I've Been Tagged (Eight Is Enough)

On account of my buddy Dan, I'm going down this road...

First, the rules, always with the rules:
1.We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.
2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog post, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them each a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

HABIT: I don’t like hair in my ears so I pluck the random few that occasionally grow.

FACT: I fancy myself quite the amateur chef and often replicate meals I’ve eaten at restaurants or served catering like pad thai or seared tuna on a crispy wonton with chipotle mayo and avocado.

HABIT: I am addicted to Chapstick and have carried it on my person everyday since probably the fourth grade.

HABIT: I often wait for the gas gauge to get to E before refilling up. This drives my wife insane yet I always reiterate that I don’t recall ever running out of gas.

FACT: My close friends often debate as to whether I survived 12 years of Catholic school.

FACT: If I were in the middle of the ocean on a chartered fishing boat I would not jump into the water and go for a swim.

HABIT: I keep my hair cut short because I’m lazy.

FACT: Some of my fondest memories growing up are of my family vacations to the Jersey shore.

now these people may play or may not but let's give 'em some traffic!

Daniel
Darren
Mick O'Grady
Andy
Chris
Mile Hi
Chaz
Chag

A Soldier For Rock & Roll

So despite having been diagnosed early Friday with a hernia that would require surgery, I soldiered on and played a show with my band Chest Pains at the three-day festival in Winston-Salem, NC, known as Heavy Rebel Weekend.

It would have been a crime to have to cancel it and I'm glad doc gave me the thumbs up saying that it was okay (although doc didn't have any idea what kind of music my band plays or how hernia-inducing my singing, er, hollering can be).

One thing I had on my side was the prescence of a honest-to-God real soundman with a topnotch PA. Had the show been at some house with a shitty PA (or worse yet none) or one of the seedier local clubs we've been known to play, I myself would have pulled the plug.

But I felt it was my duty.

And it went smoother than I could have possibly imagined, not just the fact that it was easier to play through a real PA, but the fact that we managed to turn some heads in a sea of psychobilly, twang stomp and Cramps-meets-Bow Wow Wow garage pop.

It's True

 

I was officially diagnosed with a having a hernia today.

One that requires surgery.

Oh joy!

I could elaborate on how bad this blows but why bother.

Just stare at the picture for a little bit, don't blink, and think about how uncomfortable that must feel.

Or spending a day in the hospital drugged up, a few days laid up and a couple of weeks out of working commission.

I Don't...

 

...have a thousand words to go with this picture so feel free to make up your own.

A Bird's Life

 


Turns out that the Carolina wrens that are living in our backyard are some horny birds.

The wife finally took the intiative to finish cleaning the shed which I tore apart during Round One of bird birthing and during the process we came to discover a new clutch of eggs. A lil internet research later and I found out that it is not that uncommon for wrens to have several broods during a season. I also found out that wrens are monogamous and pair up for life, foraging their territory year round.

So it looks like we're going to have our own bird Brady Bunch tweetin' around the yard in the next few months.

I'm sort of surprised to see that they came back to the shed after my attempted good to to rescue the hatchlings turned into total disaster. I had noticed them shift to the crepe myrtle on our side yard, then migrated to the a bush on the front so I was aware that they were still in the neighborhood so to speak.

What is surprising is that I haven't seen any activity going in or out of the shed so my hope is that they haven't abandoned the eggs. Now it has been oppressively hot so the backyard chillin' hasn't been on par as it usually is around this time of year.

At least they didn't make their nest in the oil pan under the paint pan again...

Mr. Ed

 

The first party, the one that kicked off a week long string of parties (because that's what happens when the 4th falls in the middle of the week) found the family at the edge of a horse pasture. It's amazing sometimes to think how rural the area is and how things like farms and lakes are just a stone's throw away from me.

We're finding ourselves at the age where more and more of the indie rock contingency are now parents themselves so a house party with some bands playing is much more kid-friendly than say a few years ago. Now, they start earlier and kids are in attendance but almost always there seems to be some music.

But before the music got going the kids got to feed some horses on the adjoining field. The were some real pretty horses. And their lips tickled your palm when you fed them. And the way their lips moved totally reminded me of Mr. Ed.

The famous Mr. Ed.

The Bickering Has Begun

 

I started off summer vacation really well.

First there was the matinee viewing of Surf's Up! A trip to the Museum of Life & Science and then a play date hike through the NC Botanical Gardens. I wanted to keep on my toes by keeping them on their toes so I made a list and have been consulting it.

