About the time that I as 11, I remember spending the night at David's house across the street. We stayed up late into the deep hours of the night, talking about the dumb things 11 year old boys talk about (which probably isn't that far removed from what 36 year old boys talk about) and listening to the radio. It was right around the time when I was starting to pay attention to music, and while I don't remember anything that we said to each other, I remember staring at the Venetian blind shadows that the streetlight tossed on the ceiling and listening to that radio.
I remember being so taken by being there in the dark with that music, that KZOK "acid rock" bouncing around the room. I remember being taken by some man, possibly alone in a radio station in the dark hours, playing music for me. I remember thinking that I should always do this - go to sleep with the radio on.
This also brings up pleasant memories of being babysat by a friend of my parents and him putting on Steve Martin and Bill Cosby records for me and my brother to listen to. I sat there and looked at those huge, gatefold record jackets and even laughed at the jokes I didn't quite get.
There are memories of shoddy apartments made that much brighter by being filled with tunes from portable stereos, or composite system speakers, or even those little transistor radios not even big enough to have a tape player. There are memories of college neighbors with their room sounds of acoustic guitars and bongos spilling out to lightly dust ours. There are memories of sitting on the floor and playing cards, the TV purposefully shunned and CD's spinning and so many, "wow that's a great song" being thrown out.
I have no fun and happy memories of sitting around and watching TV.
I guess what I'm hoping is that I can provide Riley with a life filled with music. I'm hoping he can lay wide-eyed in a room at 2 in the morning someday, listening to the choices of a DJ who's still doing the job simply because he loves music.
Friday, March 09, 2007
Thursday, March 08, 2007
I Couldn't If I Tried
What I don't like is that I have "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" by Elton John and Kiki Dee stuck in my head. Seriously, I need some sort of exorcism here, it is making me mental. The iPod is currently performing a brain colonic with the likes of Roxy Music and The Modern Lovers.
What happened to Kiki Dee? Which, by the way, is what I plan to name my autobiography. Judging by her name alone, I'm guessing porn. Judging by how old she must be now, I'm guessing amateur porn.
Or it could very well be that Kiki is working here in Seattle. She could be the lady with the puckered mouth who pratically plowed me over in the kitchen to get to the sink and furiously wash hands that appeared to be clean to my eyes. She then proceeded to grab like thirteen paper towels, one at a time, and plucking at them with a vigor that seemed to say, "if I pull with this sort of drastic force I will adjust the space-time continnuum and go back to take Elton's fame". I kept thinking that she was done grabbing towels and kept making these stuttering steps towards the sink thinking that I'd be able to wash out my mug, but she just kept going for more.
My first thought was OCD. Technically, my first though was, "wow crazy bitch, got enough paper towels", and then I went to OCD. And then after thinking about it a little longer - and yeah, I did - I realized that she may have killed someone in her cubicle. She needed to wash away DNA evidence quickly, and she needed a Douglas Fir's worth of paper towels to clean up the pooling blood spreading over her spread sheets, dripping down her Puppies & Kittens calendar.
I thought to myself, "no Kiki, this is not what you want! Do you want to be compared to Britney? Do you want people to think that the pressure of fame had finally gotten to you?"
And my friends, I think this is exactly what Kiki wants.
Song (I'm Forcing To Be) Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Police On My Back" by The Clash.
What happened to Kiki Dee? Which, by the way, is what I plan to name my autobiography. Judging by her name alone, I'm guessing porn. Judging by how old she must be now, I'm guessing amateur porn.
Or it could very well be that Kiki is working here in Seattle. She could be the lady with the puckered mouth who pratically plowed me over in the kitchen to get to the sink and furiously wash hands that appeared to be clean to my eyes. She then proceeded to grab like thirteen paper towels, one at a time, and plucking at them with a vigor that seemed to say, "if I pull with this sort of drastic force I will adjust the space-time continnuum and go back to take Elton's fame". I kept thinking that she was done grabbing towels and kept making these stuttering steps towards the sink thinking that I'd be able to wash out my mug, but she just kept going for more.
My first thought was OCD. Technically, my first though was, "wow crazy bitch, got enough paper towels", and then I went to OCD. And then after thinking about it a little longer - and yeah, I did - I realized that she may have killed someone in her cubicle. She needed to wash away DNA evidence quickly, and she needed a Douglas Fir's worth of paper towels to clean up the pooling blood spreading over her spread sheets, dripping down her Puppies & Kittens calendar.
