road trip!

I'm on a music mailing list, where, for the last few days, people have been sharing stories of their most notable concert roadtrips. Here's my entry:

I was not, at first, a big fan of the Black Crowes. They came to my hometown of Jacksonville, FL on the Southern Harmony and Musical Companion tour. I heard them occasionally on MTV and our otherwise Classic Rock-obsessed radio station (which, to this day, has a playlist which is 95% stolen from 1986), but none of their stuff really bowled me over...so I decided not to go. Day of the show, I'm sitting at my computer doing homework (be fair and honest: I was probably playing solitaire), and the retro rock radio channel, in honor of the show, decides to play two straight hours of the Black Crowes. The more I listen, the more I'm getting into them. After about an hour, I decide I really wanna go see them...just as the dj announces the show has sold out.

Grrr. I decide to instead do what anyone disappointed in life would do...go to the bar. On the way home, I get pulled over. I'm driving a 1973 Plymouth Duster that is, without a doubt, the worst car in the world (passenger door only opens from the inside, driver's door only opens from the outside, the roof leaks so much holes got punched in the floorboard to drain the car, there's an ecosystem of some unkillable alien mold, and there's no foam padding in the front seat...only a folded rain coat prevents me from having a metal enema whenever I drive), and it's about 30 outside, and my heater doesn't work...so, in spite of me going relatively light on the beer, I'm shaking from the cold and can't pass the field sobriety test.

I head to jail. I pass the breathalizer test, but the technician decides to book me anyway, telling me that, under Florida law, if the arresting officer thinks I'm drunk, my blood alcohol level only has to be relatively close. Legal precision! Nice!

They put me in the holding cell. One of the cellmates was convinced the skin around his...um...reproductive organs was peeling, so he was walking around with his pants around his ankles, scratching himself (that is, until the nice officers came in, grabbed him, slammed him against the wall, and moved him into an isolation cell). Another gentleman was cold and kept trying to steal people's jackets...but everyone just basically told him to screw himself. An intimidator, he was not. Then he took to yelling at the guards, saying he had a health condition. Then he started to insulate himself by wrapping himself up with toilet paper. Then they moved me into a cell block, where my cellmate was a crack dealer.

All this because I didn't go to a show. It was a mistake, I vowed, which I would never repeat. So, when the Black Crowes toured again in our area, I decided to go. Problem one: it was in Gainesville, roughly two and a half hours away. Solution: get a bunch of friends to go with. Problem two: I got suckered into driving, which was an issue because, by that time, the Duster had died (threw a rod the day after I gave it to my brother), and I was in a not-all-that-spacious-bordering-on-microscopic Honda Prelude. Solution: cram a total of eight people inside as if using a clown car. Problem three: tickets were pricey. Solution: wait until band put special $3 "crowes nest" tickets"...because we were all cheap/broke.

We somehow got to Gainesville and untangled everyone in the car. It was at the arena where University of Florida plays basketball, which seats roughly eight thousand or so. There were about two hundred people on the floor, and the rest of the arena was pretty much empty...except for these "crowes nest" cheap seats, which were fairly full but as far away as humanly possible from the stage. I sat down as The Dirty Dozen Brass Band (the openers...who were awesome) started...at least I think it was them and not a bunch of ants with miniature tubas. Then a guy next to me asked me if I wanted a hit...not off his joint, but off his two foot tall water bong. The security guard in the area just shook his head. I politely declined the offer, by the way.

The Black Crowes came on, played for exactly one hour and fifteen minutes, were fairly lame, and then the lights came on. We left the arena and lubed everyone up to squeeze into my Hot Wheels-esque car for the ride home. Our travel time was longer than the show itself...which, itself, was fairly unimpressive.

At least, though, I didn't get arrested this time.

bone creak

(warning: whining content ahead)

I feel old.

It hasn't always been this way. Until recently, I never really thought of my age. Now, though, I feel it in my bones.

Physically, I'm worn out. On top of my right shoulder pains, I now also have something pulled/torn/silly puttied in my left shoulder...which means my good shoulder now has the unmitigated audacity to hurt more than my bad shoulder. To add a hilarious twist, the exercises which keep my right shoulder at bay seem to exacerbate my left. Do the exercised and increase the pain on one side, or take an exercise break and increase the pain on the other side? Hum.

I'm tired. My progeny unit's erratic sleep schedule is starting to get to me, in spite of my spousal unit taking care of most of the night stuff. Night before last, the progeny unit slept through the night. This is only the second time this has happened. The first time led to about 4 hours of sleep the following night. Yesterday, the pattern of not wanting to sleep at all after a full night's sleep held true, and I fear I might have to tell my daughter she's doing it wrong. Additionally, the erratic sleeping on her part means it was a particularly bad time for my insomnia to return. Moreover, I can't even start on the coffee until she finally wakes up because my burr bean grinder sounds like a jet engine...and I have definitely learned not to wake up an under-rested baby as to not unleash her fury.

Work-wise, I'm disconnected. Summers are normally the time to do writing, reading, research...basically remember why I became an academic. This summer, I have only read thirty pages of one of the dozen scholarly books I brought home from the office, have spent a few hours finding a possible place to submit one of my two unpublished papers (which still required I mail in three physical copies; I resisted the urge to introduce them to e-mail or the 21st century) and failed completely to find a home for the other. Furthermore, I have more or less abandoned my closest-to-being-ready-to-write essay as being too far removed from events to be relevant...much like myself.

