my very first record player (a few words for bradly).

i recently purchased a record player. after literally years of talking about it and actually amassing vinyl (i worked at a record store, so it came cheap, if not free), i finally have something to play all that vinyl loveliness on. a hi-fi, if you will. and i will. so for the first of what i hope will be many new adventures in hi-fi (if you think that pun is bad now, just wait), i am endeavouring -- nay, i have already begun to endeavour -- to immerse myself in R.E.M.'s early catalog using only vinyl.

(see?)

i've been a big R.E.M. fan for a long, long time, but i'm not as intimate with the first few records as i want to be. Chronic Town, Murmur, Reckoning...i'm comin' for ya. and i'm gonna love ya. i'm gonna spin you right 'round, baby. right 'round. like a...oh, all right. that's quite enough.

painting by colin ruffell.

if it's monday, it must be two surgeries.

i'm thirty-three years old, and my body has failed me. for starters, i have what's called a granuloma (basically a collection of angry acid reflux-related tissue) on one of my vocal cords. if you're not squeamish, this is what it looks like.

we'll wait for those brave enough to take the journey.

are you back? easy now -- those are vocal cords. although looking that up made me half-close my laptop lid for fear of being branded the coffee shop perv. anyhoo, one might surmise that such a hindrance may have the silver lining of giving the victim some measure of gravelly vocal sexiness. one would surmise wrong. or wrongly. kinda painted myself into a grammatical corner there. the point is that this thing makes me sound like i'm just about to cry, all the time. not cool.

so, aside from all the false heightened emotion around my house right now, i suppose it's not too bad. i have "the meds," and it'll get better. or it won't, and they'll cut it out of me.

speaking of...

what a segue...or segway...whatever. either is a great way to get from here to there.

so i had a smallish mole on my leg excised a few weeks ago (if you really feel a link would be appropriate at this point, and you can handle it, then check it out here). not a huge deal -- it was a little bigger than they like 'em to be, so they got rid of it. when the biopsy came back (should i really be getting biopsies?? i'm tellin' ya, i'm falling apart), there was no cancerousness, but the cell structure was a little fishy. the docs decided to be safe and take a little more of my body away from me.

so monday, i went in for a little of the ol' outpatient surgery.

again, no great shakes. they wore masks, i tried not to look. they were wonderfully friendly and when it was over, they complimented each other on how glorious a thing they had just accomplished. (you know, the usual.) they wrapped me up and i was out. i picked up a pizza for the fam on the way home, like you do. beautiful august late afternoon, pimpin' back to the car with my hard-earned dinner reward...

what's that dripping on my foot?

turns out i'm walking down the street, leg bleeding everywhere, like i was just the unfortunate target of the world's lamest drive-by. so i stop, gaping like an idiot at the blood now pooling in my four-dollar flip-flops. (well, the left one, anyway.) what the hell do i do now? the surgery ended forty minutes ago, and it's after five. for all i know, my esteemed physicians are hoisting Jager bombs at college night by now. more importantly, how am i gonna get home without getting blood all over my car?

thankfully, the missus keeps old rags in the back for just these types of things and i got home, staggered up the front steps, delivering dinner for my family like the hunter-gatherer that i am -- and positively terrifying my three-year-old:

(him, ashen-faced)"Daddy, are those all boo-boos?!?"
(me, wiping leg furiously) "No, buddy. See? Comes right off. Doesn't hurt."
(him, ashen-faced)

after (no joke) breaking my phone on the way into the house, i managed to get hold of the on-call resident, and following some weird phone tag, i was cheerily summoned back to the crime scene for -- wait for it -- another surgery. this is not a shocking plot twist for those eagle-eyed readers who caught the foreshadowing in the title of this post, but it's slightly gobsmacking all the same.

thankfully, two of the docs who were in on the first surgery had managed to not go home yet, and we skedaddled into the closed (and now AC-less) office to see what was exactly what. it was like freakin' field medicine: hot, sweaty, lots of yelling over the sound of the Life Flight copters roaring past every five minutes. all that was missing was anthony edwards and the Soul Glo guy.

dramatic, i know. i was there. anyway, the crack diagnosis was a blown stitch caused by an overeager blood vessel, so they opened me back up, took care of the lil' bleeder and then closed me back up. again. but not before i got a peek at the open wound. my God, it was nasty. it looked like the Eye of Sauron right there on my leg. i know...gross and evil. oh, and when i said "closed me back up," what i really meant was "closed me back up except for the big hole at one end that they left open so they could stuff gauze in there and make sure it doesn't get infected and that i have to go back, like, 4 or 5 times to have checked out so that they can then close me up with full confidence that my leg won't fall off." yeah, that was it.

don't get moles, kids.