Aside form these field trips, there has also been many games of Candyland, Chutes & Ladders, Go Fish, playing catch, riding bikes and then there's always the pool.

But last weekend the whole tick bite thing threw me for a loop (plus I aslo think I may have a hernia but I'll save that for later). Because of the antibiotics I'm taking for the tick bite, my exposure to sun has been limited.

So this week, without the pool to fall back on, I had to dig deep for some other plans, preferrable of the non-paying variety. Also to be considered is that it has been pushing one hundred degrees in the shade here. So I took the boys to the mall (the small mall, not the big mall) and we browsed the hobby shop, books at the book store and sealed the deal with pizza at Alfredo's - they could possibly have the best pizza in the area.

Next day was the pet store, which is by the grocery store so we could kill two birds with one stone. Speaking of birds, the boys want a new pet. Should it be a bird? A lizard? Fish? These are the pressing questions you have to ask yourself. We also cat sat for our neighbors recently and so now Cole has a hankerin' for a kitten. But we already have a cat and she's an old lady so maybe it would be a good idea/maybe it would be a bad idea.

Yesterday I decided to take them to the Ackland Art Museum which is part of UNC but it was a bust (no pun intended there!): Spencer, unbeknownest to me, had recently gone there on a field trip with his class. And Cole didn't like it because it was too quiet. I was bummed because the second floor was closed down to install a new exhibit. So my planned "kill a couple of hours" scheme went belly up in about 30 minutes flat. I tried to rally the troops with yet again another slice of pizza, this time at the storied Pepper's Pizza on Franklin Street followed up by locally-made ice cream at the Maple View Farms store in Carrboro just across the street from Weaver Street Market (local co-op grocery store).

But today, I had nothing.

As a matter of fact, I totally forgot that it was Friday because it is the first weeekend that I haven't had to work since mid-April and the obvious fact that school is out so all my days blur together now. I barely remembered to take out the trash; it would have been ugly had I forgotten that because last Saturday my wife satisfied her blue crab jones for the first time this summer so crab shells had been festering in the can all week.

In hundred degree heat.

Phew. Glad I remembered.

The plan for today was to "record" the boys' band. You see this week I picked up the artwork for the CD my band is about to release and this spurred Spencer into prying into asking about how he could make his own CD. So I told him that my MacBook has GarageBand and that I could record them and then burn a CD.

This was a very bad idea.

Because for the last two days he has been badgering his brother to play their set so I can record it. But getting two boys - ages 4 and 7 - to do the same thing at the same time takes crucial planning. So for two days, if one boy wants to play, the other defiantly says no. I tried to explain that this interaction is very much like a real band but they just can't grasp the real world explanation.

Enter the bickering.

"Wanna play?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to!"
"Daaaaaaaaddddd!!!"

"Where's Spencer?" asked Cole.
"He's in his room," I said.
"I want to tell him something," he said.
"What?" I said.
"That he's not my brother anymore," he said.

Nice.

Then I tell Spencer he's has got to change his approach. Don't whine at your brother and demand him to play, but rather ask him if he wants to record or be on a CD or play rock star.

He had almost convinced him when Cole delivered the fatal blow: "I don't like your songs. Can we play something else?"

"Wh-Wha-Whaaaattttt?" said Spencer.
"But dad he said he was going to play," he said on the verge of tears.
"Welcome to the real world son," I said.
"Maybe you could ask him if he wants to play some of his songs?" I said.
"But I don't waaannnnnaaaa play his songs," said Spencer.
"Guess you got a problem," I said.

That Old Cliche

 

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Here is a picture of my 4-year-old doing "work" on a dead lap top.

He's been kind of moody lately. Mostly because since the summer began he has lost his personal time with me. When his older brother was in school, we had half days together on Monday, Thursday, Friday and all day together on Tuesdays and Wednesdays until we picked up Spencer from elementary school at 3:30pm.

Now all day everyday it's a threesome.

Of course Spencer is jazzed just to be able to hang out with me (affectionately known as Papa G) and his little bro who is now his right hand man in free play and in terrorizing me.

Spencer got some serious big boy time with Papa G the other day when he helped me deliver some stuff. One of the odd jobs that I do is deliver maps and visitor guides to the local hotels, senior centers and parks & rec offices for the Orange County Visitors Bureau. On Monday morning my wife took Cole to his annual check-up while Spencer and I made the rounds making deliveries. By the third delivery, after the third person echoed the sentiment "You got a helper today!" Spencer suggested that it might be a good idea if he got paid for his services.

