Books

 

The schedule has been crazy around here... last week was the beginning of soccer season so now I have to fit one more thing into my already hectic life.

The days go something like this: drop kids off at school, go to radio internship, pick one kid up from school and entertain him until his brother comes home from elementary school, have a half-dozen neighborhood kids play in my yard, make dinner, tell other kids to go home, eat... and - depending on what night it is - there's either class, band practice, or catering.

Phew.

One thing I did manage to squeeze in this weekend - a thing that has become a sort of family tradition - was going to the Chapel Hill public library book sale. But because Saturday involved dual soccer games at the same time at different fields and a catering shift, I had to opt for Sunday to go to the sale. Sunday is known as "bag day" at the public libraries and it's where all the freaks come out of the woodwork to purchase as many books as they can squeeze into a brown paper grocery bag for $3.

It's a deal no doubt but sometimes it can look like looters from the L.A. riots where bodies scramble to stuff shit (shit they most likely hope will be resell able via the internet) into a bag in the fastest manner possible. I usually try to avoid bag day precisely because of this: it allows no room for browsing. But I needed the diversion and the kids were up for it so we went.

And despite the mob scene, I did manage to walk away with some decent books:

- The Underground Man by Ross Macdonald. LA gumshoe/dick lit from the '40s. I had doubts that I might already have read or owned this book but I picked it up because you need a start at things like this or you'll just turn around and leave. Oh, yeah, I do already own this in hardcover. If you haven't read Macdonald, I'll send this to the first reply - he's that good.


- The Wishbones by Tom Perrotta. Perrotta hit pay dirt with his stay-at-home dad-centric tome Little Children which became a hit movie. This is his debut novel and it is centered around a wedding band. No shit.

- Pinktoes by Chester Himes. Like Macdonald, he's been name-dropped in the same sentence as Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett only unlike Macdonald he's not white or Canadian; he's black and from Ohio.

- The Joy Of Wokking by Martin Yan. A totally informative yet hilarious (think late '70s sensibilities here folks) cookbook about making food with a wok. He's got Canadian ties like Macdonald and has appeared on Cartoon Network's Space Ghost: Coast to Coast. "Food and sex are human nature." Indeed.

- Cloudsplitter by Russell Banks. While I don't know if I've ever read Banks, I did see the movie The Sweet Hereafter several times and it made enough of a mark that I felt compelled to pick up this book.

Not bad for $3 and a thirty minute trip to the local library book sale huh?

Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction

I'll found this on the AP wire the other day.

Fucking priceless...

Twin Porn Actors Charged

Feb 28th, 2008 | PHILADELPHIA -- Twin brothers who have appeared in hardcore gay-porn online videos are charged with the rooftop burglary of a South Philadelphia business and are suspected in dozens of similar crimes in at least three states, authorities said.

Keyontyli and Taleon Goffney, 25, of suburban Pennsauken, N.J., were arrested Feb. 19after authorities from a multistate task force said they watched the twins break into a South Philadelphia beauty shop through the roof.

The brothers are suspects in dozens of burglaries committed over the past 18 months throughout New Jersey, Pennsylvania and Delaware, where intruders gained entry by hacking through the rooftops of businesses, the Philadelphia Daily News reported.

Keyontyli, arrested at the scene of the Philadelphia burglary, was released after posting bail. Taleon, arrested a short time later, was being held in a Philadelphia jail.

The brothers face charges of burglary, trespassing, theft and related counts. A preliminary hearing is expected next month, authorities said.

Taleon has a lengthy criminal history, including charges for rooftop burglaries in Alabama and Florida, and previous arrests in Philadelphia as well as Camden and Salem counties in New Jersey, The Philadelphia Inquirer reported.

There are no records of any felony convictions for Keyontyli in Philadelphia or his native New Jersey.

Taleon faces sentencing in March after having pleaded guilty to burglary and other charges in two cases in New Jersey, his lawyer, Jeffrey Zucker, told the Inquirer.

Zucker told The Associated Press on Thursday that attorney Michael Gushue represents Taleon in the Philadelphia case, and he did not know if Keyontyli has a lawyer. Gushue did not immediately return a call seeking comment.

Court documents in Philadelphia did not list any lawyers for either brother.
The brothers have appeared in online gay porn videos under the names Teyon and Keyon, said Erik Schut of Philadelphia-based video retailer TLA Entertainment Group, which sells gay porn DVDs online.

He said they could have had a good career if they hadn't gotten in trouble.
"They are incredibly good-looking, and being identical twins, it's a novelty," Schut said.

Keyontyli has appeared in gay porn since at least 2002 and worked as a fashion model, while Taleon got involved in porn more recently.

Taleon, who police believe is a trained gymnast and karate expert, has used his athleticism to make several daring escapes from police.

He was handcuffed in the back of a moving police cruiser after a 2006 drug arrest in Clementon, N.J., when he broke out the glass with his head and jumped into a lake while still handcuffed, police Chief Dave Kunkel said.

"He swam across like Flipper, taunting the officers, saying, 'You'll never catch me," Kunkel told the Daily News.

Taleon turned himself in a week later.

In January 2007, Taleon jumped 30 feet from the roof of a Camden, N.J., liquor store and swam across the frigid Cooper River before he was caught, police said.

"I told him he should have signed up for the Olympics," Zucker said. "The prosecutor and I even referred to him as Spider-Man."

No Shortage Of Drama Here

This weekend proved to be chock full of drama here at the ol' household involving a myriad of variables.

First up was the fish.

I've written about the highs & lows before

And this weekend it bit me in the ass again.

It was somewhere around Saturday afternoon when I realized that one of our fish, a black molly named Black (after Big Black of the show Rob & Big) wasn't doing too well and that one of the other fish was pecking away at his listing body.

Before this progressed any further, I called the boys in and had them take a gander at the tank and see if they could come up with a solution. My oldest Spencer suggested that we remove Black until he could get back on his feet. So I got the net and scooped out Black and put him in a bowl.

Shortly after, my wife came home and we calmly explained the situation. She told the boys it looked like Black was going to die and that we should take him to the pet store with a sample of our water.

Black was my son Cole's fish. He didn't seemed too upset about the prospect of Black dying as long as he could get a replacement fish. Spencer was deeply concerned and went with my wife to the pet store.

