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

All Hell's Breaking Loose

 

So when had this wren lay soem eggs in our shed a few weeks back.

We watched as the bird incubated the clutch and then peeked in on them once they hatched.

It was a nice little view of nature for the boys.

Earlier this week I noticed that the chicks had gotten so big that they were essentially pushing one another out of the nest.

It would soon be time to fly I thought.

Then Wednesday I went into the shed to get the charcoal to fire up the grill for burgers and all hell broke loose.

Apparently the chicks had ventured out of the nest and were investiagting their surroundings until I spooked them getting the charcoal.

The chicks flew into the walls in all directions and dropped to the floor.

Three of them fell behind junk I thought they may never find a way back out of because of the cramped quarters.

I watched a confused mother wren come back to the nest with a worm to find her chicks gone.

And then I watched her bounce about the shed looking for her babies.

I felt bad so I grabbed a broom and swept the floor, then started humping junk out of the shed to give the chicks some space. Of course this scared the shit out of them and they began sending out chirping calls of distress.

Suddenly I found myself surrounded by a family of birds flying around me, zooming through my legs, bumping into me and basically just general chaos.

I managed to huddle three of the five into an empty corner and then left for a few minutes.

I came back to find that mom must have rescued two of them and was on her way ot the third when - once again -
I startled and scared them.

The third chick flew across the deck to the other side, hit the brick wall and then slide down and to cover under the deck.

I heard him chirping under there an hour os so later.

I'm not sure if he ever reconnected with the family.

I tried to help but felt I'd only made matters worse.

Three Years Ago...

this happened to me:

http://www.indyweek.com/gyrobase/Content?oid=oid%3A21927


please read my harrowing account of our healthcare system gone awry and the evils of over-the-counter drugs.

ps. click on Three Years Ago for direct linkage

Linville Falls

Yep.


Nature my friends.

Credit goes to my boys for hiking up this beast of a trail.

You guys rock.

But that piggy back the last half mile was unnecessary dontcha think?

Why Is It?

That people have the urge to say "moo" when they see cows? It's like - and you parents out there can vouch for me - how people feel compelled to speak baby talk to your child.

"Oh Bobby is sooooo cute-da beebee baahh baahh goo goo," they'll say.

I've admit it - I've done both myself (although I can say that alcohol was a factor in the cow conversation).

Just sayin'.

So here I find myself in the passenger seat as my wife took this picture "mooing" to the cow, kids in the back providing their own moo soundtrack.

Finally I barked out, "Can we go now?"

This wasn't well received.

"Can't we moo at the cows," my wife said with a cheerful giggle. "Oh my gosh."

I shook my head.

We drove off.

The cow mooed as we left.

I wondered what he said.

Priceless

Okay, so we didn't have much luck in the river that ran through it.

And maybe that's because I'm not some diehard fisherman.

I like to fish. Don't get me wrong.

But I'm more of a surf or lake fisherman.

We were smack dab in the heart of fly fishing country.

I lost a lot of hooks is what I'm saying... so we broke down and took the boys to a trout farm by Garndfather Mountain so they could catch some fish. It was sort of ridiculous: they supplied the rod & reel, bait, bucket and net. Yeah and even a pond full of trophy trout just for your pickin'! But we caught some fish, had them cleaned and took them home an ate 'em. Yum.

Plus, I got this picture out of it.

Rainbow Trout

With toasted pecans in butter, topped with parsley and served with the beverage of your choice and a few wedges of lemon.

And brown rice.

Can't you just about smell it?

A River Runs Through It

The family spent a few days in the mountains last week where we stayed at a place around Linville Falls called Camp Creek cabin. We spent the majority of our time fishing for trout and looking under the rocks for salamanders. At night we made campfires and enjoyed the scenery.

It was the first time we had taken the kids to the mountains. When we do have the opportunity to take a vacation, being the beach lovers that we are, we usually head to the ocean. But this time around we figured it was time to show the kids what the mountains of North Carolina was all about. They got to experience white knuckle driving on the Blue Ridge Parkway, saw Grandfather Mountain, Linville Falls and Linville Caverns.

All is all it was a really good time.

The Family Garden

This thing was the subject of much debate for the past six weeks; what to plant and where to put it.

And finally, when it was all said and done, when it was built and the vegetables were planted foul weather came. And the weather hasn't been very good to our little project since - first came the freeze where we had to cover the plants or bring the potted ones inside. Of course the cat had a field day with the herbs. So we lsot a few to the frost and a few to the belly of our cat. Then came the torrential downpours and now we are experiencing the tail end of this nor'easter that is wrecking the entire East Coast.

Ah! The joys of DIY...

Oh Little Birdie

A finch has made a nest in our shed right under a tray for paint and in a pan used for changing oil in our cars. Sure hope the little chicks don't come out three-headed...

Dogwood blossoms

Did I mention spring has sprung here in North Carolina?

Spring Has Sprung

That greenish, yellow dust is pine pollen folks.

The local news station said it's the worst measurable pollen in something like eight years. Even though the weather is beautiful, you can't open your windows or the entire contents of your home will be covered in pine pollen dust.

I know this from experience.

Never Make A Promise You Can't Keep*

The promise: To build a tree house for my son Spencer before his fifth birthday.

I would like to mention up top here that this was not my idea – but the wife’s. She’d been looking at web sites and books with schematics and decided that she would take off the week of Easter, essentially Spring Break for the masses, and we will build the tree house.