I thought it was a good idea.

So we agreed on the nominal fee of $1 per deliver for him.

He helped me make 9 deliveries.

Later in the day, I heard a knock on the door and Spencer came in with two boxes on a dolly.

"Delivery for Greg Barbera," he said.

Kids, they soak up everything like a sponge.

A Souvenir

 

So one of the ticks I pulled off my body a few weeks ago left me with a souvenir.

It's called Southern Tick-Associated Rash Illness and pretty much mimics Lyme disease.

Of course I could possibly have Lyme disease but all my symptoms didn't match up, so they put me on some antibiotics and told me to just "keep an eye out" for any Lyme diseases symptoms like muscle and joint pain, fever and extreme headaches.

This sucks on many levels:

a.) You shouldn't drink alcohol while taking antibiotics (which I have to take for the next 21 days). In the next 21 days there's a pre-Fourth of July cookout, a Fourth of July cookout, my band plays a show at Heavy Rebel weekend in Winston-Salem and another in Raleigh at Sadlacks with our guitar player's friends' band from Wisconsin called Shady Haze. Bands from Wisconsin like to drink beer. Punk rock without beer sucks.

b.) One should not have prolonged exposure to the sun while taking antibiotics because you are more prone to getting sunburned. Taking my boys to the pool is one of the ways I keep myself sane during the summer months.

Cabin Fever

 

So what do my two boys do when it is pushing one hundred degrees and it is raining out?

Why they wrestle.

But not just any kind of wrestling.

It's got to be Mexican - Nacho Libre style.

So they put underwear on their heads and attack each other.

They've never even seen the movie only the commercial.

Thanks Jack Black, I owe you one.

Getting Dick'ed

A few weeks ago I ran into another stay-at-home dad - coincidentally named Greg - at the playground of my youngest son's co-op playschool.

We got to chatting and it turned out that his wife worked for this radio show called The Story hosted by Dick Gordon.

I suggested he get the wife to do a piece on stay-at-home-dads.

He suggested I pitch it to her myself.

So I did.

Today, The Story aired my story.

You can find it at: www.thestory.org

Band Practice

 

The Backwards Hats (a.k.a The B Brothers) had their first practice yesterday.

It also doubled as their debut show.

Here are the lyrics to "Snake Attack":

we are going into the woods
what's going to happen

maybe

a snake attack! snake attack!

you better run, you better hide

because

a snake attack! snake attack!

so run for for your life

you got to go

for

a snake attack! snake attack!

I'm Not Having It!

 

The nature show that is my backyard... I've had enough of it.

Last week I found a tick on my ass.

How does one get a tick off their ass all by himself? Well it ends up looking like a one-man game of Twister that's what I can tell you. I found another on my calf a day later and just two days ago found a little, tiny speck of one on my youngest son. How does one get a tick off of a 4-year-old boy? Well let's just say that I think the head of the tick is still on/in him.

Little boys don't know how to stand still when their dad is hovering nearby with tweezers.

Last weekend I came home from work after a shift to find the house empty. So I retreated to my back deck with an adult cocktail and got to the business of unwinding. But the backyard was a-twitter with critters. A pair of birds, orioles I believe, were either humping or fighting. Whatever they were doing they seemed to make a whole lot of racket in the process. Then some raven was crowing from the top of a pine tree in my yard so I decided put some music into the boombox because that's how I do it... drowned out nature with rock & roll!

Then I noticed this wasp hovering slowly in front of me, arms length and eye level away.

Carrying something.

Some sort of larva I guess and then the wasp dropped it and I watched it retreat back to it's nest, which just happened to be on the roof of my deck right outside the sliding door. There's too much kid traffic right here for me to leave it be so I got out the toxic death spray and annihilated the bristling nest o' wasps and their brood.

For Cole

 


No, I Don’t Want To Go To The Bar, Dammit!*

Choices.

We’re forced to make them all the time.
Sometimes we make good choices; sometimes we make bad choices.

On Memorial Day Weekend 2003, I found myself at the crossroads of decisions: Do I go see Black Taj – an offshoot band of long-defunct local indie rock heroes Polvo – at the Cat’s Cradle in Carrboro? Or do I go home after my catering shift to my nine-months-pregnant and about to pop wife?

I opted to go to the Cat’s Cradle after I got off my shift – working a wedding reception – and check out some music. I figured I’d be tethered to the homestead for at least a month after the baby came, so I hedged my bets that night that it wouldn’t be the night my wife would give birth and went to the show.