They came back empty handed but with the promise that tomorrow they would get to go to the pet store again. But one thing that did come up was that Spencer's fish was an aggressive fish and the cause of Black's untimely demise. The only solution - it was determined - was that Shark as he was so aptly named - must be removed from the tank.

And then came the tears.

Lots of tears.

Spencer was upset at the thought of it all.

The next day when they went off to the pet store, with Shark in hand to trade in, and Spencer could barely composed himself. At some point Cole put his arm around him and told him that it would be okay and that he can stop crying now. Cole, after all, explained that Black had died and he didn't cry.

Spencer's response?

That this situation was harder because it was like taking away a member of the family (all told through lots of tears & sobs). We've always known him to be the sensitive type but when he found out about Black he didn't shed a tear. Although he did confess to me later that he was surprised that Cole didn't get more upset.

It's days like this you just want to say, "They are fucking FISH people!" but you can't and must keep the facade of the calm, cool parent.

After the fish fiasco, came the tooth. Or teeth issue. Spencer had this top tooth dangling forever but suddenly one of his bottom teeth fell out at the beginning of the weekend. When he asked how much he would get my wife told him that she would wait until the other tooth fell out.

It was only a month ago that he called my wife out on being the Tooth Fairy

When I came home from working a pre-game party for the UNC vs. Wake Forest game, Spencer ran to the front door to show me his new toothless smile. Shortly before bedtime, when querying about how much money he was going to bring in from two teeth, he spat out this gem: "Since I know you are the Tooth Fairy, the only thing left I wonder about is are my parents Santa Claus..."

We are doomed.

On top of all that, my brother-in-law has been in the hospital with lung issues. He's a life-long smoker, so while the verdict so far isn't dire, it is painfully obvious the dude has to quit smoking for his quality of life to improve. This news coming just weeks after my father-in-law's recent hospitalization for his heart so the year seems to be off to quite a start.

This would be the perfect time for a Mountain Goats song...

Can Of Worms

When Chag over at Cynical Dad asked me to step in to guest VJ over at his site this week, I had no idea that it was going to open of a can of worms: I've been late night surfing YouTube for lost gems from my youth everyday since the invite.

After I can home from band practice last night, I sat outside with an adult beverage and took in the natural wonder that is a lunar eclipse.

I came inside and resumed my surfing from the night before but with the full moon on my mind. You see, I often get what my wife refers to as male PMS and I often get these bouts around full or new moons. Being an Aquarius, I do find that the moon and the water have strange affects on me. I have written on the site before about how sometimes I feel unhinged and on the verge of bugging out during these times.

At the beginning of the week I told my wife I just wasn't feeling right, that I felt anxious and edgy but that I couldn't put my finger on the place from whence it came.

That was until I saw the newscast about the lunar eclipse.

It led me to browsing the internet on the subject of lycanthropy and skin-walkers and "going full moom mad." And maybe I put some validity to such matters because I grew up on a steady diet of Bela Lugosi and Lon Cheney (and Abbott & Costello!), Stephen King, the Misfits and Fang that leads me to believe that somebody, somewhere turned into a wolf under a full moon once.

Don't know Fang?

Well, here they are in all their vintage VHS tape glory. I don't know too many people who cite themselves as hardcore Fang fans, as most people thought they sucked. But, and this is probably still true to this day, I've always been draw to the outcasts of the outcasts, the non-conforming non-conformists and all those who skirt the edge of the edges of society and for me Fang were one of those bands.

I've said enough...

Hey DJ!

My fellow dad Chag over at Cynical Dad dot com asked me to step in and deejay for him this week. Click on the header for a link to his fine site.

Chag has been ending his posts for-EVER with some sort of YouTube clip and this weekend I had the pleasure of the musical invite.

It was kinda hard - I must confess - to narrow it down to five because my head was a-twitter with the possiblities of being able to warp his readers minds with crazy shit. Suffice it to say there's no Buttholes Surfers, Clockcleaner or even the Chest Pains.

I kept it relatively tame and did some sort of biographical look back on bands that passed through my radar while growing up. Still this was tough, because there's been many and - honestly - even I'm a bit confused by some of my choices.

One pick was The Obsessed, a metal band from back in the days when I was dabbling in hesherism and skateboard punk as a wee lad in Aspen Hill. They were the guys who wore ammo belts and had cut-off jean jackets with patches and smelled like cheap weed.

The Obsessed crossed-over as it were playing for both punk and metal bands. I once saw them play with Iron Cross and Government Issue at a rec center in Wheaton, Maryland.

Wheaton, Maryland, folks!!

And I had my dad drop me off too because I was in like 9th grade and couldn't get my driver's license until I passed chemistry. A feat I still don't know how I accomplished!

Anyway, thinking about The Obsessed dredged up some fine memories... and also some downright scary ones.

Case in point:

During the end of my tenure living in Los Angeles, I had stumbled upon a weekly paper listing that The Obsessed were going to play. The band had broken up and reformed a couple of times and now it appeared they had signed to a major label. The time being what it was back then (punk had already "broke" as they say), the band was scheduled to appear to play in some seedy joint called Dragonfly that ultimately would give them some sort of hipster stamp of approval. I had previously seen Shudder To Think and Everclear there.

So I set out to go check out the band - solo - as I had done so many times before because I was a music geek who would go to the far reaches of the earth to see a band most had never heard of nor wanted to hear of in their lifetime.

Thing was, the flyer I had gave me the wrong information. Instead of the 6500 block of Santa Monica Blvd., it had the 6100 block of Santa Monica Blvd., which for the uninitiated (at least at the time) was boys town - the hot block for male prostitution. So I found the address - according to the flyer - and parked on some side street in a not-very-well-lit place. I felt something was amiss because I didn't see any long hairs milling about but then I convinced myself that I was just one hip motherfucker who knew about a band nobody else knew about. Ha-hah!

Crossing the street to get to said bar I was harassed by some Latino gang members who were loitering outside a liquor store.

Okay, that was uncomfortable but I was on a mission.

Again, I had this slight feeling that I was in the wrong place but couldn't rightly feel confident enought that I was, so I soldiered on. But then I got to the address on the flyer and there was indeed a bar and the door was open but it surely didn't look like the Dragonfly I had been inside before, so I made a mental note and decided that my hunch that the flyer's address was wrong was indeed true. I figured I'd just go back to my car and drive a few more blocks down the boulevard and find the right place.