Job-wise, I'm stagnant. Yes, I should be thankful to even have a job, but this year, a record number of friends and accomplices found work...in their field...with possible futures. More than one have had encouraging news from book publishers. Me? It has been, unless my memory fails, about four years since I've received anything other than a form rejection from anywhere I've applied. I am at a dead end. I am trying to come to terms with the fact that I will never be anything other than what I am, that there is essentially no longer an upside to my career, but it's hard; in spite of having really known this for years, to have your failure finally driven home? It is wearying. A while back, I used to tell my students that the difference between me and some much smarter MA colleagues was that I was a better worker, which is why I went on to get my PhD and they did not. However, these people do the exact same job as I and started doing so immediately after getting their MA. So the real difference? I have earned less, have higher credit card and student loan bills, yet we have the exact same career path. At least the world respects my highest of academic degrees....right? Right?

Life-wise, I feel I've missed out on so much. Why, I've been asking myself lately, did I not take the two years I took off between getting my two year and four year degree and do something interesting, like move to Colorado? Why did I not follow the lead of some friends and move into some career which would've allowed me to have a house, a new car, a pool table, something that would've meant I'd never have to life in the student ghetto for a decade? It's gotten to the point where I've quit watching any and all home improvement television out of the sheer jealousy and class hatred it evokes.

Socially, I feel isolated. A new crop of faces has entered our college town, and I've met none of them. Several people left our town without having a chance to say goodbye. And the people that are still here? The holdovers? Well, I rarely see anyone. I have one weeknight where I can go out--the Tuesdays at Howards, and this was the first time in weeks I've seen a few of my friends. Others, I haven't seen in close to a month. One friend called me several days last week to invite me out after I told him I couldn't go out anymore.

Yeah, I know. I'm whining again. Moreover, I'm ignoring all the wonderful things that are happening in my life, especially my beautiful spousal unit, my awesome progeny unit, my cool new band. However, I said a while ago I was going to be honest and open...and if you know me, you know whining is part of that honesty.

Last night, I took the second of what turned out to be many attempts to put my daughter to sleep. I picked her up, took her to the bedroom, swaddled her, and she started to scream, to flail. It was one of those times where she just would not be placated, where all of my (normally successful) tricks abandoned me. It's hard enough emotionally to bear her screams in the best of times. She yells with her whole body, her bottom lip starts to quiver, and she gains an Exorcist-esque pitch and timbre. Factor in my flaring shoulders, the mounting insomnia, and I came close to weeping myself.

Please tell me it will get better. Barring that, please tell me I will get tougher.

The Heating Pad

Have two types of tendinitis in one shoulder...and a pulled muscle in the other (which actually hurts worse)? Still working on recovering from the insomnia which had the bad timing to ruin for you a rare sleep-through-the-night session from your progeny unit? Afraid to say too much about your afflictions in fear of having friends call you a whiner? Why, you need a drink:

• take a double dose of some generic ibuprofen variety
  
• place three ice cubes in a cocktail glass
  
• add one measure of Tennessee whiskey (although rye or bourbon would do in a pinch)
  
• add one half measure of triple sec
  
• top with a good ginger beer
  
• hope the concoction quells the aches in your torso
  

addendum

For the second go-round (hey, the recipe only uses half of the ginger beer...I have to make another!), as the original drink used up all my Tennessee whiskey, I was moving to rye....although I wasn't singing "this will be the day that I die" or indeed anything else. I decided to similarly replace the triple sec with some strawberry liqueur. The resulting variation? I call it The Ice Pack.

The Urchin Sabbatical

Contemplating a semester with no student contact? Had a long day being parental/homemaker/cooking unit? Need a pick-me-up? Well, then, you're in luck...because it's time for a new drink! I call this one The Urchin Sabbatical:

• put a few ice cubes into a highball glass to remind yourself what a cold, lonely world it can be
  
• add a measure of vodka in honor of all the drunken undergrads you will never meet
  
• add a half measure of raspberry schnapps in salute to the fruity comrades who are taking your classes while you wash diapers
  
• top with a good ginger beer...because you're a zesty guy, damnit
  
• stir, sip, enjoy, while contemplating late night feedings
  

a conversation

An exchange:

"Sorry you didn't get much sleep last night. I tried to get her to go down, but she was fighting it."

"Don't worry. You tried hard. You're a marvelous daddy."

"It's just so aggravating. I just want her to sleep, and she's regressing. She's sleeping like a two week old again."

"It'll get better. Remember, our doctor said some babies start to sleep regularly in two months, some take four..."

"Yeah, I know, but it just seems to be getting worse. Honestly, I'm just really exhausted...and you're getting less sleep than I am."

"Well, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm just a less cranky person than you."

"Duh. The only person I know who is more cranky is [name redacted]. Honestly, I'm so cranky, I'm surprised no one's offered me my own talk show."

on bad ideas

Do you ever have one of those thought which you just know is a horrible and rotten idea, the kind of thing which no one in their right mind would do or even condone, yet the idea persists nonetheless? My latest experience with such thoughts centered around my daughter.

