Magnetic Fields

How was the Magnetic Fields show last night? It was fantastic. Amazing. Stephin Merritt and Claudia Gonson are quite the witty crew. And the band as a whole was just top notch. I wish I could put into words what a great show and what a great night it was last night. I could talk about the performance, the brilliance and wit of Merritt's writing, the comfort and ease of the entire show, how, in my excitement, I started an audience clap when Claudia began to sing "Reno Dakota". I could go over all sorts of minutiae that made the concert great. I could have sat through another four sets (Lord knows Merritt has the material to cover four more sets).

But it wouldn't cover the experience. It wouldn't adequately describe how much fun the show was. Ultimately it was the intangibles that made it so great. The magic of the music, the receptive audience, the relaxed feel of the musicians, the fact that it was just four people with a handful of handplayed instruments . . . Just fantastic. Songs I previously was indifferent to I now love because, after seeing them live, I feel I've seen their heart.

But, I may not be the best judge. I mean, to be fair, we were continuing the trend of going out kidless for the first time in a long time. It was nice to have a date with my wife. I kind of like her a little bit. Though I was too nervous to give her a kiss goodnight. So I may be skewed in the direction of the positive.

However, I learned a new (Gothic Archies) song I hadn't heard before. It's called "Smile: No One Cares How You Feel" and it's become my new theme song. I found the album it's from (a label sampler) and it will be delivered shortly.

The song goes a little something like this:

Smile: no one cares how you feel.
Be vicious, vain, and vile.
Everything's yours to steal if you just smile.

Have you no dignity?
Have you no sense of style?
You'll never be pretty until you smile.
Smile: no one cares how you feel.

There's a world to be got.
You can make this world kneel if you'll just smile.
Always the best disguise, a license to defile.
Everyone you despise will die, so smile.

Heh. That's one of the things that made the show so great, and gave me a new appreciation for some of the songs, is Merritt's acerbic wit. Live, his turns of the phrase were more apparent and sometimes given a bit more of a bite. Nice.

Whoops . . . Daddy Moment

I have a theory about dads. We’re all hardwired for certain things. Piss us off while driving and, without even knowing it, we’ll say, “Don’t make me turn this car around.” Keep complaining about things for hours on end and, quite by accident, you’ll say, “I’ll give you something to cry about” (even though you don’t really mean it). When you have girls you find yourself trying to convince them to be asexual, even from the moment of birth. Without even knowing how you gained the knowledge, you will start complaining about traffic patterns on certain roads at certain times. And, eventually, you’ll find yourself sitting on the couch reading the newspaper while the kids are playing at your feet. You’ll rustle the newspaper and say something like, “Damned government wouldn’t know reform from its own rectal warts.” When you start coming home, sit on the couch in your v-neck undershirt and get a “Drinkie poo” to unwind, you’ve officially become your father.

No matter how much we try to be different, we’re all the same. True, some of us are more involved than others, but the instincts are all there. We don’t have control over them. We can resist for a while, but eventually nature will win out.

That’s what happened to me this weekend. I think, because Matilda had a slumber party, my brain’s defenses were low.

I was reading the paper and drinking coffee (I have a habit of reading the whole paper on a daily basis. Skim some things, read all of others . . . but I look at each story. I don’t know why.). I saw an ad. I thought, “that would be fun” and the rest is history.

What was the ad for? An Adopt-a-Stray charity event. What is now history? That we are dog owners.

Meet Finnegan. He’s our one year old Border Collie. We didn’t name him, that’s the name the shelter gave him. But, c’mon. I have an English degree. I’m Irish. Am I going to turn down a James Joyce-themed dog? Plus, have you ever heard the traditional Irish song “Finnegan’s Wake”? The Dubliners do a killer version.

I won’t go into the gory details. I won’t say that I intended to get a dog. But I won’t deny that I didn’t intend on not getting a dog (take that politicians!).

The girls love him. He plays fetch with a ball and catches Frisbees. He’s loyal and already loves us. The only thing he’s done wrong so far is pee in the basement and be a little over-zealous with his excitement. He’s still a puppy in age, with a full-grown dog’s body. But he’s gentle and loving. And very protective of the girls already. Gertrude fell in the hallway and started to cry. He came shooting from across the house and sat there next to her, worried. He’s a herding dog and we’re now his herd.

He’s a good boy. And he’s the first dog I’ve had in over a decade now, since T.J., the world’s most famous three-legged-dog, died.