I was standing on the corner waiting for traffic to pass when a tricked-out Lincoln Continental pulled up to the curb, curb-feelers scraping cement so much so that I had to step back. The electronic window on the passenger side slide down and as I bent down to look in a German(?) voice came from within.

"You vant a ride?" said the faceless figure.

Puzzled, I looked down again into the window.

"Comez zit in my car," said the voice and I saw a pale white hand pat the passenger seat.

And then it hit me that this dude thought I was some trick, some Private Idaho runaway junkie looking to score.

Flustered and confused I shot back, "I'm just trying to cross the street," I said.

"Vhat about vhen you cross?" said the voice.

"Fuck off," I said.

Then I ran into the darkness, got into my car and drove home as quickly as I could. I stopped closer to my Los Feliz crib and bought a 40 ouncer.

Once home, I locked our front door and sat on the couch drinking that bottle as fast as I could.

"We got to get out of this town," I said to my future wife.

It's Valentine's Day

Three years ago...

I was saved by DEVO

Two years ago 'round this time...

It was about holding steady and gentrification

and last year...

I revisted the pet issue

Saturday Night's Alright

 

For backyard bonfires.

Making Smores

 
We seized a rare moment last night to make smores over a campfire in our backyard.

The weather was just cold enough, the sky was clear, the moon was out and it just seemed like the right thing to do.

We also did the right thing and called the fire department to see if the open fire ban was lifted. It was... until this morning that is, so sorry for the jinx my friends. At least we got ours in.

The Trail

 

So my wife acquired a split rail fence.

When she told me she got a split rail fence I assumed we were going to try and remake said fence somewhere on or around our property.

Nope.

My wife wanted to use it for firewood.

Of course just about everybody we know told her you can't burn that shit in a chimney so she had to find another use for it.

There was a lengthy argument about her desire to use some of it to make a privacy fence and as usual I got badgered into completing the task.

But we were in unison on using the rest of it to make a trail to the far reachest of our backyard known as the Back Forty.

That's where the fire pit lives... and now a sort of hiking/biking trail.

The Backyard Beautification Process is now currently in progress...

The Bridge...

 

...to the Back Forty.


We had a bridge in place over this little creek before but it got washed away during a raging storm. You see, our neighbors haven't maintained their drainage ditch, er creek, probably ever as it's all overgrown and clogged up with God knows what so when the heavy rains come, it can cause minor flooding in our backyard.

Maybe this one will be able to weather the storms.

Of course, we're still in a drought and it rarely ever rains any more here.

And becausee it has only rained sparsely in the last six months the backyard has turned to dust.

Which means it turns to mud when it rains.

And we don't have a mud room.

Do the math.

The Back Forty

 
We've called the overgrown part of our backyard the Back Forty since as long as we've lived here. The plot we have is half an acre but the old lady who was the previous - and original - owner had a little dog so she fenced in half of the backyard.

Over the years, we've toyed with doing something back there like building a gazebo or something. Then we had kids and now the kids are older and I often talk about building a bmx track back there.

I wanted a track, I got a trail.

The Long Lost Art Of The Medley

Despite how one might feel about The Hives, as a musician and a music critic, this clip thoroughly blew me away during a recent late-night YouTube session.

Enjoy.

Celebreality

I was channeling surfing when I came upon the Dr. Drew-hosted trainwreck that is Celebrity Rehab and - like a car crash - I felt the need to crane my neck at take a peak.

And much to my surprise, the gaggle of washed-up stars were in group therapy moderated by Dr. Drew and...

Bob fucking Forrest!

Bob was in a seminal late-'80s LA band called Thelonious Monster. The Monster featured ex-Weirdo Dix Denney on guitar. Over the course of the band's existence, they would get by with a little help from friends like John Doe (X) and Flea and John Frusciante (Red Hot Chili Peppers). The band was once championed as possibly being the next best thing out of Los Angeles but Bob's sporadic, drug-addled behavior eventually railroaded the band.


They were an odd duck for my musical tastes at the time which consisted of a strict diet of hardcore and metal but being a avid skateboarder at the time, I was well exposed to plenty of alternative music (Chili Peppers, Jane's Addiction etc.) that I would soemtimes listen to as a break from all the bar chord noise going on in my head. Something about Thelonious Monster spoke to me whether it was Bob's lyrics or their drunk punk attitude (close cousins to the Replacements) and somehow they managed to secure a lifelong spot in my collection.

Several years ago, Bob Forrest came through Chapel Hill on some triple-bill of songwriters and played an acoustic show at the sandwhich shop/used book store called Skylight Exchange. Not having heard from him since the demise of Thelonious Monster (nobody ever informed me about the post-Monster outfit Bicycle Thief) I felt pulled to go see him.

As I browsed the books during one of the opening acts playing (that I can't remember) I bumped into Bob - dressed in customary suit and hat despite it being the middle of the summer in the southeast - and struck up a conversation with him. It was far from the fanboy type as I had learned over the course of my music journalism days that that kind of conversation gets you nowhere, and more on a level of book geekdom.


He left to buy some books and then put them in his car. As he was walking down the alley back to the club he noticed me walking out with a book in hand.

"Whaddya get?" he asked.

"Howl" I said. I was in the midst of a City Lights Pocket Poetry chapbook collecting spree and it was a pleasant surprise to stumble upon this Ginsberg classic in this ramshackled location.

"Nice!" he said.
"I was thinking to myself that if it was still there after my set I was going to buy it!"

Bob played barefoot.

It was good, not great.

He appeared sober.

And that was the last I'd heard of Bob until spotting him on the show.

So this one's for Bob Forrest...well and my sister (who's not born-again by the way).

Superstitions

I don't believe I've got many superstitions especially when it comes to sports like rally caps and such yet I've know many people who can only wear certain things when watching their favorite sports teams.

But I do think UNC basketball's All-American center Tyler Hansbrough might have a few as I've seen him several times eating breakfast at the Whole Foods near my house and he always seems to be sitting in the exact same seat.

So if you fancy yourself a Tar Heel fan, click on the headline for direct linkage to Psycho T's autograph... on a grease-stained Whole Foods napkin no less.

Why? Because tonight is the UNC vs. Duke game which is one of the biggest rivalries in all of sports. And the Heels could use some good luck.

Inside The Devil's Lair

It's been busy around these parts for the last few weeks.