Tuesday and Wednesday nights were not exactly quiet and peaceful in the TheMikeDuBose household. The progeny unit, for reasons which will remain a mystery until she learns how to talk (which should be some time next week, right?) decided that sleep was for chumps. Furthermore, she also decided that if she had to sleep, there was no point falling off unless she had spent an average of six hours, seventeen minutes actively fighting sleep...mostly by screaming and flailing. Now, for the record, I love the little bugger wholeheartedly, but the sleep ... um, difficulties ... did not have a positive effect on household morale in general.

Wednesday night, we gave her the supposedly calming and soothing bath, and by 9:30, my darling spousal unit went to put the progeny unit to sleep. I was catching up on chores, so I don't know exactly what was happening. Enough was clear, though, to realize that whatever was going on in the nursery, it didn't involve slumber, rest, or anything else we parental units might actively desire.

A half hour till midnight, I took over get-thee-to-rest duty so the spousal unit could lay down. The progeny unit, however, had no intention of doing anything of the sort, and she made this very clear in an extremely voluminous manner. She's a darlng girl, but if she's not happy or doesn't want to do something, she will let you and your ear drums know. Things got incrementally worse if I had the gall to, say, try sitting or even leaning against something. Somewhere after an hour of holding my darling, wonderful girl who insisted on flailing, screaming, and generally acting like a stunt double for The Exorcist, I had an idea.

What, I pondered, would happen if I matched her scream-for-blood-curdling-scream? If every time she yelled in my face, I yelled back in hers? If every time she flailed her body, I did likewise? It would, I decided, be tremendously stress-relieving (and, by this point, I had more than a little stress). It would be therapeutic in that it might take my mind off my tendinitis-weakened shoulder and inflamed back, both glowing after a few hours of pacing and rocking the little bundle of hellion-esque joy. Moreover, it would, to an outside observer, probably be pretty funny...imagine walking into a room and seeing a father holding his screaming daughter, leaning into her face, matching her scream-for-scream, decibel-for-decibel. Kid lets out an "EEERRRGGGGHHHKK?" Parent leans over, looks on in pride, and then lets out an even louder "EEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!"

Even in my mentally weak state, though, I realized such an action, while cathartic and possibly entertaining, very well might not be in anyone's best interest. Luckily, somewhere around 1:47, the progeny unit calmed down on her own and fell asleep. I kissed her, laid her down in her crib, and told her that I loved her in spite of any demonic fits she might display. I then crawled into bed for some blissful, restorative slumber, my thoughts of screaming directly in my daughter's face receding.

In case you're wondering: the benefit of this particular struggle/yelling session? A little over an hour sleep on each side.

somebody get me a doctor

A little over two months ago, me and the spousal unit welcomed our progeny unit into the world. Ever since then, it has been landmark after landmark: first time rolling over by herself (which actually happened her first night home), first sleep through the night (which hasn't happened since), first word (which sounded like "BBBBBRRRAAAWWWAAAGGGHHHH!!!" ... but very loud), first unbelievably scary diaper (the less said, the better), and first stock market tip (for a cryogenics company). This week, we have hit another landmark: first hospital bill.

Frankly, I'm glad. That means only a few more payments, and we'll own that kid outright.

They would've started rolling in earlier, but there were, of course, insurance mix-ups and bureaucratic snafus. At the hospital, they insisted our darling kiddo have the spousal unit's last name on all paperwork even though we were giving her my last name in real life. Of course, this led to rejected insurance claims, and I had to make separate calls to straighten out the mess with the facility's billing and the hospital's billing...which apparently are separate corporations in spite of occupying the same space/time coordinates. Stephen Hawking should be consulted on this anomaly.

We got the first actual bills yesterday. Honestly, they weren't as scary as I was expecting (which cannot, incidentally, be said about placenta). Unlike many of my fellow countrymen, I actually have pretty good insurance...which is one of the reasons I urge all you to join me in a rousting chorus:



The bills are, however, still curious. Both of them are from companies which label themselves "consultants," and this is frankly something I don't understand. If it's just a name thing, okay...hell, trucking companies are now "logistics corporations," so if a fancy title makes you sleep at night, I, as a former asphalt pigmentation application specialist, certainly understand. However, now when I see a statement from "Anesthesiology Consultants," I have to start wondering if it was an actual anesthesiologist whose services we used. Did the person who delivered my spousal unit's drugs really need to consult with someone? Will we get a bill for both actual and theoretical anesthetic services? How many medical people does it take to deliver an epidural?

Now...when is that damn diaper consultant gonna show up?

the second band

Time for a new mixed drink? Why, yes, it is!

• Fill a highball glass half full of ice
  
• Add one measure of cheap Scotch
  
• Add one half measure of Raspberry Schnapps
  
• Top with Seven Up
  
• Drink, enjoy, and wonder how you're going to learn a full set in one week before your debut in a new band
  

life in the swamp

Ripple effects. They're everywhere. Even, it seems, in rock and roll.

Way back at the start of the night, when my old band Analog Revolution played our first show, I remember being on stage, nervous as all hell, setting up my equipment. As I was running wires to my effects pedals, the guitarist from the third band started hauling his equipment through the stage door. He stopped and said, "Hey, cool homemade pedalboard, man!" Partway through the set, said guitarist hung out on the side of the stage for a song or two to watch me play. After we finished, said guitarist was the first person to come up to me to tell me we sounded good.

