leaf blower.
Am I really getting up to do this all over again tomorrow?
Why can't I just stay home with my radiant inspiration and scramble eggs all day?
Royal sunbeam has really done well with the breast-free lifestyle so far. She sleeps a lot. Is this one of the first twelve steps?
I hope poor, tired wife is faring as well as she cruises L.A.
There is lot's of late night activity here at Camp Wean-Ray.
Special Royal Resident started off quiet enough, then became restless just as I was ready to say "all is well." to nervous wife on the telephone.
I said it anyway. I tried to be a good husband.
She has gotten up three times, downed three bottles of whole milk, two cups of water, and told me that she wanted to "go to Super Target to get Mommy."
She forgot that Mommy happens to be in "Cowifornifornifa"
It's too late to go to Super Target anyway. How many times can I feign interest in the same gaudy fiestaware-wannabes this week while Royal Shopper screams for Hello Kitty sunglasses?
I have decided to bend the rules and allow Special Royal Resident to sleep on the sofa for a little while as this seems to be the only place she wants to be.
Poor, tired wife and Aunt Mimi have arrived safely in LA. I have done my best to encourage "Mommy" to spend money like we actually have some, drink screwdrivers morning, noon and night, look up Dr. Dre and eat sushi for breakfast. But, I know she will toss and turn just like the little being on the couch behind me, and measure her days by the absence "nurse me's."
I can hear their bond stretching as I type. At the same time, I can also feel the love that they left with one another, love that is always within reaching distance in the middle of the night.
There is someone in my house that has no idea that she is about to be weaned.
Even though our little lacto-junky seems to understand that poor, tired wife is getting "into da airpawane and, um, and um, um gonna go ta Cowifornifornifa**" on Monday, little does she understand the rest. It's over. The well has run dry. Frank Sinatra is going to float between Hollywood-sized sets of poor, tired wife's arid breasts crooning "My Way" while royal daughter wanders about in the foreground looking confused.
**sort of sounds like Bobby Brown asking Whitney where the pills are stashed at a surprise traffic stop.
Kingdad and royal imp have prime seating for WeanFest. We are going to go through this particular Hell together. Well, ok, my mother-in-law is coming down to help, even though I told her that the vodka tonics are enough to nurse us through. She's a saint.
I am actually looking forward to this trial. Now I'll see if I'm half the dad I profess to be. Perhaps I should teach my little milk deprived music lover to sing, "I love it when you call me Big Poppa..."
What a wonderful welcome home this would be.
I never imagined that I could love anyone as much as I love my daughter.
Before we had her, people told us about this feeling, and I just feigned some crude understanding of what they meant. But when I first saw her and held her that early morning when she was born, what I had heard or thought about didn’t even scratch the surface.
There is no way on earth that I can tell you how much I love her, or anyone else now for that matter.
The world is full of weights and measures. Weighing and measuring and counting things is dull.
Love is just not meant to be tossed on the scale.
How can I quantify the elation I feel when my daughter shows me something that she made? Or she asks me to carry her when she is too tired to walk. Or swears, or laughs. I can’t. I can just tell you that at that moment every molecule that I am comprised of is charged with pure electric life.
This fiery little person is it for me!
It is so tragic to think that most of us spend more time coolly and quietly pushing headstones towards our graves than we do swooning at the sight and sound of someone we helplessly adore, someone or something that makes us feel slightly immortal for an instant.
People that do not love scare the shit out of me.
I just got back from seeing Einsturzende Neubauten.
I took my brother-in-law, who shall be referred to from here on out as Uncle Pants.
Uncle Pants is also one of my closest friends. Up until my last post, we were also in a band together. We started the band almost eleven years ago. Things were so much easier then, no wives, no kids and no steady incomes. Our lives were marinated in cheap malt liquor and enshrouded by cigarette smoke. Music is a great bond between us.
One day Pants was dumb enough to let me meet his sister. You'd think after all he knew about me he wouldn't have let that happen. But he did.
He kept a picture of sis on his mantle. Every time that I went over for a visit I would say, "Your sister sure looks like Molly Ringwald. I've always had a thing for Molly Ringwald. Hmmm..."
Uncle Pants often says he wished he'd flipped the picture over before I noticed it. Now he's stuck with me.
We had such an amazing time together these last few days.
I'm glad Pants finally got to see Neubauten.