I'm doing an internship at the local NPR affiliate - WUNC radio - and I started taking a class through the Center For Documentary Studies in Durham by Duke University, both as a way to add a few more feathers to my cap for when I get to job hunting when my 4-year-old goes to kindergarten.

Band practice has also resumed from the holiday break.

And now catering is starting to pick up again.

I had to work last Thursday. When I checked my schedule I saw that the party was on Duke's campus and that it was in a building by Cameron Indoor Stadium. So I checked the team's basketball schedule and - sure enough - there was a game that night which meant that most likely my party would be a pre-game thing. Pre-game shifts are always hectic because you have to scramble to set up the space before getting slammed by a rush of people eager to eat and drink before high tailing it to their seats. The upside is that these parties are usually quick and have what we like to call an end time because people have somewhere to go and therefore don't stand around shooting the shit while we caterers have to politely wait for them to leave before we can break down and clean up.

When I got to campus I found out that this particular party was going to be held on this sixth floor of a building right next to Cameron. The guy who was captain for the pary arrived with the van full of supplies and confirmed my suspicion: it indeed was a pre-game gig. But instead of the usual fare of heavy hors d'oeuvres and drinks this was to be a seated, served dinner (three course) for 14 people.

No big deal. I've done this sort of thing a thousand times.

The problem was that we needed a card to get into the building and then some sort of ID to get the elevator to work. Again, not that usuual as most campus buildings these days have pretty good security.

When we pulled the cart of food and drinks off the elevator we were greeted by a big picture of a Duke basketball player and then a whole hallway of photos and trophies.

"Oh shit," I mumbled.

As some assistant told us where our kitchen space and prep area was going to be it became plainly obvious that we were in the war room of Duke basketball.

We set up our are and then went into a conference room and turned it into fine dining. As guests arrived I was instructed to see if any of them wanted something to drink. This is called butlering - as oppose to standing at a bar - and takes a bit more dexterity to balance a dozen of so drinks in varying glassware on a small, round tray.

The door to the room was closed and the assistant pointed to another door that I could use to get into the room so I turned and entered...

And I found myself smack dab in the middle of Mike Krzyzewski's office.

Or Coach K as he is known to the rest of the world.

I had joked earlier when we were unloading the van about how I should have brought my camera because the world needs to see the silliness that is Krzyzewskiville: a tent city where students camp out for Duke basketball tickets. I would love to ask the parent of one of these students how they feel that their kid is spending an entire semester in a tent for $45,000 a year.

And now here I was in Coach K's office with signed basketballs and trophies and framed jerseys and not a damn thing to show for it.

Man I wish I had a camera phone just for times like this.

For you Heels fans, nope I didn't get a chance to pinch their playbook or spill red wine on Coach K's floor but there's always next time....

And now the menu:

Passed Hors D'oeuvres-
crab cakes topped with basil aioli
house-smoked salmon on a potato cake with creme fraiche and chives

First Course-
Arugala salad with red onion and parmigiano-reggiano

Second Course-
Cowboy-cut beef steak served over sweet potato hash, topped with chipotle-lime compound butter.

Third Course-
Creme Brulee

Everybody Knows About The Bird

A couple of days ago, shortly after his bath, my 4-year-old waltzed into the family and said, "Dad look!"

I turned to see him standing there, fingers balled into a fist with his middle finger in the air.

I said nothing.

He stood there.

"Look dad!" he said this time shaking his finger at me with an angry face.

At this point I wasn't sure what to think or say and - quite honestly - began to wonder just where in the hell he learned this gesture.

A few moments passed while I began to formulate a reply before he spoke again.

"Look! I have a CUT on my finger!" he said.

This was followed by a "sheesh" and then: "Can I have a band aid?"

Boognish Sighting

 

I saw Ween last Friday.

Click on the headline for linkage to a review I wrote for Harp.

Going International

Stefan Korn over at diyfather dot com did a podcast with me last week.

Click on the headline for direct linkage.

We talked about what it is like to be a modern father, dads as primary caregivers and the At Home Dad convention among others things.

It's weird finding myself as some sort of spokesperson for dads that are raising kids while mom is at work.

But I'm all about trying to shed some light on what it is like to be a 21st Century dad and hopefully let people know there are alternatives to "mainstream" parenting.
[yes, it's a picture of me holding a blender with my kids. don't ask]

Ghost Riding Tha Whip

The other night my wife and I were shooting the shit and somehow we dredged up an old memory.

And its one that we've brought up a few times before that needs to finally be put to paper.

Er, virtual paper.

As the story goes... it's the early '90s and we're a broke but very much in love couple living in Los Angeles with a few friends in a house nestled in a canyon in the Verdugo Hills (somewhere between Glendale and Pasadena). You could ride your bike op Glenoaks Blvd. and come up on a ridge that overlooked the Rose Bowl.

When the Bills played the Cowboys in the Super Bowl we climbed that ridge with flour and tried to write "Go Bills" but clearly our letters weren't big enough because we never saw them on television.

Being broke and young in LA at the time, we decided that we would take up camping as a way to see the world around us - we weren't budding naturalists as much as card-carrying Frugalists. So we got a two-person tent, some 20 degree sleeping bags, borrowed our roommates' camping stove and off we went to camp for the first time.

We ended up somewhere in the Angeles National Forest and names like JPL, Altadena and Wilderness Park circulate up in that windtunnel that is my head but I can't pinpoint the exact place. I know it was close (but also about 2,500 feet higher in elevation; the word topography would permenantly entire my vocabulary then) and that the road to the campsite prove to be very windy, full of curves and one that made us slightly dizzy by the end.

I remember the campground being bare,almost empty, and I remember waking up to ice on the tent and my digital watch on the fritz from the condensation. It was winter but winter in LA and my knowledge of altitudes was limited.

So our night "roughing it" basically consisted of driving to a campsite in the dead of winter, setting up our tent, getting wasted and then going to bed only to wake up at God know's what time to bitter cold.

We packed up and out and scratch our heads; it was camping L.A. style and we chuckled how quickly we succumbed to the elements.

As we left the campground parking lot, we spotted a guy on a beach cruiser just approaching the road that would lead down the "mountain" if you will and then we watched - in total amazement - the dude ride down the entire winding mountain road with no hands.

After each turn, when you'd expect him to grab the handlebars and steady the beast, he'd not do it, and then we would erupt into Dude!/Sweet! laughter. At one point I think we even hit the travel odometer to track the mileage because surely we were witnessing something of Guinness Book Of World Records proportions.