So went my first introduction to Sr. Bob Wobbly.

Bob started showing up to most of our shows...it was a sure bet that if I would look off the stage, I would see his ball cap. When his first band started not playing out frequently enough for him, he started another. When he got bored, he recruited my awesome singer and bassist for a third band. And when he found out Analog Revolution was breaking up, he asked me if I wanted to join him in what would be his fourth band. The man, it must be said, really likes music.

A few months ago, when his second band (the awesomely named Black Swamp Rats) were opening for Analog, I realized they were (in all deference to Kitty Glitter and , both of which I like) my favorite band of his. When I booked Analog's final gig, they were the first band I asked to play with us. And during that final gig, I ended up dancing/fake moshing/hurting myself when they were blasting on stage...all the while thinking "man, I'd love to play with them."

Now, Bob and I had already decided to play together, and I had thought long and hard about the new band...how we would sound, what we would do, what the theory behind our approach would be. I wrote about 11 songs, recorded eight demos, and had been (sort-of) working on lyrics. Only one problem: we had nowhere to practice. I would've offered my house, but there's not enough space...plus rock band rehearsals and 2 month old kiddies don't mix. We couldn't play at Bob's place, because he now lives above a pizza joint. While the band had good songs, a good approach, and would itself have a lot of up-side, it was also looking like that potential would take ages to reach...and it might be up to a year before we could actually play out.

Wednesday night, I got a call from Bob asking me if, rather than start a new band, I would rather just join the Black Swamp Rats as a second guitarist.

I thought about it for about half a nano-second before saying yes. I told him (honestly) I was honored. If he would've asked, I would've told him I would've rather played with the Swamp Rats than anyone else around...particularly since The Hold Steady continues to not call for my services.

So it's official: I am now a Black Swamp Rat. So we're going to meet Monday and discuss strategy. I know not all of the songs we wrote for the 4th Bob band project (which, incidentally, was gonna be called The Bombastics) will work for the Black Swamp Rats...but hell, I don't care. They have a definite sound, and it's one in which I think I can easily fit and even enhance. Plus, I know they kick ass...so it should be really, really fun. Hell, the drummer's already sent me a "welcome to the band" e-mail.

Ever since the call, I have been slightly giddy. The last two nights, I've had problems getting to sleep because my mind won't quit working on guitar parts. It's gonna be good.

empty houses

It's just a line from your old town

where we're still drinking to the times

when you were around

Last night, I told a friend that we were at what was both the best and the worst party I've been to in a while. The two of us were on the front porch swing, as friends inside listened to music, talked, and drank to our friends who were leaving the state in the morning.

One of my friends got an awesome tenure-track job in Washington state, so both of them decided to hold an empty house party last night before getting up this morning for their cross-country trek to their new home, to their new lives. Naturally, I am truly happy for them both. You gotta love new adventures, and you particularly have to love when someone's career path/dream pans out...because that is increasingly rare nowadays. So a large part of me is thrilled that life was going in a good direction for them.

I also realize how greatly enriched my life has been by knowing both of them. Without these two, I wouldn't have played in a band, got to know several other people, had so many fun nights listening to music together, talking at the bar, hanging out on our back porch, discussing new (to me) ideas, generally and genuinely connecting with two wonderful people.

So there is a lot of good here. Yet they're still leaving my life. That street, that house, they will now just be another addition to the increasingly long list of places where friends of mine used to live.

I've mentioned before that my father was in the military. Even though he made great efforts to try and give us as close to a normal life as he could, there was still a lot out of his control. He might keep us at one base for five years, but our friends would still regularly move out. Starting school each year was starting over. Who would be here this time? That person who you used to talk to during recess? They were now in Guam, or on the west coast, or somewhere else...it didn't really matter where, because the only real important thing was that they were far from where you lived.

When my Dad retired, we moved to his hometown of Jacksonville. The first immediate difference I noticed (apart from the hellish heat and humidity) was that when I went to school that first day, there weren't a bunch of people who were looking for new friends because their best friend's dad just got transferred to the other side of the world. No, everybody had a full array of friends, because they had known the same people all their lives. That, it seemed, was the big difference between being the kid of a military man and being the child of a civilian.

I lived in Florida for fourteen years, and I kinda got used to knowing the same people for years on end. When I entered my doctoral program, though, it flung me back into the realm of short-term friends. Although the people I have met up here are the best friends I've ever had, I still have to brace myself for their eventual departure.

Each year, the list of places where friends used to live grows, and simple strolls around town become an exercise in mental three dimensional archeology. I walk down this street, where my friend is now in Minnesota. This house is one a few people I know shared; now they are in Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and Maryland respectively. I turn down another street. My friend from Romania used to live in this apartment complex. I walk past another house, and I have no idea if the dear friend who used to live here is permanently a resident of Michigan or of Norway. I head home and pass the complex where my friend used to live who died unexpectedly this past year.

It's wearying.