I thought to myself, "no Kiki, this is not what you want! Do you want to be compared to Britney? Do you want people to think that the pressure of fame had finally gotten to you?"
And my friends, I think this is exactly what Kiki wants.
Song (I'm Forcing To Be) Stuck In My Head Right Now: "Police On My Back" by The Clash.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Ghosts
We took Riley on tour while mom and dad were here this weekend, generally showing the kid off to great grandparents and great aunts.
First stop was Puyallup, home of a large fair in September and apparently now with strip malls that rival entire counties in Southern California. Dad's parents and sister, sister's husband, shuffled around the mobile home and grabbed greedily at the baby. Now luckily, I missed out on the alcoholism and abuse that pervaded this family in the early years, but the backwoods born again-ism that badly filled that raging hole haunted everything it touched. I do not remember any happy family memories from this side. I remember a grandfather sitting so, so passively in a chair, as if trying to hide from his new god, attempting to escape his past sins. I remember a grandmother's language littered with derision and guilt trips, and can only now see what must have unconsciously attracted my father to my mother. I remember an aunt so mollified that she couldn't even smile without seeming embarrassed about it.
I certainly don't hate them or wish them any ill will, they all struggled like the rest of us to varying degrees of success. I just never got that warm, enclosing feeling of acceptance and love that I got elsewhere. These weren't family members, they were shells of strangers that looked vaguely familiar.
Riley was fussy pretty much the entire time we were there. One thing that having the little man has done is made me question a little further my beliefs in the supernatural and what infants can feel and see. I was convinced that he was reacting to all of the negative energy clinging to everything in those small rooms. I mean hell, you could practically hear it. That sucking sound? It's the sound of precious hours of my life being drained away from me.
The visit to the other side of the family was a marked difference. Riley stood to being passed around to various women in the tribe with little or no consternation. You could feel laughter on the air and a desire to stand with each other.
At one point, the little man was getting a little worn out, so I laid him on the floor and sat down with him. He'll usually calm down and start chattering with me. These are moments that I love, staring intently into each others eyes as he has not yet learned to be ashamed of that much truthfulness. Mom came over and he smiled up at his grandmother. My grandmother came over and he looked up at his great grandmother and flashed her one of his coy smiles.
And then, he let loose one of those beautiful, full soul smiles at her where he just becomes enamored of something. Right then and there I became almost certain that he was seeing the spirit of my grandfather hovering around back there, looking down on his great grandson with those steely, mirth filled eyes.
I was afraid to look back over my shoulder, afraid that I wouldn't see him. But I was really glad that they got to meet each other.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: The Weight by The Band.
First stop was Puyallup, home of a large fair in September and apparently now with strip malls that rival entire counties in Southern California. Dad's parents and sister, sister's husband, shuffled around the mobile home and grabbed greedily at the baby. Now luckily, I missed out on the alcoholism and abuse that pervaded this family in the early years, but the backwoods born again-ism that badly filled that raging hole haunted everything it touched. I do not remember any happy family memories from this side. I remember a grandfather sitting so, so passively in a chair, as if trying to hide from his new god, attempting to escape his past sins. I remember a grandmother's language littered with derision and guilt trips, and can only now see what must have unconsciously attracted my father to my mother. I remember an aunt so mollified that she couldn't even smile without seeming embarrassed about it.
I certainly don't hate them or wish them any ill will, they all struggled like the rest of us to varying degrees of success. I just never got that warm, enclosing feeling of acceptance and love that I got elsewhere. These weren't family members, they were shells of strangers that looked vaguely familiar.
Riley was fussy pretty much the entire time we were there. One thing that having the little man has done is made me question a little further my beliefs in the supernatural and what infants can feel and see. I was convinced that he was reacting to all of the negative energy clinging to everything in those small rooms. I mean hell, you could practically hear it. That sucking sound? It's the sound of precious hours of my life being drained away from me.
The visit to the other side of the family was a marked difference. Riley stood to being passed around to various women in the tribe with little or no consternation. You could feel laughter on the air and a desire to stand with each other.