When we all arrived at the bottom of the hill (see now it's a hill!) he finally put his hands on the bars. We cruised past him as my wife leaned her head out the car window and gave her best Ozzy Osborne-like-a-dog-out-a-car-window impersanation throwing the devil horns and screamin' "Heeeellllll YYYeeeaaaaahhhhh!"

Before Having Kids

 

I had this hobby called photography.

Once a budding independent filmmaker/videographer in college (it's called getting a Mass Com degree folks!),I soon turned to photography because it seemed cheaper and less cumbersome then the latter.

I turned out to be dead wrong but I was too far gone for the cause to turn back.

Much like music, it became a necessary and accepted flaw.

Might As Well

 


I was a music editor at a local weekly and my job involved - or so I thought at least and one could call it research - going to see a lot of shows.

But unfortunately, we had a limited budget for freelancers and back then a photographer had to incur the cost of film & processing plus their time and energy for an assignment [uh, analog]. I felt bad only being able to pay them what I could pay them so I took to taking pictures myself (satisfying my latent desires under the guise of "job responsibility").

This is a picture of Mac McCaughan eating a fish taco. I believe this was part of a story I wrote about Merge Records turning ten.

Or maybe it was just for a new record they had released.

Back when they released new records and back when I had the time to write about people releasing new records.

Photo Fetish

 

I soon developed a fetish for foot shots.















[That last line is going to kill me on Google searches...]

Yer Soaking In it

 


PIPE set list.

Suffice it to say, I saw a lot of PIPE shows...

Game Grub

 

One thing that I like about watching championship football is the ability to drink and eat to my hearts desire by the warm hearth of a fire.

Nothing says football grub like pigs in a blanket so of course we had to have that on the menu. Also on tap was prosciutto-and-swiss wrapped asparagus (ever notice the the smell of your urine after consuming asparagus? It must be in the chlorophyll as a recently had white asparagus and it was quite noticeably absent) and Moroccan-spiced salmon (served on sliced baguette brushed with olive oil and crisped under the broiler) that was leftover from the shift I worked on Saturday.

The wife nixed my plan for beer cheese fondue but soldiered on to make cream cheese and crab wontons in our frydaddy, the making of which turned into a family affair.

It was a good day...

Tooth Fairies, Home Invasion, and Lying

My eldest son recently lost his third tooth.

He's seems like he's a little behind the curve as far a loosing teeth goes as far as compared to most of his classmates.

His first tooth he inadvertently swallowed (and no I didn't sift through his shit to find it).

I remember the tooth fairy giving him five dollars since it was his first tooth (and since it met such an unsavory demise).

My wife and I couldn't remember how much money the tooth fairy gave him for No. 2 so we asked him and he had this elaborate story about how the tooth fairy left him three dollars in a tiny box under his pillow.

Not knowing what the fuck he was talking about with the whole box thing my wife interjected saying that the fairy doesn't always leave money in a box thus covering our asses.

Or so she thought.

That night the kid was all high anxiety, much the same way he's been in recent years with Santa - about the prospect of some stranger entering our house and coming into his room. To him it's straight up home invasion of the sort you'd see on reality television like COPS. To relieve him of this stress, we suggested he put the tooth in a zip loc bag and leave it outside his door (which would also help us from a.) forgetting and b.) not having to possibly wake him while digging around under his pillow for a tooth).

At the eleventh hour he decided he wanted to indeed have the tooth under his pillow and not outside his door.

The next morning he awoke with a clatter and came barging into our room...

"You lied, mom!" he said.
"You lied. You are the tooth fairy!"

We both looked at each other quizzically and then he explained that he had told us three dollars as a test and that he had told us three dollars when in reality he had only gotten one dollar for the previous tooth.

Since he told my wife three dollars, deductive reasoning led him to conclude that my wife was the tooth fairy.

"My mom is the tooth fairy!" he said with a wry smile.
"I can't wait to get to school and tell my friends my mom is the tooth fairy."

"That might not be a wise idea," I said.
"Why don't you just keep that to yourself for the mean time."

Sheesh.

Man, kids are just too smart these days.

It makes keeping those parenting secrets alive harder and harder...

Three Years Ago Today

I started this blog.

Fuckin' Squirrels, Man

 

I got a new bird feeder for Christmas from the family because I really like birds.

I really do.

I've managed to make friends with the wrens from the summer and have been tossing them old bread from time to time and then I figured since winter was upon us that maybe it would be nice to put some food out there on a regular basis for them.

I hung the bird feeder up in one of the trees right off our back deck; one that had an easy vantage point from the window over the sink in the kitchen (where I spend most of my time rinsing and cleaning dishes) as well as out the back door (which I go through all the time to toss beer bottles into the recycling bins).

It seemed like the birds were ignoring it or hadn't discovered it yet because every time I looked out the window the feeder was still full. Yet my backyard is full of birds like cardinals, wrens, orioles, finches, tufted tit mice and the occasional owl, hawk or falcon.

The one day the feeder was empty.

Completely empty.

And the I noticed that the fucking squirrels had chewed their way through the little beak size holes and made them big enough to stick their heads in there.

Don't get me wrong, I like squirrels for the most part.

We almost adopted one this past summer

But goddamn if they aren't a total fucking nuisance when it comes to trying to maintain a bird feeder.

I always hear of talk of squirrel-proof feeders but then everybody I know who has purchased one said that the squirrels eventually figure out a way to get at the food.

Somebody help me... or help the birds!

Bands and Beers and Shit

 

Over the weekend I was the doorman at a local hotel and bar for an event called

Elvisfest

It was about twenty bands over two nights with the catch being that each band had to include two Elvis songs into their set.

As you can probably imagine, the place was crawling with pompadors, chain wallets, chubby Betty Page wannabes, and plenty of tattoos. There was capes, kilts and cowboy hats.

All things considered it was a fairly sedate crowd and there wasn't any problems with the general douchebaggery you get anytime you have that many bands in one place. Although I did catch shit from putting on people's wristbands too tight and marveled at how skinny some women's wrist can be.

There was a lot of people and a lot of those people got drunk.

At the end of night two some guy stumble in the door with a handful of stickers and gave me one. It pretty much summed up the general attitude of the weekend.

"C'mon Dad!"

I spent the better part of Saturday morning teaching my 7-year-old how to ollie.