I had these thoughts last night, as my soon-to-be-departing friends were holding what was admittedly a righteous party...good music, good friends, good food, good drink, good conversation...yet it was already a prelude to an empty place where yet more departed friends used to live.

late night realizations

One of the awesome gifts someone got my progeny unit in one of her thirteen baby showers is a stuffed bear which plays sounds designed to calm or keep a child asleep. Choices include waves crashing on the beach, rain, a mother's heartbeat (recorded in utero), and whale songs. It's honestly pretty cool...you push a button, and it provides an hour of sounds while you (supposedly) get your urchin to sleep.

Last night/way too early this morning, my progeny unit woke up. Spousal unit fed progeny unit and then handed her off to me (seeing as I am the daytime caretaker unit and she has to work). Progeny unit, though, was decidedly un-tired. I had every trick in the book (literally; someone just recommended The Happiest Baby on the Block, and I was pulling out every bit of advice, to relatively decent effect), but that little kid was fighting sleep with all she got.

After three hours, several sleep sound machine re-sets, and two failed feeding attempts, she finally went back down to la-la land...and in her crib, no less! I then collapsed in my own bed. As I lay there trying to shut off my mind, I could still hear the whale sounds playing from down the hall. They say whale songs are language of a sort. This immediately set me thinking: what exactly are these particular whales saying? What if these whales are trying to corrupt my kiddo? What kind of insidious whale-messages exactly am I unwittingly piping into my daughter's room?

What if these whales are terrorists? Drug addicts? RIAA supporters? Karaoke singers? Tea partiers? Baseball fans? What if they're evil in some other way, like maybe being Rachel Ray fans? You see? We really have no idea what they're saying...and this is something I never considered until I became a father...more specifically, a father awake at 5am, running on two hours of sleep.

Yeah, sure, they're probably just talking about plankton availability...but can we really take that chance? What about the children? Won't someone think of the children????.

I am, by the way, realizing exactly how much I now need coffee.

sing and scream

I have a seven week old child who, in spite of being loving, lovely, loved, and generally sweet, also in fact...well, she's a seven week old child. This means that, no matter how awesome she might be the vast majority of the time, there will inevitably be anywhere from 1-7 daily screaming fits/meltdown periods lasting anywhere from five minutes to three hours apiece.

I was, on some level, prepared for this. People, particularly pernicious parents, went out of their way to describe the screams I would face. Our parenting classes even had a video about this called The Blue Period...which inexorably built to the moral: no matter how much your kid might scream, don't shake them. Somehow, they left out telling us we should not drop-kick our kid, put said child in the microwave, slip in vodka into her bottles, or so forth (which, I guess, were inferred to just be common sense, unlike the shaking thing).

The thing is, though, as much as one can intellectually prepare for events, sometimes there is no substitute for actual experience. When my lovely, beautiful, exceptional-in-every-way child started to get upset, I expected screams. I did not, however, expect Exorcist-level wails...or, for that matter, the accompanying spinning head.

I do all the standard things to calm her down. I cuddle, talk in reassuring tones, pace around, perform a sacred hoop dance. The thing that tends to have the most effect is (to the extent anything actually helps, that is) singing to her. I sing Wilco songs. I dive into Son Volt, Neil Young, classic rock, indy rock, all kinds of things. But what, you might ask, has the highest "soothing loud babies" quotient? What artist works the most wonders on my kiddo?

It's The Eagles.

Seriously. My kid is, more often than not, soothed most effectively when I sing Eagles songs to her. My progeny unit finds The Eagles's Their Greatest Hits: 1971-1975 to be both calming and relaxing. She seems to like "Take It to the Limit," "Lying Eyes," "Desperado," and "Take It Easy" above the others. While I'm not saying they're the key to Magical Sleeping Baby Moment, more often than not, if my girl starts to come down from a meltdown, I've been singing one of these four songs to her.

This is actually fine by me. While I know how fashionable it is to utterly hate The Eagles, I've always kinda liked them...and I am now old enough, secure in my identity, and generally don't give enough of a rat's tuchus to feel bad about admitting that in public. I know this puts me at odds with many of my friends (including my old bandmates, who, when I suggested doing a punk version of "Lying Eyes," looked at me like I just suggested adding cannibalism to our stage show). I can't tell you why they hate them so much--probably something to do with irrational country music hatred--but ultimately, I don't care.

As long as their songs help my daughter take it easy and dry her crying eyes, thus giving her a peaceful, easy feeling, I don't care if The Eagles give my friends a heartache tonight. I will continue to like The Eagles and encourage my daughter to do the same. If my daughter is crying as if suffering from a heartache tonight, I will sing, sing, thus, in some small way, giving her the best of my love.

Although, if the singing quits working, one of you might need to bring me a tequila sunrise or something.

time keeps on slippin'

A few months before the "blessed event," I was in my office during the last week of classes, clearing up some last minute tasks...damning students, filling out paperwork, and the like. One of my former bosses (who, once upon a time, had the temerity to actually hire me) stopped by, and we briefly chatted...the "brief" bit being a necessity, as former boss's new position has her transferring from being merely busy to being one of the busiest humanoid beings in existence, apparently. She asked, among other things, how the (then still in-progress) pregnancy was going.

Eventually, she got that demonic look on her face (I know it well; she was my boss) and asked "Do you know what they call the first six weeks after delivery? The worst part of the pregnancy!" She then vacated, leaving me alone to face this portent of doom (as she is want to do).