Fueled by a Poison Idea/Battalion of Saints cassette tape I found wedged between the driver seat and passenger seat of my charcoal grey ’93 Ford Ranger truck. The same truck I bought at Sunrise Ford in Tujunga, Calif., a decade ago. Not that the tape had been there that long. Nope. But it had been there since Darkest Hour guitarist Mike Schleibaum named-dropped Oi Polloi during a recent interview I conducted with the band to write about their upcoming local performance in the area. “We played with them in Europe,” he said. “They’ve had over a hundred members in the band.” This confirmed my suspicions as to it if was the same Oi Polloi from back in the day that I was thinking off. “They did a song about THC!” he said.

I spent several hours after that interview digging through a box of old cassettes looking for my Oi Polloi tape. Never did find it. But I found the Battalions tape – including live tracks no less – as well as a couple of old classic punk rock compilations like the Pushead-designed Cleansing The Bacteria and Welcome to 1984 both of which contained some of the best foreign hardcore my ears had ever heard.

I think I bought the truck from the salesman because I knew him as the guy who always had the blow or because my wife and his wife played together in the Montrose pool league. Or was it because he was the husband of the wife who played pool with mine and had a passion for cross-dressing and snorting coke? Yeah, that’s what it was.

*

The Midnight Evils vaguely remind me of Poison Idea and the Evils were Estrus Records’ label mates with Raleigh’s Cherry Valence (who were openers for Black Taj). Seeing Cherry Valence is one thing in its own right, but seeing the band with the likes of their label mates – Fireballs of Freedom, Federation X, Gasoline, or the aforementioned Midnight Evils – is quite another story because each band is looking to up the ante. Nobody wants to play last. Not that the Midnight Evils were playing on that fateful night. No, it would be an entirely different band from the indie rock cognoscenti.

Steve Popson, the former bassist of Polvo and part owner of Raleigh’s Kings Barcade nightclub, along with former Polvo band mate Dave Brylawski (Polvo being part of the Holy Triumphant of local bands that included Superchunk and Archers of Loaf all whom helped make Chapel Hill the indie rock Mecca it is today) debuted their new band Black Taj – with opening acts the Dynamite Brothers and Cherry Valence – in Chapel Hill. They had made their so-called “hometown” debut in Raleigh a few months before and now it was time to make the twenty-five mile trek east across Interstate 40 to wow the jaded hipsters of Chapel Hill.

I went to the club, got there early I might add (early in the sense that you never know when bands are going to start playing, regardless of venue), and pondered the facts of life as I drank a perspiring High Life: A stay-at-home dad by day and freelance music journalist by trade, I was just ten days away from the birth of my second child and feeling the mounting pressure that accompanies such a situation.

As a punk rock dad, I spend the majority of my days hanging out at the park with my three-year-old son Spencer, watching him pedal around on his mini-BMX bike with training wheels. Rainy days are spent singing along to Turbonegro, Devo, or Thin Lizzy while I teach him how to throw the goat – that horned, fingers-in-the-air heavy metal sign. Two days a week I am relieved from my duties for a couple of hours while he attends a cooperative playschool.

I usually read, write, or listen to music during those early morning hours, when coffee adds the kick needed to a day jump-started around 5 a.m.

But with an infant, this all would change.

*

At the Cat’s Cradle, I ran into several friends who were excited to see me out on a Saturday night and even more excited for me to be out at a decent rock show knowing it could be months before I’m able to keep my eyes open past midnight. Black Taj played a rocky set - and by rocky I don’t mean “rawk,” but rather somewhat sloppy, like they needed to practice some more – of Hendrix-meets-Sonic Youth jams, long on wanking and short on lyrics. Brylawski’s between-song banter had slipped since his days of Polvo where he never seemed to be short of saying anything. I had grown tired and headed for the door. Once outside, I met two friends who tried to lure me to a local watering hole owned and operated by a former Merge Records’ employee (with prerequisite band-member bartenders). As much as I wanted to go, something inside of me made me say no. It could have been the lack of funds in my pocket, but that’s a poor excuse because I knew I could rally the troops for a few beers on the premise of celebrating the pending childbirth. Maybe it was the fact that my wife had left a message on my cell phone earlier in the evening saying, “Don’t worry, I’m not in labor… but you need to pick up some milk for Spencer.” Maybe it was the full moon, I’m not sure. But for whatever reason, I made the decision to go home.