An ollie is a skateboard trick that involves smacking the tail end of the board on the ground with your foot (or front end... that would be a nollie) and making it pop up into the air. It is to skateboarding what the bunny hop was to BMX.

He's got this obsessive nature and is an imprintable freak which can be both adorable and annoying at time so he was thrust into this early morning ollie session after spending a week play Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 4 on PS2.

We did a lot of this type of stuff over the summer where I would use a stick as something innocuous to jump over. So we found a stick in the yard and put it in the middle of the street.

One of the older neighborhood kids rode by on his bike and decided to watch and see my son practice his ollies. My wife came out to watch as well. At one point I was getting aggravated because he refused to listen to the instruction I was giving him when all of the sudden my wife chimed in, "Well let's see you do it!" And then my son came at me as well, "C'mon Dad!"

Game on.

I nailed it on my second attempt but my son was up the street and claimed it wasn't a "clean one." But his friend said that I made it.

So I did it again.

The neighborhood kid seemed impressed.

Food, Glorious Food

 

It's been some time since I wrote about food despite that fact that the holidays innudated me with fine grub so I'm going to try and get back to doing more food posts.

Yesterday I made beer brats with carmelized onions and dijon mustard served with "chips" (as those Brits like to say).

Take notice of the paper plate: in my wife's quest to reduce water usage in the midst of this crazy drought the Southeast has found itself in, she has taken to paper products.

So we've traded one problem for another.

It's always something ain't it?

Guitar Hero Heroes

 
My wife always swore that there would never be a video game console in our house.

And then came Christmas and the PS2 from her sister.

And then came Madden 08, NHL 07 and Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 4.

And then came the saddened cry to the world, "I've lost my family to Playstation!"

But that all changed when we scored the Guitar Hero I & II bundle off of craigslist - complete with two wireless guitars - for $100.

Then the family spent the waning hours of 2007 standing in front of the family room TV taking turns at songs like Danzig's "Mother," Cheap Trick's "Surrender," and Wolf Mother's "Woman" to name a few.

And now my wife is a video game junkie on her way to being a Guitar Hero hero

Fathers & Sons

 


I spend so much of my time these days trying to figure and discover just what it means to be a father to sons that sometimes I forget that I still am son to a father.

Over the holidays I got the chance to spend some time with my parents and – in particular – my father. I had been in contact with my mother over the past month or so trying to nail down the specifics of a visit be it them coming here or my family going to them.

Eventually it boiled down to the ‘rents coming to me.

So I put a plan in motion and succeeded: I scored a pair of UNC basketball tickets for me and my dad. Nothing says “I love you” in a more manly father-and-son way then getting much-sought after tickets to a legacy basketball team currently ranked Number 1 in the polls.

It was the least I could do for a man who took me to God knows how many Redskins games – my dad has had season tickets since before I was born. Of course I still curse him for exposing me to that sports radio prick Ken Beatrice because I can’t think of any Skins memories without thinking of waiting out parking lot traffic at RFK listening to his post game wrap-up.

Not only was my dad an avid Skins fan but he was almost all things sports growing up; he was elemental in the formation of the Olney Boys & Girls Clubs and was a coach, ump and referee throughout my upbringing.

It was probably a necessary respite from spending his days toiling away in the bowels of the Dept. of Defense, Crystal City, The Pentagon or whatever type of government jimjam he had his hands in at the time.

Yes, my dad was a high school football referee. Which I guess is sort of like having a dad as a cop except he had only access to a yellow flag not a gun

My dad coached me in CYO track when I was in elementary school. I’m not sure how it came about like was there no one to coach the 12 under boys team and my dad stepped up or that he wanted to take a stab at it and I was his entry to that world. I think he coached my sister’s softball team and my brothers’ football team at various points but that seemed fairly long ago in my mind by the time he got to me. And what did he do? He made this sprinter - 100, 200, 4x100 and long jumper - tackle the 800 meter run. Maybe he saw something in me that I didn’t but I always thought it was because we needed someone to run the 800 and there was nobody else to do it and being the coach’s son I was the default guy. I still get razed by my brother Mike for making it to the championship during my inaugural year at the 800, finding myself tied for second on the final turn, yet I managed to finish dead last.

During the game we talked about many things fathers and sons talk about – old neighbors, relatives, and the state of the union (ha! That last one’s a joke folks. I don’t go near politics or religion with my parents), but one of the things we talked about was what makes a good coach. He said good players. But I said a good coach knows how to recruit the right players. We went on at length about “coach-ability” but in the end it came down to being able to lead or finding those who will follow your lead which is a lot about what being a parent is about – it’s a lot like coaching and sometimes your dad might be like Bobby Knight but despite his warts-and-all disposition he still might posses some decent qualities. While my father by no means was a Bobby Knight, I’d say more like Dean Smith or Joe Gibbs where intellect came before emotion.

This could probably merit a longer post but I hate reading long winded posts myself so here you go. Pictured above is the rally towels they gave out at the UNC vs. Nevada game we went to. I’ll be selling these on eBay for top dollar when they finish the season undefeated…

Did You Know?

- the moon will be at its farthest point from Earth for the month of January. The Earth’s closest approach to the sun for the year is called

perihelion

- that

tonic water

has about the same amount of sugar as other carbonated drinks like soda

- what the purpose of the

Iowa caucus

is

Ah, Finally... Christmas

 

When you are the parent of two boys Christmas can get pretty hairy - there's not a toy on the market that these kids didn't want although we did somehow managed to trim the fat as they say and get them to buckle down and make a list of the "important stuff" as my oldest son said.

Of course just about everything we got them was trump'ed by the Playsation 2 my sister-in-law got them. It's been sore thumbs and blood-red eyes since then!

It is quite humbling to have your 7-year-old son kick your ass at Madden 08 but downright exciting that despite our age differences we still can muster up competitive game play. The next day they took some of their gift money and we headed off to the game store to get some used games. We picked up NHL 07 and Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 4 (plus some ATV game for my youngest) which should tide them over for some time. Now the focus is on a memory card... or so I'm told.

There's still lots to digest - both literally and figuartively - about this holiday season (and the joys of Guitar Hero III!) but I'm glad it is finally coming to close and the family can now focus our attention on 2008.

Sweet, Dude, Sweet...

 

"Dad," said my 4-year-old son.

"Can I see the camera?"

"Sure," I said and then turned and went about my business of checking my work schedule online, making a few phone calls and folding some clothes.