For the longest of time, I would hear similar warnings about the first six weeks of life as being hell-like. I would, it seems, never sleep, never see anyone, never have a moment of sanity. We were bombarded with warnings, threats, hellacious laughter. This taught me, as I recounted earlier, that parenthood tends to turn parents into sadists...at least when around parents-to-be.

But there was always that time element. Six weeks. A month and a half. Conquer that, the implied message of hope claimed, and you can conquer anything.

Yesterday, our progeny unit hit the seven week mark...and I've been noticing that, for the last few weeks, the words of warning from prior parents have been changing as our baby ages. First there was one simple "oh, if you get through the first two months, you will be fine." Then someone claimed 2-3 months. Next, I heard "half a year, and it will get easy." Some other well(?)-wisher told me it would be the first year.

What are you bastards doing to me? Enough with the threats! Just come on out, tell me it gets easier after the 22nd year, and get it over with!

daytime caretaker unit diary

Today, I move from just being a paternal unit to being...(pause here for dramatic tension)...a sole daytime progeny caretaker unit. It is an awesome amount of responsibility...not to mention being a lot longer to type.

For the first seven weeks after d-day, the maternal unit was here with me, and we shared the joyous act of caring for the progeny unit. Unfortunately, maternal unit had to go back to work. We would've loved to have her here longer, but she's part time and therefor doesn't get paid when she doesn't work...and we are not, unfortunately, independently wealthy. While I perfectly understand the "you gotta work to get money" thing, I don't really get the whole "parenthood is blessed, but you don't deserve time with your new urchin unless you're rich" thing. A while back, I found out (via this post on the awesome Sociological Images) that the US is one of only six countries worldwide that don't require employers to offer paid maternity leave (go US!). I guess we, as a country, think it's either work or parenthood, but not both. I will agree with my female brethren: this just don't seem fair.

Fortunately, though, I have a good job. Yes, it's outside my field; yes, I have to read a lot of papers (of the "welcome to college" student quality level); and yes, I'm pretty just a worker bee/university slave, but there are real benefits...the chief one (relevant to this conversation, anyway) is my semester of paid parenthood leave...hence me being the daytime daddy.

Naturally, this is gonna dominate my thinking for a little while. However, I promise not to go all "oooh, you should see the adorable thing my kiddie did today" on you. No one wants to read that. Besides, without the accompanying possibility of spit-up, you would only be getting half the story anyway.

But it does mean a few things relevant to our time together, mainly: in between the feedings (one so far today), diaper changes (several, with one in particular bordering on "great googly-moogly" territory), meltdowns (one so far, but that was solved by me rocking her while singing The Eagles), and diaper washing (in progress as we speak...all hail the high efficiency machine...as I would really hate to drag these suckers to the creek and beat them between two rocks), I will finally find time to blog again. This will likely happen mostly, I suspect, during naps (hers, not mine).

Now I just gotta learn to type quietly.

The Sleeping Baby

You know what it's time for? Yepper, a new drink! I call this one "The Sleeping Baby":

• take a highball glass/juice glass/sippie cup and put in a few ice cubes
  
• add one measure of vodka while thinking of the gulags
  
• add one measure of wild strawberry liqueur while thinking of the forests
  
• add a half measure of raspberry schnapps while wondering why "raspberry" has a "p" in the name
  
• top off with orange juice
  
• stir, drink, relax, and watch your formerly sleeping child squirm
  

on establishing a permanent record

Because of the blessed nature of being in a really good band, I am and can fully conceive of myself as a musician. One of the things that musicians do (other than annoying their family, friends, passers-by; put on the facade of a monster ego to cover up mass insecurities; and make a lot of noise in loud venues populated by intoxicated people, some of whom would rather be either dancing or playing bar-top trivia games) is record. Hell, even if it wasn't part of the standard musician playbook, I'd want to establish a permanent record of my music if just for the "I must live on forever! MWAHAHAHA!" part of my personality alone.

So, how is the recording process? Surely, you are thinking, it must be fabulous getting the chance to finally document your material. How could it be anything other than interesting taking sounds in your heat, moving them from your fingers, into steel strings, through magnets, wire, effects, tubes, speakers...all in concert with other musicians who you love and trust? How could this not be utterly and completely fascinating? Enthralling? Transcendent?

Well...

I still want to eventually do good professional recordings one day, to have on tape (or some digital facsimile thereof) a version of one of my songs which approaches the version in my head. But, if my experiences are typical in any way whatsoever, I am not sure how bands can spend more than a few weeks in the studio and come out with their sanity. How, perchance, might someone be a member of Boston or Guns N' Roses? How could you survive multiple years in the studio working on the same damn collection of ten songs?

The above, though, was my current band's attempt to just do some raw, mic-in-the-room recordings, and there are occasional technical hiccups in any situation which have to be addressed...so, for the record, we are not usually sitting around, reading, or passed out while someone twists knobs and hits things. We are, however, responsible for each other's feelings, attitudes, and opinions, so we have to give each other a lot of space...which means, rather than a "let's bust out our set in an hour" session, recording tends to be play once, wait while people listen and judge the take, and play again...albeit twenty minutes after the previous take. I understand the lack of flow, but it is still an issue for my level of playing and of interest.