At one point, the little man was getting a little worn out, so I laid him on the floor and sat down with him. He'll usually calm down and start chattering with me. These are moments that I love, staring intently into each others eyes as he has not yet learned to be ashamed of that much truthfulness. Mom came over and he smiled up at his grandmother. My grandmother came over and he looked up at his great grandmother and flashed her one of his coy smiles.
And then, he let loose one of those beautiful, full soul smiles at her where he just becomes enamored of something. Right then and there I became almost certain that he was seeing the spirit of my grandfather hovering around back there, looking down on his great grandson with those steely, mirth filled eyes.
I was afraid to look back over my shoulder, afraid that I wouldn't see him. But I was really glad that they got to meet each other.
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: The Weight by The Band.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Watching The Tide Roll Away
For some reason it feels like a Wednesday. Today has that sort of soft around the corners feeling that a Wednesday has. I can nail myself down to knowing that it is not Wednesday by reminding myself that that I'm not carrying around a vague hangover that comes with the Tuesday night bowling. I can only imagine that a version of myself in another dimension, a dimension with some sort of international date line, is sitting in a hotel room and trying intently to figure out if from where he's at, if his friend's birthday is today or tomorrow. I'm just getting the fall out...
Not that I have to deal with this at my job or anything, but if you walk into a glass door, I have absolutely no empathy for you whatsoever. In fact, in most normal circumstances, I would be laughing in a very hysterical and non-socially acceptable way at you. And seriously, if you want to complain to the corporate headquarters that owns the building about the fact that you walked into a glass door - and again, this is certainly nothing that I have to deal with at my job - I have to remind you that you essentially walked into a wall. You should have evolved past the stage where you are walking into solid objects, no matter what the opacity is. And for fuck's sake, shit happens to the best of us; chalk it up to an embarrassing mistake and let it ride.
And again, not that these sort of things happen to me at work, but a coworker and I were discussing the benefits of a new program I'm pondering. For everyone that I have to suppress laughing at because they have say walked into a glass door, or tripped over something large and metal and painted green and that is clearly in front of them on the patio, or burned themselves because they thought it was a great idea to drink a piping hot beverage out of a paper cup while aggressively fighting the morning gridlock, I want to try to slightly convince them to off themselves.
If you have not evolved to a point where you cannot look where you’re going, or keep yourself out of easily avoided dangerous situations, and then to make matters worse you shift the blame away from yourself and threaten a lawsuit, I say you are adding nothing to our gene pool except clumsiness and a bitchy attitude.
I am suggesting we begin a program of hypno-induced keywords, like in the movies when a normal guy gets a telephone call, hears a snippet of music (let's say (Sittin' On) The Dock Of The Bay as performed by Otis Redding) and suddenly becomes a commie spy. Only in this case, you Suzy Spillsalot start screaming about a lawyer and I quietly, and in a nice game show announcer type voice, say the word "Darwin" and you throw yourself from someplace high.
It really benefits everyone when you think about it...
And in closing, here is the saddest thing I have read yet today:
[Scooter] Libby faces up to 30 years in prison, though under federal sentencing guidelines likely will receive far less.
May corruption and lack of responsibility reign supreme.
Confidential to Mike: It was great seeing you again, I'm sorry it was only for like 20 minutes. I hope Kirkland treats you well.
Not that I have to deal with this at my job or anything, but if you walk into a glass door, I have absolutely no empathy for you whatsoever. In fact, in most normal circumstances, I would be laughing in a very hysterical and non-socially acceptable way at you. And seriously, if you want to complain to the corporate headquarters that owns the building about the fact that you walked into a glass door - and again, this is certainly nothing that I have to deal with at my job - I have to remind you that you essentially walked into a wall. You should have evolved past the stage where you are walking into solid objects, no matter what the opacity is. And for fuck's sake, shit happens to the best of us; chalk it up to an embarrassing mistake and let it ride.
And again, not that these sort of things happen to me at work, but a coworker and I were discussing the benefits of a new program I'm pondering. For everyone that I have to suppress laughing at because they have say walked into a glass door, or tripped over something large and metal and painted green and that is clearly in front of them on the patio, or burned themselves because they thought it was a great idea to drink a piping hot beverage out of a paper cup while aggressively fighting the morning gridlock, I want to try to slightly convince them to off themselves.