All of the sudden I heard "Ah! Sweet, dude, sweet!"

This is the picture he took.

Is Santa Real?

My 4-year-old walked into the family room this weekend and proudly proclaimed that Santa Claus is not real.

"Who told you that?" I asked.

"Nobody," he said. "I just know."

"Well that's news to me because last I checked Santa was real," I said.

His brother never really questioned the existence of Santa until recently. The last two years we've taken to writing their names on presents from Santa left handed so that they wouldn't be able to recognize our hand writing.

This year my 7-year-old said he was going to ask Santa for his autograph because then he'd know it wasn't me - because after all - I would be asleep when Santa came to deliver the goods. This is the same kid who asked me how Santa got into houses that didn't have fireplaces; we need to update our folk tales quickly if we want to keep up with the future generations.

I've gone to great lengths already to preserve the lore surrounding Christmas.

For instance,there was that Rudolph story

My youngest also told me that the Santa at the mall was fake. I rallied and explained that Santa can't be everywhere during the Christmas season so he has people stand-in for him. "The elves are fake too Dad," he said.

If you were at the mall, you probably saw the wind go out of my sails at that moment.

"Yeah, those are fake elves," I said.

Then we sat there in silence watching kids get their pictures taken on Santa's lap.

The B Brothers Live

 

Where my kids get some of this stuff is beyond me.

Anyway, the B Brothers played their show on Saturday. I didn't have a mic for the vocals so it's pretty much awash in noise but you still get the overall vibe of their performance. I'd tried to post the mp3 but apparently BLogger won't let me.

The Set List:

-Life Is A HWY
-Tony Hall (aka Tony Hawk)
-Gems Today
-Snake Attack
-Hard Cour Wreslers (that's hardcore wrestlers, yo!)
-Hot Wheels Beat That
-Race Track
-Go Kart
-Kids From The Future
-Soul Boy
-Run, Run, Run (which features the nugget, "one thing you can't run from and that's yourself")
-Shark Attack

All songs from the forthcoming CD The B Brothers in Outer Space...

O, Christmas Tree

 
The family went out last night and got our Christmas tree. While it's not the cool-as-tits black goth tree that Rock Star Mommy is sporting I still think it's a pretty freakin' awesome tree.

We've gone to the same place for the last three years and their trees always seem to be spot on: always symmetrical and fresh.

When we got back home we whipped up some snacks and got to the business at hand of decorating the bad boy.

Decorating the Christmas tree requires background music. But since I'm in the business of working at holiday parties, I'm just about at my wit's end with kids' choruses backed by cheap Casio keyboards or that insipid James Taylor holiday CD I was forced to endure at a recent celebration. Fortunately, I've been in the business [could you say "business" one more time Greg? - Ed.] of writing about music for the last fifteen plus years and possess some fairly eclectic Xmas discs.

I usually save my Etta James 12 Songs Of Christmas for Xmas morning and the opening of presents because her voice is so pure and divine it seems appropriate and definitely sets the setting. Last night I decided dig deep and go for Merry Axemas Volumes 1 and 2. And while Al Di Meola, Steve Vai and Joe Satriani make my skin crawl, tucked between cuts by them are seminal holiday favorites tackled by guitar virtuosos. Some of my favorites tracks are Steve Stevens' "Do You Hear What I Hear," Zakk Wylde's "White Christmas," Robin Trower's "O Little Town Of Bethlehem," Joe Perry's "Blue Christmas," and the Brian Setzer Orchestra's "Jingle Bells." Shit, even the Nuge's "Deck The Halls" is tolerable!

I hope everyone has a very rockin' Holiday Season.

I Heart Shudder To Think

Last night, while tending bar at some neighborhood holiday party in Chapel Hill, a Shudder To Think song popped into my head. Shudder To Think has been on the tip of my tongue and on Recently Played in my brain for a few weeks now.

I'd like to go on and on about what a great band they were - often overlooked and almost always misunderstood - but I'll just let this clip speak for itself. Not the best quality but they signed to Sony towards the end of their career (and quite possibly could be argued as the band's death knell - like so many other early '90s alt.rock bands who gave up the indie label ghost for the majors). So Sony vids can't be embedded. Bastards.

Awesome Show Coming Up!

 

I worked late last night and when I woke up to make the kids breakfast I saw this gig poster stuck to the pantry.

These guys rock!

Hopefully I'll have a show review to post after their gig but be forewarned - they've pulled a George Jones on me before and just never showed up for their performance.

And they've bailed me several times when I had the studio booked for their inaugural (and soon-to-be seminal!) recording session.

Fucking rock stars...

[UPDATE: I've since noticed two more gig posters - one in the hallway and one on the back of my bedroom door - for the upcoming show. One even has an admission price: "Two bucks."]

Found Art, Lost Friend

 


I recently found this little drawing in my desk from Craig Grasso.

Craig was a pro freestyle BMX'er back in the late '80s/early '90s [he once road naked during a King Of Vert contest!] that I met through my bmxing friends. He fell in love with a girl who lived in Maryland and ran with my circle of friends so he came out from Southern California a few times to visit. I even put him up with a place to stay at my parents' house during a summer between college semesters when I was home in Aspen Hill.

I showed him all the trails we rode and the old, hot jumping grounds from when I was a kid riding Torkers and P.K. Rippers and doing crossed-up kick outs at places like the Alligator Pit, the big launcher at Wood Jr. High, and that big ass hill behind Peary High School (which is now totally overgrown and wooded by the way). He would do the same a few months later when I came to Hermosa Beach to visit some of my friends. Only Craig's repertoire involved wall rides, something I was not well-versed in.

He was a super nice guy and crazy talented both on his bike and off it: the guy had this Mark Gonzales style of illiterate outsider art going on. I was never quite sure if Craig really couldn't spell or if misspelling words was part of his style.

After I relocated to Southern California in '91, I still kept in touch with Craig even though he lived in San Francisco where he was part of the storied bicycle messenger scene and a soap box derby racer. He also had the claim to fame of living at one time with Puck from the Real World.

Once during a visit to SF, Craig and his buddy took me to some crazy ass warehouse party where we drank assloads of Jagermeister and then on the way home from the party, before we could stop at some "killer burrito joint," they initiated me into the seedy world of gay SF.

They pulled over curbside in what appeared to me to be some random place in town and instructed me to get out of the car. They said they had a dare for me. This was the pre-Jackass days of skate/bmx culture which was - and still is - filled with fiesty challenges of bravado and courage.