Doing it on your own, though, is not really any quicker or less aggravating.

I have mentioned before that, after Analog Revolution goes away, I have another project in the works. In this new band-to-be, I will be shouldering a decent amount of the conceptual and songwriting load. Well, in the week before the progeny unit showed up, I decided to assemble some rough demos at home...so the other band members would (1) be able to hear the riffs again (since, while I was in the final stages of urchin-readiness, we haven't been practicing) and (2) have a good idea of the structure and overall sound floating in my head.

Stage one was to find a drum machine program...as I possess neither the massively expensive drum set nor the coordination required to play one. There are tons of good programs out there, and some came very highly recommended....but they all cost money, and I am, if nothing else, relatively broke. So I did some arduous searching (well...I googled it) and settled on a nice open-source program.

I then had to learn the program. Operating the software was not really the issues...the program I found is relatively intuitive. No, the difficulty is simply I don't know how to play drums. True, I have listened to drums all my life, and I have known many drummers. Apparently, though, I only gained a slight theoretical knowledge of their craft in the process of hanging out with them. Osmosis, I guess, only gets you so far. Ultimately, I learned the biggest thing to be gleaned by hanging out with drummers is an increased proficiency with profanities.

It took a few days of messing with the program, but eventually, I attained a certain proficiency programming drums. More than anything else, I was amazed by the innate mathematics involved in drumming. Fractions in particular. One song in particular tripped me up for a full day before I realized the drum part needed to be in triplets...which changed the mathematics considerably. This is all funny, because I never really saw any of my drummer friends as math savants...but I guess there's also some intuition at work.

After the drums were programmed, I then set out to record the guitars...which, as I have been playing guitar since 8th grade and had written all the songs in question...well, this should be no problem, huh? Should be "I'm gonna knock out ten guitar tracks, assemble a guitar army, be the envy of Brian May," right? Not the case. When we were doing the Analog Revolution recordings, I was chagrined to find we would only end up with three songs recorded in a three hour session. Why, I wondered, couldn't we speed up the whole process? Hell, Black Sabbath recorded their entire first album in twelve hours.

Wrong again, idiot self. When I recorded on my own, I still did about three songs in a three hour session. I'm not sure if the recording process makes me over-think everything, or if I'm really just that tremendously sloppy/imprecise of a guitar player...probably the latter, which is a tremendous blow to my ego. Even though I was in control of all aspects of these fledgling demos, it still took me forever to do a job that was simply...good enough. Sigh.

I'm now realizing that I need to get back to the live element. I'm much better when there's immediacy between myself and the band, between the band and the audience, when we can get locked into the energy, the emotion, the pure awesome sound, and just let the music take us where it needs to go.

That our audience is drinking and, as a result, has lowered expectations is just a bonus. Yeah...that's what it is.

delayed notification

I've been understandably busy, or I would've posted about this earlier, but in case you haven't heard from other sources:

World, please say hello to Sylvia Emily DuBose. She arrived on Sunday, 6/12, at 3:35pm, weighing in at 8 pounds, 14 ounces, measuring in at 22". Please be good to her and help her develop into the awesome person she is destined to become.

bugs redux

Remember the Great Bee Invasion of aught-ten? Well, last night, as I was gaining a few brief hours of passing-out, the spousal unit, hauling the progeny unit, came in exclaiming "bugs!"

I wasn't sure if this was deja vu or flashback. I also suspected sleep psychosis, as the progeny unit, who had been on her best behavior until 11ish, decided to forget how to sleep, rest, or be quiet.

I stumbled out to the living room and saw a few ants with wings on the corner. I grabbed our eco "safe for kids and pets but still stinky" bug killer and returned. I killed the little buggers. I looked down. There were twenty to thirty more. Assassination. Looked around. Thirty ants on the door. Similarly dispatched. I then went outside and soaked the porch, the window frames, and pretty much the corner of the building.

This AM, after finishing the morning pass-out session, I called the landlord, who, after hearing the word "newborn," responded with due haste. I then went into severe clean-up mode...and when I moved our corner lamp, I found even more bugs, this time with ugly-ass bug eggs.

First the bees...then the ants. I'm wondering if I have watched so many fifties monster movies, I've unwittingly entered one.


(Yah, I know. I'm brimming with news, but there is no time/amount of consciousness to tell the accompanying stories. Soon, though...and if you're on Facebook, follow "Sylvia Emily DuBose"...I will be posting videos and photos before too long.)

waiting, art, and science

Yesterday, I learned about the limits of both art and science.

As y'all undoubtedly know, the spousal unit and I are expecting an urchin. Said urchin was actually due Wednesday. Mighty isn't here yet, though. We're hoping that urchin's lack of punctuality doesn't carry over into the high school years.

Yesterday afternoon, I was introducing the spousal unit to the under-appreciated pleasures of The Adventures of Briscoe County, Jr. when she started to feel...it was less a cramp and more a contraction. Eureka! Mighty might actually be beginning preparations for the debut appearance!