If you have not evolved to a point where you cannot look where you’re going, or keep yourself out of easily avoided dangerous situations, and then to make matters worse you shift the blame away from yourself and threaten a lawsuit, I say you are adding nothing to our gene pool except clumsiness and a bitchy attitude.
I am suggesting we begin a program of hypno-induced keywords, like in the movies when a normal guy gets a telephone call, hears a snippet of music (let's say (Sittin' On) The Dock Of The Bay as performed by Otis Redding) and suddenly becomes a commie spy. Only in this case, you Suzy Spillsalot start screaming about a lawyer and I quietly, and in a nice game show announcer type voice, say the word "Darwin" and you throw yourself from someplace high.
It really benefits everyone when you think about it...
And in closing, here is the saddest thing I have read yet today:
[Scooter] Libby faces up to 30 years in prison, though under federal sentencing guidelines likely will receive far less.
May corruption and lack of responsibility reign supreme.
Confidential to Mike: It was great seeing you again, I'm sorry it was only for like 20 minutes. I hope Kirkland treats you well.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Wild Sage Growing In The Weeds
We're coming up on the 2 year anniversary of this blog pretty quick here and I have written at least 3 posts about seeing The Mountain Goats. Well, thanks to Mo Money Mandy and some grandparent babysitting, we went and saw them again.
I'm not going to go into a huge MG love fest again, there's only so many ways that I can describe how much I love what this man does, and honestly words end up failing me miserably. If you need some reminders and want to read some gushing and drooling words about previous shows, please see here, or even here.
Friday night’s show was a bit of an odd venue. It was a fairly swanky dinner theater situation. We sat in curving and high backed booths, eating tasty but overpriced pan-Asian concoctions and drinking ourselves silly. To be sitting at a table with wine glasses while this feller, who can throw out more fire than a backwoods southern Baptist preacher, came on stage to do his thing, it didn't feel right.
Which maybe what put me in such a contemplative mood...
At one point, John put down his acoustic and picked up an electric guitar. This doesn't mean anything to you if you haven't seen a dozen or so Mountain Goats shows, but he never plays electric guitar. I began thinking of Bob Dylan moving away from acoustic shows and playing electric, and what a mad mess that became for his hard core fans - people used to come to his shows just to boo him, an audience member famously called him Judas.
I think we who count ourselves as Mountain Goats fans are willing to follow him down whatever paths he wants to lead us down. Bif has stated before that he is one of the only artists who can play a brand new song and she gets just as excited about it as hearing one of her favorites. I think that as long as he puts as much of himself into it as he does with every show I have ever seen, he could do an hour of Jimmy Buffet and Journey covers and I would eat it up with a great big loving spoon.
I have some minor fanboy complaints (more pre-4AD songs), but ultimately I just dig seeing people moved for varying reasons, by different songs. This go 'round, Lion's Teeth had me in tears, and Mandy was sweetly overcome by This Year. Ultimately, minor complaints or no, a Mountain Goats show is going to beat the living hell out of most other shows I see, and do it with a wide smile and fey little swirl of the hand.
It was a good time. Thanks Mandy for falling so wholly in, and for the tickets. Thanks Jason, I feel really bad about the wine thing - I will try to make it up. Thanks John, for again coming through my part of the world and rocking it so consistently.
I'm not going to go into a huge MG love fest again, there's only so many ways that I can describe how much I love what this man does, and honestly words end up failing me miserably. If you need some reminders and want to read some gushing and drooling words about previous shows, please see here, or even here.
Friday night’s show was a bit of an odd venue. It was a fairly swanky dinner theater situation. We sat in curving and high backed booths, eating tasty but overpriced pan-Asian concoctions and drinking ourselves silly. To be sitting at a table with wine glasses while this feller, who can throw out more fire than a backwoods southern Baptist preacher, came on stage to do his thing, it didn't feel right.
Which maybe what put me in such a contemplative mood...
At one point, John put down his acoustic and picked up an electric guitar. This doesn't mean anything to you if you haven't seen a dozen or so Mountain Goats shows, but he never plays electric guitar. I began thinking of Bob Dylan moving away from acoustic shows and playing electric, and what a mad mess that became for his hard core fans - people used to come to his shows just to boo him, an audience member famously called him Judas.