And I have a feeling he’s going to be a good friend. To be fair, I won’t guilt you with the story about how he was saved from the county’s “death row” by the charity shelter. He was slated to be put down because he wasn’t adopted. Poor guy. He’s such a loving dog.

But I admit. It was the dad in me. When I said, “let’s get a dog” the entire house erupted in cheers and whoops like we had just won the World Series or Madonna released a statement saying she had lost her voice. Joy. Sheer joy.

Dads are mysterious and confusing. Sometimes they are as strict as a drill sergeant. Other times they’re just big old softies. Tell him on Monday night you want to learn to play piano and he’ll harrumph and grumble about the cost of lessons and the cost of the piano, where you’d put it, etc. But come home from school the next day and there will be a piano in the living room.

We can’t help it.

Did You Know . . .

That Denmark has the highest per capita pork consumption in the world?

That Anguilla has the most Linux web servers (per capita) in the world?

That Armenia has the highest rate (per capita) of Library membership? (We don't rate appear on the list, for some reason. Not surprisingly, Iran and Cuba are at the bottom.)

And, finally, that the US has the highest accidental rate of suffocation and strangulation in bed? How do you accidentally strangle yourself in bed?

All info from the quite fun, but possibly suspect, Nation Master website (via Boing Boing).

Go ahead. Find your weird statistic. And find out who has the highest vomiting death rate. And acne. Yes, apparently you can die from acne! (he mortality portion was waaaaay too much fun.)

Reason #4,302 I'm Not in Politics

You can't have a frank exchange of views?

Fuck that.

Interesting Magnetic Fields Article

I don't say this often, even more rarely about their entertainment content, but there's a good article about the Magnetic Fields in today's Post Dispatch. I give Calvin Wilson credit as one of the three writers they have on staff who "gets it" (about movies and music . . . I still remember his Joe Henry article fondly).

Also, here is his review of the band's new disc "i". He brings up some of my favorite lyrics on the album but, sadly, without hearing the song you can't hear the Cole Porter-esque twist that Merritt puts on "infinite".

Tuesday's the concert. If the world is going to end, please postpone it until Wednesday. It's not like my life would be complete having seen them live. But it will certainly be an experience I'm greatly looking forward to.

Don't have any Magnetic Fields? Get thee to a record store!

Cool Animation

Very cool animation. Give it time to load, it's worth it. I know nothing about it. But it's cool.

Found by Geek Press.

I Would Like to Say

Happy Birthday to Matilda, who turns nine today. Nine! Jeez. She acts thirteen.

How has she celebrated so far? By grooving to Ko and the Knockouts' "Twisting Postman". In fact, if I'm not mistaken, I believe she did the Frug.

How am I celebrating? By blasting Camper Van Beethoven's version of the Kinks' "I'm Not Like Everybody Else."

Why? That's right. Because I can.

Rock on.

I'm So Shocked and Saddened By This

That I could puke.

David Bowie Incident

No word on whether or not it was Mick Jagger's . . . (The headline says it all.)

In my next life I want to come back as a headline writer.

Telemetry

Good luck SpaceShipOne. If given the chance, I'd strap in and go with you. Provided, of course, you had the right tunes playing on the box. Because, after all, no one wants to punch a hole in the sky listening to Kenny Rogers and First Edition.

Weekend Sabotage

Hee Hee. I love William Shatner.

Honestly, though, I think Kingdom of the Spiders went to his head.

The Vacation

I promised that I would post a write up about the vacation. And, in the spirit of kindness I've decided to break it up into several pages and place it elsewhere on the website. Therefore, if you don't want to see it, then you don't have to.

Of course, I shouldn't post it at all because so few of you posted your favorite cheeses. Wimps.

But, let it be noted, that I've temporarily suspended my moritorium on photos of the girls. So, unless your a pederast, Roman Polanski, Serge Gainsbourg or some freakish bastard, you'll get a glimpse of how they are growing.

Secondly, some fat guy that looks vaguely like me appears in several of the photos. My wife is in none of them because, well, I didn't want to piss her off. Though by not including her photo she'll say I'm ashamed of her.

Sigh. It's a lose/lose situation.

For the strong of heart, those with deep curiosity or the just plain stupid click here for the vacation summary (now in 2-D!).

Important Musical Roundup

Today was a busy day for me, musically. I discovered two new tidbits out in the world for consumption.