And it’s a good goddamn thing I did. Roughly an hour and a half later at 1:30 a.m. – and just about the time I’d be considering leaving the bar before last call – my wife’s water broke. When the water breaks, it can mean only one thing: a child will be born soon.

Being responsible isn’t my best suit. I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my day, and fortunately, having kids has allowed me to learn the ropes of acting responsibly. But it’s not an easy path to be traveled, especially when you look at what had happened in the past ten months since my wife and I first learned of her pregnancy. I lost my job as a music editor when the local weekly folded; I left my pregnant wife alone with our son for three days to take a trip to Los Angeles to see one of my childhood friends and attend his movie debut; we converted our carport into a guest room in anticipation of the new addition to the family (note to self: prenatal hormones and home improvement don’t go together); we were crippled by an ice storm that left us without power for several days; I came down with a raging case of sinusitis that led to a case of strep throat in the winter and bronchitis in the spring; I had the unfortunate occurrence of having an Amstel Light bottle explode in my face while bartending at a wedding reception, a shard of glass scratched my cornea.

On top of all this, I’d been on a serious Oblivians jag (Best of the Worst 93-97) and it’s various offshoots (Cool Jerks, Tearjerkers, Deadly Snakes, and Reigning Sound), which could have been a good primer for a full-scale alcohol and drug-induced fall out.

But that didn’t happen. Well, I did revel in lucid dreams brought on by the codeine cough syrup prescribed for the chest congestion and the somnambulistic existence of life under two successive percocet prescriptions. Yet I managed to avoid any drunken encounters with the law, or my wife, and stayed relatively sober during one of the most tenuous moments of my life, the long days before the birth of your child, when your wife – wracked with discomfort – wants it over and done with; when she wants the fetus-turned-to-boy to get the fuck out of her.

*

Cole Burdick Barbera – my second son – was born on May 25, 2003, at approximately 2:37 p.m. on Sunday afternoon. It would take almost two weeks for his jaundice to fade and I can say there is nothing like illuminating your child with all the care of a pot plant.

A stack of music had accumulated in the meantime and I had been eager to tackle it. There was Betty Blowtorch, a posthumous disc of raunch and roll featuring former members of Hollywood noise-punk outfit Butt Trumpet which brought back visions of my life in Los Angeles, of living in Glendale and going out to see shows in Hollywood.
I was reminded of the time I went to see Clawhammer at Raji’s only to find out that the prime parking spot I had scored in front of the club wasn’t so prime. My car was towed from a “temporary no parking spot” for a night time film shoot. There were things I needed to learn if I was going to stay in this concrete jungle like where and when to park and how not to go to the police department’s impound lot at 3 a.m. pissed off and drunk.

I was reminded of the days before marriage and before kids, and my have I come a long way.

* A version of this essay originally appeared on the zine Razorcake’s web site

Circle Of Death

 

"There's a white stain in the backyard," said my wife from the kitchen window Sunday morning as she sipped her coffee.

A short time later, after she went out to clean the backyard of toys and debris to mow it, she came back in and said that there was what looked like a dead bird out back.

I figured it to be one of the wrens from earlier in the week.

"Can you rake it up?" she asked.

"What's to rake up?" I thought.

So I went out in my t-shirt and sweatpants, flip flops on my feet, half a cup of coffee in my system and barely awake.

And then I saw the circle of death.

And then I figured this needed to be photographed.

Anf then I tried to figure out what had happened.

Like CSI.

Only I'm an authority on nothing.

It's Like A Jungle Out There

 

Our backyard has become ground zero for all things nature this past week.

I don't know who ate what but clearly, somebody got so stuffed that they left table scraps...

Froggy Went A Courtin' Part Deaux

 

Found this little sucker in my toilet the other day.

Tucked right under the seat.

My wife had already used the bathroom before work.

It's a good thing she didn't discover him.

This is the second time I've found a tree frog in my bathroom.

Last year I found one in the shower.

I'm downright stupidfied as to how they got there.

One theory could be that they swim up through the plumbing but the amount of poo, piss and bleach (to cover up the latter!) that I pour into it you think would deter the young fellow.

I hope he doesn't come back.

Or that if he does come back that my wife doesn't kiss him and have him turn into a prince because I'd be shit out of luck then.

My Son...

 

Cue Iron Maiden's "Run To The Hills" and let the games begin...

Is

 

Raging

 


9.6

9.8

9.9

10

9.8