The stage was packed with giant springs, sheets of polished chrome, cylinders joined into chandelier shaped clusters with endless coils of wire, massive aluminum tubes and a myriad of drums, canisters and metal bars.
Add a few middle-aged well dressed Germans to this and you have a rock show.
Pants and kingdad instantly agreed, pretty inspirational to see a group of people make such a colossal sound together. They have been showering mesmerized fans with sparks and jet exhaust for well over twenty years, and they just seem to be entering their prime.
We also agreed that it is scary to stare the future in the face. The Neu-boys are still skinny in most places, but there were some paunches to be seen poised majestically above high-waisted, tight black trousers. There were some saggy chins in attendance too.
Why do men's necks resemble the necks of iguanas as they grow older?
The show was amazing. Sounds so delicate that they could've been composed by snowflakes, followed by sonic booms, scrapes and cracks, the sounds of alien machines mating in an electric midnight ocean.
And the sound of the German tongue, which is still the very heart of poetry to my ears.
Royal daughter jumps around when I play Neubauten at home. She happily identifies with Blixa Bargeld's sing-song musings. There is a certain Willy Wonka-like quality to him I suppose.
Pants said it best,
"Blixa looks like a singing carp in a suit with a wig on his head."
A magic singing carp really.
As magical as my trip was, coming home casts a much bigger spell on me. I am just not at peace until I hear the sound of poor, tired wife and royal daughter breathing together in the darkness while I try to get comfortable, searching for sleep.
Just quit my band of almost eleven years. We are getting old enough to play cruise ships now. I don't look very good in a powder blue tux, so I had to make the move.
I've started a new project. So far just a duo. We conjure up spooks from the quiet sands, guide long-lost pilots as they circle endlessly overhead. And we can beach whales too. We use a guitar, a singing saw and a shortwave radio to pull this off.
Too bad we can't do the "turn the water into wine" thing. That's the only thing holding us back at the moment. Sure would be nice to not have to actually purchase wine. I have managed to upsell myself these last few years.
Gone are the days of Boone's Farm.
Gone are the days of Malt Swagger
Sometimes you just have to kiss a seemingly perfect familiar thrill goodbye. Just before it looses it's remaining magic. Then look back fondly with that "far-away smile."
If I could, I would commission a giant golden statue to be made in her likeness. Well, her likeness as she likes it.
It would sit in the center of a sapphire hued pool, in the midst of a sprawling garden, raised on a base of gleaming stone, accentuated by electrum, pink sapphires and rubies. The sun would reflect off of her flawless skin and marry with her patient nature. At all times of the day, she would radiate. The very image of love under the protective canopy of a shining naos.
An army of attendants would scurry about her, ritually taking care of her every need. Endless pedicures, facials, neck rubs and countless other adorations would be lavished upon her.
Of course, clinging to her taut gilt calves would be two needy waifs. Insignificant in size compared to the magnificent height of the gleaming idol, but obvious still, a pair of dependents that could not possibly exist without her. Parasites that thrive in her presence.
As a final touch, she would appear to be at rest and free of worry as her perfect golden breasts constantly gushed milk.
It is a good thing indeed that I am king in mind only.
But poor, tired wife, the real power behind the well being of our household really does deserve such a golden totem. Who else can hold the world upright with one hand on a scant three hours of sleep, somehow maintaining balance and order while the selfish dreamers around her yammer for more? Her beauty never fades and her care for those in need of love, attention and comfort never diminishes.
I shudder to think of what would befall us without The Queen Mum.
Sad that the mothers of the world get only one day of acknowledgement. Perhaps this is why the world remains in such peril.
Happy Mother's Day poor, tired Mom! Your court truly loves you.
Extreme Makeover is so extremely UGLY.
I keep hoping to see someone with teary eyes, sobbing and pleading, "Doc, can you make me look like Joan Rivers?" In my fantasy world it's someone like Idi Amin. Ok, Idi is dead, but maybe Joan is too. Who knows? Surgeons are so talented these days.
At the end of the show a panel of judges, including Simon from American Idolatry and the ever-so-lovely Melissa Rivers will have to guess which contestant is the real Joan.
I think that Melissa Rivers is a by-product of one of Joan's surgeries. Perhaps an excised bunion or a polyp.
Poor, tired wife thinks that Extreme Makeover Reversal could be fun, You know, Gisele Bundchen could be transformed into Dick Cheney. She also suggests a possible market for Extreme Baby Makeover.
Any day now The Coliseum will reopen and we will all cheer the hungry lions.