My request seemed simple enough: I was to walk down the alley in front of me and they would meet me on the other side.

Didn't seem like much of a challenge so I eagerly flung into action.

About 25 yards down I realized something wasn't right. The alley was littered with bottles and condoms and wreaked of piss and shit. And soon enough I was greeted by a man in a 10 gallon hat and leather chaps, cock in hand being stroked asking me if he could "service me."

"No thanks," I said and just kept walking only to find the entire alley overrun with gay male prostitutes all who resembled in one way or another a member of the Village People.

When I got to the end of the alley, Craig was hunched over holding his ribs laughing his ass off.

My face must have been pale. I'd had never seen anything like that before.

"Welcome to the Castro!" said Craig.

And with that we got back into the car and got ourselves some "killer burritos."

I lost track of Craig sometime before I moved from SoCal to NC in '95 and haven't heard a peep from or about him since then...

[UPDATE: A contemporary told me that last he heard Grasso was living and working in that alley he dared me to walk through...]

No Shit

 

We took the kids to the Chapel Hill/Carrboro Christmas parade on Saturday morning. We've been going to that parade and camping out in front of the Orange County Social Club since before we had kids. Even though we moved to Durham it still is an annual tradition.

Usually I don't get to make it because of my catering work schedule and usually it is cold as hell out but this year the temperature was downright balmy and I managed to squeeze in some free time.

And just to show you how serious they take their basketball here in Chapel Hill, the fire engines are painted Carolina blue and have the patented Tar Heel logo imprinted on them.

I wonder, are there any other college towns out there who eschew the traditional red fire engine in favor of the local university's colors?

Looking Back

One thing I love about blogging is the archives. Having always been one to keep some sort of diary or journal, being able to word search your archives or go back to a certain date in time appeals to the archivalist in me.

The first week of December in 'O5 I was

being abducted by aliens

and in '06 I was

channeling my middle age rage

Well, I haven't had any visits from aliens lately but I'm still channeling my middle age rage: Chest Pains with

Gun Metal Black

and

Tooth

tonight in Durham...

A Task Of Herculean Proportions

Well maybe many tasks but starting with the show my band played last night, I will either have to work a catering gig or play with my band 11 out of the next 13 days.

That's pretty brutal if I may put it bluntly: Imagine getting up with your kids at 7:30am everyday, making them breakfast (and lunch for school), doing household chores for the next few hours while Number 2 is at playschool (and writing to meet deadlines), entertaining both kids afterschool until dinner (which I will have to make) and then head off to work some party until God knows when (or in the case of last night play in some smoky club until God knows when). Then come home and pray for a good night's sleep so you can wake up and start the whole process over again... like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.

This is my life right now.

In two weeks I'm sure I'll be writing about having bronchitis or the flu or some shit.

I'm smart enough to wade through the waters with caution but being dead dog tired doesn't ward off the cooties very well.

I Smell Like An Ashtray

It's one of the downsides to being in a band.

You sit around for hours in a club pounding your free beer, waiting to play, then make $40 and come home smelling like an ashtray.

I've already showered and still wreak of cigarette smoke.

Playing smoke-free clubs is such a pleasure...

I Regret To Inform You All

I have passed down SAS to my 7-year-old son.

It's true, I had my suspicions for months now but last night was the deal sealer.

I heard him calling me from behind the bathroom door.

It was the sound of distress.

I open up to see what was the matter and was greeted by the most heinous smell ever.

Seriously.

His ass fucking stunk like a cesspool baking in the hot, humid sun.

I gagged and then asked him what he needed.

"I can't reach that book," he said.

So I grabbed the book in question, the one the finger was pointing to and gave it to him.

Then made a hasty exit and bowed my head in shame for passing on the Stinky Ass Syndrome to my son.

But I did look up and say a quick prayer to God and tell him that I'm thankful, thankful we've got two fucking shitters up in this joint!

And yes, the little fella reads on the toilet.

Wonder where he got that idea?

Product Review - The Baby Butler

When I recently received an email about reviewing some baby products, I figured what the hell. We at-home dads are sailing in unchartered waters so any light I can shed on the situation I feel is a good thing.

It took me several years being the at-home primary caregiver before I decided to reach out to other dads on the interweb and seek guidance and counsel.

And when I did find web sites and blogs dedicated to the AHDs of the world, well it was sorta like replying to a classified ad in the back of the punk zine Flipside as a teenager – suddenly I found myself surrounded by like-minded people in a similar situation.

I’ve been extolling the virtues of punk rock D.I.Y ideologies since as long as I can remember and if you really think about it, me being an at-home dad is just an extension of the do-it-yourself philosophy.

So I am eager and excited to be able to help educate the world on the needs of fathers who are the primary caregiver: 7 years ago there were no black diapers bags, rather it was world filled in pink and covered in bunnies and bears. We have truly made some strides in the last few years.

This brings me to the Baby Butler – a unique and clever way to free up your hand during bottle-feeding an infant. Now I must say that my boys are way past the days of bottle feeding but damn I do recall wanting to grow another appendage to help me out in my day-to-day dealings with a baby. Which is exactly what the Baby Butler does for you: it essentially gives you a third hand.

The basic premise is that you have a burp cloth with a velcro’ed spot to affix a bottle. This is all fine and good but one thing that is often overlooked in the kid market is versatility. Because what might seem like a wise investment now will only end up being an item taking up closet space the next. Kids develop at an alarming rate of speed (take note you non-parents out there) and spending your hard-earned cash on something your child will age out of in mere weeks can dissuade the frugal parent from exercising their purchasing power. The beauty of the Baby Butler is that its not only a weighted burp cloth slash bottle holder but can also double as a diaper changing pad and even has a pocket to store your binky, er, pacifier. And it is the Baby Butler's ability to be utilized in many different ways that makes it a good thing. Plus, at $22 a pop, they are reasonably cheap.

Now all we need is to take it one step further and invent the ManBoob™ so that fathers can truly enjoy the breastfeeding experience.

*click the headline for a link to product website

And Still More Talk About Food

 

So here it is: the veggie quesadilla I made from grilled leftovers.

I know cheaters never prosper but suffice it to say I didn't make the salsa or guacamole from scratch and I substituted Mexican-blended cheese for goat cheese.


But damn it was still really good!