The beginning of my tree house boot camp started on Saturday, March 26, 2005. My wife and Spencer drove to a lumber store in Burlington, NC, because it was significantly cheaper than the local Lowes or Home Depot.

My wife is all about the discount.

When they returned, Spencer ran in to tell me of how the wood fell out of the truck and that “people he didn’t even know” helped them pick the wood off of the highway. Yes, I just said HIGHWAY. My wife and son were one of those people – the kind who spill lumber out of the bed of a truck. Shortly thereafter, I ferried 60 pound bags of cement to the backyard and hauled whatever timber was needed at the moment off the back of the truck.

In the blink of an eye, my wife darted off to rent a two-person auger. Boy, did we feel sore the next day. But shit if we didn’t get some holes burrowed and 6” x 6” x 12’ posts set.

We finished framing the tree house, fastening lumber with lag screws to the pine trees which acted as the back of the tree house. Since we don’t have much in the way of tools, we borrowed a power drill and some drill bits. Outside of that, our circular saw, a hammer, and a pair of vice grips do the bulk of the work.

Day One was over and we were spent.

Sunday, Day Two, began at the crack of dawn. The kids were fed breakfast, coffee was made and by 9 a.m. the family was outside and construction continued. 5 ¼” x 6’ x 10” decking boards were placed as flooring. By now it was apparent that our thorough measuring wasn’t all that thorough: some angles weren’t straight and some lumber wasn’t level. We were well on our way to building a tree house of Dr. Seuss proportions.

Midway through the day, my hands became to sore – the hammering of ten-penny nails and screwing 2 1/2” screws into planks with a shitty drill bit took its toll.

We broke for the day at dinner time.

Monday found rain in the forecast so I attended a business meeting most of the day and it turned into a day of much needed rest; a day to recoup our energies and step back and take in what progress had been made.

Tuesday began much like the other days: the kids got fed the coffee brewed and then off to the backyard to work amongst the backdrop of whirring saw blades, buzzing drills, kids hollering and us screaming back at them. The agenda called for putting up the 6’ x 6’ sides, slapping up railings made with 2 x 4s and placing the balusters. The balusters mimic the look of the deck in our backyard and also function as a safety element prohibiting the kids from falling off the sides. As dusk arrived, the yard was cleaned of its construction litter and the tools placed back inside, because the next day was Spencer’s birthday and for that we spent the night at Wrightsville Beach.

Wednesday morning slogged by because we couldn’t leave too early since check-in time at the hotel wasn’t until after 3 p.m. We packed clothes and organized toys to be used as distractions for the kids during the 2 plus hour drive to the beach.

The wife was behind the wheel and we were somewhere east of Raleigh. She came upon what appeared to be an unmarked police car. He sped up and she followed him. Then he slowed down and got behind a car in the right lane. My wife did the same. He broke out of the right lane and sped up. Again, my wife followed suit. Finally he settled back into the flow of slower moving traffic in the right lane and with that my wife made the executive decision that the unmarked car is not a cop after all but probably just some business man. She zoomed past him in the left lane.

Moments later she cried out, “Dammit! It was a cop.

I turned around to see the red and blue blinking lights. I started to search for the registration in the glove compartment.

“Ma’am,” he said. “Do you know hwy I pulled you over?”

“I was doing the speed limit,” my wife snapped back.

“Ma’am,” he said emphatically. “Don’t argue with me! I haven’t written a ticket in over four years but I still could if I wanted to.”

The cop is obviously angry. He lectured her about safe driving. “Especially with children in the car,” he said.

“Ma’am,” he said sternly. “Please drive safely.”

The rest of the car ride to the beach is done in silence.

The beach was fun. The weather was great, the ocean water was predictably cold, but the pool was heated. Spencer did double duty going from beach to pool to beach and then back again to the pool until late in the evening. We attempted to eat dinner out by our youngest Cole was restless at the dinner table so we retreated to the room and ordered room service where we sat and ate as we looked out from our balcony to the beach, the waves and the horizon.

We ordered The Incredibles on pay-per-view and collectively snuggle in bed. Despite all the hype I’d heard about the movie, it barely kept my interest - or anyone else’s for that matter – and consequently drove the whole family to sleep.

Sunrise came too soon.

We hit the breakfast buffet, tackled the beach and pool one more time, than headed back home. Once home the car was emptied and it was back to the business of building a tree house. A couple of hours were put in tinkering before we shower up and the babysitter arrived. The wife was on vacation after all so a nice dinner between the two of us was a must.

Friday - Day Four of proper building if you are counting - came and we framed the roof, built a ladder, and attached a slide. The wife had second thoughts about putting on a tin roof because it cost too much so she settles for a blue tarp. I balked at the blue tarp because it didn’t appear very safe – the tarp wasn’t going to break the fall of a pine tree limb. So the roof situation is rethought and it is decided that the tarp with go and the tin roof will stay.

Saturday came and we now had a tree house in the backyard. But it was raining and the yard was all tore up from all the lumber and saw dust and still muddied from the previous rain storm earlier in the week. Our goal to finish in time for Spencer’s birthday party on Saturday was achieved only nobody was going to get to enjoy it since it was pouring down rain.

We kept the promise we made by building the tree house in time for his party. But it wasn’t an easy task.

And another lesson in the world of parenting was learned: never make a promise you can’t keep.

*A version of this essay originally appeared in Raleigh's The Hatchet.