Brian Wilson is releasing the first Brian Wilson produced Brian Wilson album next week (he hasn't had a solo producer credit on a studio album in many a decade). Brian's official website has posted a four song album preview. Of the four songs, the production is very high quality, as is the song writing. Love the open harmony of "How Can We Still Be Dancin'", though I could do without Elton John's vocals. I'm also on the fence about the song "The Waltz", cowritten by Van Dyke Parks. VDP music usually takes a few spins before it sits correctly.

Of special note are "Soul Searchin'", with a beyond the grave vocal by Carl Wilson (oh what could have been were he still alive) and "Gettin' In Over My Head" which has some of Brian's more complex instrumentation of his solo career.

One can't listen to these tracks without giving proper due to the Wondermints for their spot on performances and perfectly tuned pop ears.

The second discovery today is a video for The Real Tuesday Weld's "The Ugly and the Beautiful" (requires Windows Media Player, or a media player with WMV capabilities). Not quite as infectious as "Bathtime in Clerkenwell", the video is a Lynchian nightmare of oddities and grotesque imagery. But in a good way. The song is one of my favorites from I, Lucifer. It's a lovely torch song about the power of love. If only Huey Lewis were so smart.

Surgery

Wasn't bad. I enjoyed the whole lack of consciousness thing.

Recovery? ****in' hurts. When you're looking over your discharge papers and a note says about your procedure, "unusually difficult" you know you're going to be eating water for the next few days.

We're Back

Rolled in late last night. I'll post something about the trip later.

Good?

Yes.

Fun?

Yes.

Right now I'm sitting here on the couch with melted marshmallow on my shirt (made smores on the grill . . . we weren't willing to give up the whole living in the cabin thing so easily) and the girls are fighting in the next room after a nice afternoon at the neighborhood pool.

Life's back to normal, sadly.

Slicing my gums open Monday. Can't eat or drink anything after midnight tomorrow.

Better start loading up now.

Hiatus

This blog will be on hiatus for one to two weeks. My family is on vacation this week and, based on all that implies, we will be too busy having fun to bother writing anything here. I mean, there are funnel cakes out there with my name written all over them. (Not literally, though I suppose it's possible.)

Then, next week, I'm having tooth separated from bone. That will keep me down two to four days.

But I get pain killers.

Interesting . . .

Anyway, be nice to each other and, while I'm away, post your favorite cheese in the comments.

Me? I'm partial to Gruyere.

Wasted

The potential here was great, the execution is lame.

Sigh. At least there are three more books in the series.

Behold, Hollywood's idea of Lemony Snicket.

Directed by the man who gave us such luminary films as Casper and City of Angels, that shitty remake of Wings of Desire (best movie ever, by the way).

Why didn't they call me? I could have done this right. Rat bastards.

What Is Gertrude's Favorite Song?

I mentioned it earlier. Want to know what it is?

Here's the video that hooked her.

Sleep My Little Friend

First off, Matilda received her report card yesterday. She was off the scale. Better grades than I ever got. Naturally we’re very proud of her. Proud. And cautious. Because, we want to make sure that when she rules the world she doesn’t send us to the cornfield. (Oblique Twilight Zone reference, to anyone who didn’t get it.)

Back to sleep . . .

Gertrude is finally getting her circadian rhythms in sync with the rest of the world. After some rough and angry nights, she’s beginning to make it through the night comfortably in her new big girl bed. Granted, she may wake up with her head where her feet were when she fell asleep, but she’s getting the hang of it. When we were getting dressed this morning she wandered into our room rubbing the sleep out of eyes.

“Hey, you slept all night,” I said.

“Yeah,” she replied blithely, “I know.”

“I know” is now her favorite phrase. Because, in her two-year-old mind, we’re all idiots.

This smoothness wasn’t evident a few nights ago. She went to bed under protest, of course. (As with every night . . . Last night when she told me she didn’t want to go to bed I asked why she responded, “Because I hate it.” Now, if you really know this kid, you’d know that hate isn’t something she’s capable. She loves EVERYTHING. In fact, when she discovered the surprise CD of her favorite song that I put in her CD player yesterday she squealed with excitement, ran across the house and leapt into my arms in gratitude.)

That night she slept well until about 1 a.m. Mom got up, soothed, and got her back to sleep. Rinse, later and repeat every 30 minutes. Finally, mom gave up and dumped the kid in our bed, I guess under the theory that if she didn’t get to sleep, no one did. Gert fell right to sleep.