I think we who count ourselves as Mountain Goats fans are willing to follow him down whatever paths he wants to lead us down. Bif has stated before that he is one of the only artists who can play a brand new song and she gets just as excited about it as hearing one of her favorites. I think that as long as he puts as much of himself into it as he does with every show I have ever seen, he could do an hour of Jimmy Buffet and Journey covers and I would eat it up with a great big loving spoon.
I have some minor fanboy complaints (more pre-4AD songs), but ultimately I just dig seeing people moved for varying reasons, by different songs. This go 'round, Lion's Teeth had me in tears, and Mandy was sweetly overcome by This Year. Ultimately, minor complaints or no, a Mountain Goats show is going to beat the living hell out of most other shows I see, and do it with a wide smile and fey little swirl of the hand.
It was a good time. Thanks Mandy for falling so wholly in, and for the tickets. Thanks Jason, I feel really bad about the wine thing - I will try to make it up. Thanks John, for again coming through my part of the world and rocking it so consistently.
Friday, March 02, 2007
How Many Gears Are On This Thing?
I was walking to my desk, past one of the ubiquitous meeting rooms with the semi opaque doors. Inside the room I could see a young and handsome man sitting alone at the table. He was wearing a suit, and on the lapel was one of the tell tale, white, computer generated visitor badges. He was probably waiting on an interviewer. He looked up as I passed with this swirling mix of apprehension and anticipation.
At first I sort of felt sorry for him, that nervousness must be making him feel a little light headed, a little sick to his stomach. But then I just got this over-whelming urge to mess with him a little bit.
I wanted to open the door introduce myself as Jonas Shea and firmly shake his hand. I wanted to ask him a series of non-sequiturs:
"What's your power animal?"
"List the top 3 favorite crimes you have committed and why"
"If you could gain the power to fly by betraying your best friend, would you do it? What if you only flew 2 feet off the ground and really slowly?"
But I only flashed him a commiserating smile he probably couldn't see and continued on towards my desk. Man, this coffee tastes good.
Last night I was having a lot of difficulty dropping off to sleep. I tried using a technique I had used in acting training to quiet my mind. I closed my eyes and focused on the little blueish lights that live on the inside of my eyelids. I will usually watch the shapes sort of expand and contract until I can no longer hear all the chatter of my brain.
So last night I'm watching these blue blobs do their thing when said blob becomes an anthropomorphic, purple cartoon thing. It turned into a roundish smiling face with legs. It looked like the sort of thing some marketing genius would use to peddle juice substitute to small children. This thing, I'll call him Anthony (for no real reason whatsoever) appeared in a well appointed loft with a couple of attractive twenty-somethings.
Anthony talked to them in a ridiculously high-pitched voice and these two responded to him as if he weren't a cartoon. They did occasionally look over his body/head and give each other knowing glances that said as soon as Anthony stepped out to get a pack of smokes, they were going to discuss how ridiculous they really thought he was.
I can't remember anything the Ikea hags or Anthony were talking about, but I do remember the young man of the duo saying, "Remember what John Waters told you?"
I opened my eyes at that point trying to remember what it was that John Waters had told me. It took a minute to realize that he hadn't told me anything as I have never met John Waters - despite having a lay over in Baltimore once.
Yup, sleepy time is serious fun time for me lately…
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Paranoid Android by Radiohead.
At first I sort of felt sorry for him, that nervousness must be making him feel a little light headed, a little sick to his stomach. But then I just got this over-whelming urge to mess with him a little bit.
I wanted to open the door introduce myself as Jonas Shea and firmly shake his hand. I wanted to ask him a series of non-sequiturs:
"What's your power animal?"
"List the top 3 favorite crimes you have committed and why"
"If you could gain the power to fly by betraying your best friend, would you do it? What if you only flew 2 feet off the ground and really slowly?"
But I only flashed him a commiserating smile he probably couldn't see and continued on towards my desk. Man, this coffee tastes good.
Last night I was having a lot of difficulty dropping off to sleep. I tried using a technique I had used in acting training to quiet my mind. I closed my eyes and focused on the little blueish lights that live on the inside of my eyelids. I will usually watch the shapes sort of expand and contract until I can no longer hear all the chatter of my brain.
So last night I'm watching these blue blobs do their thing when said blob becomes an anthropomorphic, purple cartoon thing. It turned into a roundish smiling face with legs. It looked like the sort of thing some marketing genius would use to peddle juice substitute to small children. This thing, I'll call him Anthony (for no real reason whatsoever) appeared in a well appointed loft with a couple of attractive twenty-somethings.
