Let's Get to the The Good Part

My lovely wife and I were supposed to go to see Wilco last night. Unfortunately, Gert got sick (again!) and was laid up with a fever, sore throat and visions of long-dead relatives. So, after both of us trying to convince the other that we should be the one to stay home, I went alone (well, with my brother). I tried to unload my other ticket, but could not on such short notice. We waited as long as possible to call it on Gert. After all, the last time we had a date night . . . well, I think resulted in Gert.

Anyway, I told Gert I was leaving.

"Where are you going?"

"To see Wilco."

"Wilco? Jeff Tweety?"

"Yes, I'm seeing Jeff Tweedy tonight. I'll tell him you said hello."

Note: Gertrude has discovered Daddy's high-holy musical trinity. Elvis Costello, Brian Wilson and Jeff Tweedy. She can differentiate between each's music and, over the past year and a half, has grown quite fond of Jeff Tweedy. I don't know if it's because he recorded a song using his son's school class ("Just a Kid") or if it's because she finds that his music touches her. Her lullaby CD is comprised of quite a few Wilco/Loose Fur/Golden Smog/Jeff solo songs. She, in fact, views Jeff Tweedy as "hers".

"I want to go! I want to see Jeff Tweety!"

"Well, honey, I'm afraid you can't. Kids aren't allowed this time. Plus, it might be a little bit loud and late for a four-year-old."

"If it is too loud I will cover my ears. And I like to stay up late."

When I left both mom and daughter stood at the door looking at me sadly.

Concert? Good. High energy, great setlist. Opening band left a little to be desired for me (last time it was Calexico . . . this time it was a two-piece outfit with a very shallow bag of tricks).

Note to GCB's from the last show. Wilco did, indeed, play Heavy Metal Drummer. I hope you were there to hear it and not down doing the Cabo Wabo with your head in a bucket for a Generic College Spring Break.

While I enjoyed myself I have to admit to more than a little twinge of guilt. Gert was home sick and I was 20 feet away from Jeff Tweedy and company singing and bobbing my head. Worse, almost spoiling a long-held dad-kid code, I was coming home with no surprise. No gift.

Gert forgave me. She woke up when I arrived home.

"Good night sweetie."

"Daddy? Did you see Jeff Tweety?"

"Yes. Jeff and his whole band were there. Even his mom and dad."

"See," she said in her grogginess, "families were allowed to go if he needed his mommy and daddy there."

I promised her that next time we wouldn't be sick. And maybe she could go. Maybe we could skip to the good part.

Wilco - The Good Part