Half an hour later I awaken with seizing cramps in my back. Not sure why, I look at my sleeping situation. Mom and I are sleeping parallel to one another. Gertrude, however, has made a perpendicular line between the two of us so that we look like an “H”. Except, rather than being equidistant between the two of us, she’s crammed solidly up against my body with her head in my armpit. Meanwhile, the cat is diagonally across from Gert on the other side of my body, down by my feet. In order to sleep, I have to do so in an “S” shape. And it hurt.

At roughly 4 a.m. I squeezed out of bed to use the bathroom. On my way I hear a piercing wail from Gert, with Mom reassuring her that I’ll be right back. When I crawl back in bed, Gert stops crying and snuggles right up against me (but forcing me to sleep on about ¼ of an inch of the bed . . . in fact, it was more hovering than laying). She hugs my arm and falls right to sleep.

And at that point my frustration with the sleeping situation melted away. I was being well-loved by this little goober. Who am I to complain about my lot in life?

Last night, as with any other night, it was just me versus the cat. She won too.

Sigh. I live in a house of all females. I step in puddles of estrogen when I walk down the hall. I am doomed.

Every Cloud . . .

We made the switch to the big girl bed. One night next to the crib, next night completely on its own. All is well in Gertrudetown.

Smooth sailing? Well sure, if you count two sleepless nights, one casualty and a completely rearranged room where the kid still sleeps backwards on the bed (Head to foot, my friend . . . it’s the only way.)

We prepared everything for the first night and it was great. She was excited about the whole thing. New bed, she’s a big girl, yay and such. When it was time for good night everything changed. Drastically.

“Daddy, don’t leave.”

Well, I am a strong man and I know what needs to be done. I stood up, looked stern and authoritative and said, “Let me go get a pillow and I’ll lie on the floor next to you.”

With my resolve in tact, I laid on the floor while she fidgeted in her bed.

“Daddy,” she asked.

“Yes honey.”

“You’re my best friend.” When she turns sixteen she’ll get a completely restored 1968 cherry red GTO convertible with a V8. No questions asked.

“Thank you honey. You’re my friend too. Let’s settle down and go to sleep.”

And. Eventually. She went to sleep. I tucked her in, kissed her on the forehead and went out to see what goodies Tivo had prepared for me. Eventually I went to bed.

At 2 a.m. I heard a scream. Or, perhaps it was jut a vocalization, a murmur maybe, but she made a noise. Within exactly 1/32 of a second I was out of bed and heading to her room. I reacted so quickly that I think I actually became semi-permeable and passed through the covers.

Fidget, tuck, kiss, back to bed. I skim sleep. At 4 a.m. and plaintive wail. This time she’s awake. I reassure her, I stroke her worried brow, I kiss her. She says, “Daddy, don’t leave.” This time I knew what to do. I had learned my lesson last time. I stood up, looked authoritative and threw a blanket on the floor because the carpet is uncomfortable.

And there I slept for the next two hours. When I woke up her hand was on my cheek, as if to reassure me. Kiss, tuck, back to bed. She had survived the night. Whew.

Then on Sunday we rearranged her room totally and all hell broke loose. Her bump bumps, a white noise generator that emitted the reassuring sounds of a mother’s heartbeat, had a myocardial infarction and passed away. With no white noise for her, there was no sleep. I knew it. She knew it. Even Donald Rumsfeld knew it.

Matilda was spending the night at Grandma’s, so I grabbed her CD player and put it in Gert’s room. I slapped in a CD I made for Matilda years ago, filled with songs and sweet lullabies. Not only did this work, it electrified Gertrude. She was so grateful and happy for the music that she gushed gratitude.

“My songs help me sleep,” she said. “I love my songs.”

And she went to sleep a little easier, even though I went into the next room instead of lying next to her. I say a little easier . . .

Five minutes into her new set up she yells, “DADDY! DADDY!”

I come running in, expecting to see snakes coming out of the walls and Beelzebub himself standing over her ready to suck out her soul. What????

“This is the song you sang for me when I was a TINY BABY,” she shrieked excitedly.

“Huh?”

“It’s the song you sang for me when I was a TINY BABY!” Ah. Yes, it was. “God Only Knows” was playing quietly on her CD player.

“Yes it is sweetie. It’s one of my favorites.” And I began to sing along.

“Shhh,” she said, “No singing. Only listen.” Oops. Sorry.

The song began to wind down, and so did Gertrude. As I began to leave, she looked at me with questioning eyes.

“Daddy,” she asked.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“Why do they sing ‘ba ba ba’?”

“In the bridge? Because dit dit dit would have sounded silly.”

“Yeah,” she said.

What happened next? Well, read here to find out the half truth.