So, having read all the books, website feeds, and such, we knew, in order to figure out when we needed the services of our birthing professionals, we had to start the counting, the collection and collating of data. Everything, including the advice of doctors, told us to head to the hospital when contractions hit five minutes apart. I grabbed a pad of paper and pen, and I started writing down times. Contraction one: 1:45 pm. Contraction two: 2:06. Interval: 21 minutes. We stayed at around the 20 minute mark for a few cycles. The 15 minute gap lasted about two hours. Then 10 minutes...then 7 minutes. When we had a couple of consistent 5 minute marks, we made some notification calls & texts, got dressed, and went to the car to start the voyage.

After getting the car parked, getting up to the third floor, and finding the maternity ward (we've been there before, but it's a hospital...it's not tremendously diverse in decor, so the hallways have the distinctiveness of Jeffrey's Tubes), we found out that the female population of Toledo (or at least a significant portion thereof) must've decided last night was the perfect time to spit out a child...the maternity nurses were slammed busy. There was no room at the Inn, so to speak (well, no bed in the triage), so we were pointed to the waiting room. The spousal unit read, I watched NCIS...that is, when we weren't pacing around the waiting room, spousal unit panting, me trying to be kind and sympathetic (as well as anyone who will never personally experience a contraction can be).

After seven hours of contractions and an hour and a half in the waiting room, we were finally shown to triage...which was nowhere near as cool as even MASH made it appear (either the show or the superior movie). They had a radio playing. The song was "How Long Has This Been Going On?" I found this hilarious, but I was very unsure if I should or should not point out the humor to the contracting spousal unit. Score one, though, against the power of art to uplift.

After monitoring, checking, waiting, testing, more monitoring and checking, our doctor (who happened to be on hospital duty) came in to see the spousal unit and immediately declared the spousal unit looked too good, calm, and restful to actually be in labor. We were given a choice: we could either wander around the halls, hoping that a few hours of walking would spur true rather than false labor...or we could go home and wait for the actual labor to start. I innocently asked how we would know when we (well, the spousal unit) had real contractions, real labor if the counting obviously didn't work (as we did the 5-minute-between-contraction thing, which did not lead us to delivery as advertised). Our doc said the spousal unit would just know. I wasn't sure if this was an appeal to the sacred mystery of female intuition (of which men will never understand) or a Yoda reference. Score one, though, against science and procedure.

Yeah, I know it's still early in the process...but this pregnancy/delivery thingie is, to this point, confounding. Oh, well...I'm sure it will just get easier.

infants and mad scientists

It all started off with technical incompetence. It ends with mad scientist laughter.

When the spousal unit and I got our ultrasound photos of our impending bundle of joy, we decided we wanted to share our images of the little urchin with our friends...never mind that they looked mostly like blobs at that state. Figuring e-mail would be the easiest (not to mention most science-fictiony) way to share the shots, I took the images with me to work. I scanned the photos, tried a whole bunch of settings, but I guess I suck, because the scans were blurry...I mean, even blurrier than ultrasound photos of a few-month-old fetus normally would be. While the department's copier/scanner is great for making pdfs, it's apparently not up to image scanning....or, what is far more likely, I'm just a bit of an idiot when it comes to using it.

So, on the advice of our department secretaries, I hunted down the building's IT guy, and he was happy to scan the ultrasound shots for me. He also heartily congratulated me and told me how happy he's been after having a daughter. He treated me, a complete stranger, in a way which was, upon further reflection, almost like being welcomed into an exclusive group.

Unfortunately, out of those people I've told about Mighty who have their own kids, he's one of the few who've responded in this way.

Usually, I will tell my parent friend that the spousal unit is expecting. Then the lights will dim. Color will seep out of the room. Thunder will crack while lightning flickers simultaneously. And my friend will get that specific evil look in their eye. "Congratulations," they will say, and, following an ominous pause, "your life is going to change in ways you've never suspected."

They warm to their subject. As Tesla coils begin to flash, as the air fills up with the smell of burning ozone, the vibrations of ancient vacuum-tube fueled machinery, the unearthly whine of aertherphones fills my ears. A subtle vibrato creeps into their voice. "You will never get a good night's sleep again. You will hear crying, screaming, gnashing of teeth..."

"um, I don't think my urchin will come out with too many teeth."

They ignore my appeal to logic. "Your child will most certainly be colicky...the crying will never stop. There's nothing you can do. Waaaah. WWWWAAAAGGGGGHHHHHH!!! It's all you will ever hear. It will permanently implant itself in the deepest recesses of your brain."

"Um..."

"And then there's the future. Have you planned for the future? Do you have a good daycare lined up? Have you started on pre-school applications? Do you know in what your kid will major in college?"

"I think I have a little time to..."

"And the money. Did you realize how much babies cost? There's food...clothes...furniture...diapers...office supplies...workout equipment...drum sets...dictaphones....All this costs money, you know."

"Gee, really?"

"And then there's the time. Kids take time. You have to be with them. They always need something. They demand your attention. This means your life as you know it is over. You will have no more social life. No one outside of your work will ever see you. You will have no time to go to bars, see movies, talk to strangers, eat food, use the bathroom."

"Have you considered decaf?"

"It's changing! Everything in your entire world is over. It's all changing. It's all about the kid. This means there's no more room for you...in anything...ever...BBBWWWWWAAAAAHHHHAAAAAAHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!"

At least this has been my experience.