Anthony talked to them in a ridiculously high-pitched voice and these two responded to him as if he weren't a cartoon. They did occasionally look over his body/head and give each other knowing glances that said as soon as Anthony stepped out to get a pack of smokes, they were going to discuss how ridiculous they really thought he was.
I can't remember anything the Ikea hags or Anthony were talking about, but I do remember the young man of the duo saying, "Remember what John Waters told you?"
I opened my eyes at that point trying to remember what it was that John Waters had told me. It took a minute to realize that he hadn't told me anything as I have never met John Waters - despite having a lay over in Baltimore once.
Yup, sleepy time is serious fun time for me lately…
Song Stuck In My Head Right Now: Paranoid Android by Radiohead.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
The Folks
My folks are here visiting "us". The quotations denote that dad is here for business and mom is smothering Riley like a great big grandma boa constrictor.
Thankfully I missed out on watching my mother go apeshit over the grandchild she has been hounding me for for 12 or so years. It's sort of like watching a seriously obese man take off his clothes and eat a Fudgesicle.
It's nothing like that, but that made me laugh.
Dad picked me up from work and we drove up towards home with a stop for pizza and wine. As I'm sure I've mentioned before, my father and I have had a tumultuous past, but are now able to deal with each other pretty well. He asked the sort of typical, fatherly, we-haven't-talked-in-awhile questions; he asked about my job.
I know he wishes success for me and has those dad glasses on where he cannot see why his son is not running the world, but it's bad enough that I'm not exactly thrilled with my job so that trying to patiently explain that a corporation cannot exactly create a position for me that doesn't exist was ticking against my temper. He also asked if I had been writing, and again I know that he was being supportive, but it annoyed me for some reason. I tried to short circuit the conversation by simply saying, "yeah a little bit", but I wanted to tell him that I am writing different things and on a daily basis, but most of it would shame him to an early grave, probably somewhere in Pennsylvania.
We finally got into a comfortable rhythm over a pitcher of beer while we waited for the pizza. We talked about our individual experiences with the beauty and majesty of Arizona, his with a recent trip to the Grand Canyon, mine on a camping/hiking trip through the area about 12 years ago.
These are the conversations that I want and expect from my friends. I don't want a lot of chit-chatty, taking care of business bullshit, I want to get down to the real us, talk about things that strike passions and make us laugh. I guess a lot of the frustrations with dad comes from having to wait to get to the good stuff.
Seeing that thrill on his face when his grandson smiled at him for the first time, well hell, that's some of the good stuff.
Thankfully I missed out on watching my mother go apeshit over the grandchild she has been hounding me for for 12 or so years. It's sort of like watching a seriously obese man take off his clothes and eat a Fudgesicle.
It's nothing like that, but that made me laugh.
Dad picked me up from work and we drove up towards home with a stop for pizza and wine. As I'm sure I've mentioned before, my father and I have had a tumultuous past, but are now able to deal with each other pretty well. He asked the sort of typical, fatherly, we-haven't-talked-in-awhile questions; he asked about my job.
I know he wishes success for me and has those dad glasses on where he cannot see why his son is not running the world, but it's bad enough that I'm not exactly thrilled with my job so that trying to patiently explain that a corporation cannot exactly create a position for me that doesn't exist was ticking against my temper. He also asked if I had been writing, and again I know that he was being supportive, but it annoyed me for some reason. I tried to short circuit the conversation by simply saying, "yeah a little bit", but I wanted to tell him that I am writing different things and on a daily basis, but most of it would shame him to an early grave, probably somewhere in Pennsylvania.
We finally got into a comfortable rhythm over a pitcher of beer while we waited for the pizza. We talked about our individual experiences with the beauty and majesty of Arizona, his with a recent trip to the Grand Canyon, mine on a camping/hiking trip through the area about 12 years ago.
These are the conversations that I want and expect from my friends. I don't want a lot of chit-chatty, taking care of business bullshit, I want to get down to the real us, talk about things that strike passions and make us laugh. I guess a lot of the frustrations with dad comes from having to wait to get to the good stuff.
Seeing that thrill on his face when his grandson smiled at him for the first time, well hell, that's some of the good stuff.
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