my son is way awesomer than Yoko Ono.

my 3-year old son writes songs.

constantly.

this, of course, is awesome. he composes for drums and piano (I am his manager -- don't even think it), and he is currently exploring Onoesque noise rock. mostly monochromatic. granted, not the most accessible stuff, but i'll be damned if i'm gonna let anyone compromise his vision.

as adept as he is instrumentally, tho, i happen to think his greatest gift lies in his lyric writing. here are some samples (copyright!):

from "Old Boy":

he was a boy
he was an old man
he saw a spider on the sidewalk
he picked him up and put him in the refrigerator
and then he left

from "Yes, I'm a King":

one day a king went to his house
yes yes yes
there was a flav there
yes yes yes i'm a king
a funny king kind of snake

i know. i know. (sniff.) genius. i'm not sure if the "flav" is a PE reference, but i'm content to let the mystery be. here are more song titles. i couldn't in a million years make this stuff up.

"Red Leopard Dog"
"Little Egg"
"Dolphin Tree Letters"
"Cymbals Low"
"I Don't Want a Ride"
"I Want It"
"I Go To Town"

enough material for at least a really strong EP. especially those last three...they sound like a trilogy. we could totally get the psych-rock/Lord of the Rings crowd. more as it develops.

God bless The Hold Steady.

when i figure out how to post photos and link things, this'll be way cooler. but i'll try to dazzle with just the words...

Traveled to a little club here in Pittsburgh the other night to catch The Hold Steady, a band i have been falling deeper and deeper in love with since being introduced to them last fall. 'Twas the first time in a long time that just me and my girl went in search of the rock (kids will, in fact, do that to ya), and the rock we surely found. We also found God and Springsteen and dead poets and drugs...and community, in a room full of people singing along 'till their faces were red to songs about God and dead poets and drugs and community...and maybe Springsteen too.

The Hold Steady are the poets laureate of bar rock, and the show was a stunner. They disarmed with a guileless exuberance and made an authentic connection with their Boss-tastic gospel-of-rock-and-roll delivery. Pure joy. The songs? Glorious and heartbreaking, tragic and grand and beautiful. Outside of U2, I can't remember a stronger sense of togetherness at a rock show. There was something other in the room, a spirit in the songs that said these are our magnificent, dissolute lives. Together we will make our way through this beautiful mess. All this from songs about boys and girls getting high? Talk about finding God in the trashbins...


"Citrus," from The Hold Steady's Boys and Girls in America
hey citrus
hey liquor
i love it when you touch each other
hey whiskey
hey ginger
i come to you with rigid fingers

i see judas in the hard eyes of the boys working the corners
i feel Jesus in the clumsiness of young and awkward lovers

hey barroom
hey tavern
i find hope in all the souls you gather
hey citrus
hey liquor
i love it when we come together

i feel Jesus in the clumsiness of young and awkward lovers
i feel judas in the long odds of the rackets on the corners
i feel Jesus in the tenderness of honest nervous lovers
i feel judas in the pistols and the pagers that come with all the powders

lost in fog and love and faithless fear
i've had kisses that make judas seem sincere

If I see a better show this year, it'll be a miracle.

meta-mustaches (writing is writing).

...so today, we're gonna deconstruct the content of context. not in some grad-school seminar way, either. i'm getting out the wrecking ball.

i've been mentally handcuffed for a year concerning this blog: what am i gonna write about? what is it gonna BE about? does it have to be about anything? should i keep things separate from each other -- music, writing itself, parenting, following Jesus, failing spectacularly at gainful employment, etc., etc.? should it be funny? should it be sincere? should it be intellectual? boxes upon boxes, within boxes, and no writing. a colombian drug lord's mansion's worth of rooms filled with context (and possible context) and no content.

i'm happy to say that i was saved by a mustache. (of course i was.) here's what happened:

i had a spirited exchange with my brother over the email this week about, among other, nerdier pursuits, mustaches. a little context first (but only a little): i am part of a group of guys that endeavors to take a yearly boys' weekend to balance out all the careening normalcy that tends to creep up as one approaches and enters one's thirties. standard boys' weekend rules apply -- lots of drinking and eating junk and sitting around, with the occasional ill-advised foray into physical activity, i.e. drunken football or, for the less adventurous, drunken billiards. i also think that mustaches are horribly, irreducibly funny. all the time. with no exceptions. naturally, i have for years been trying to organize a mass mustache event with any or all of these aforementioned guys. dinners out, amusement parks, baptisms -- you name it, i have tried to get a bunch of dudes with mustaches together to do it.

that sounded bad.

moving on, there always seems to be ample interest but little motivation for, say, Mustache Day at Sizzler, so i set my sights on Boys' Weekend. it would seem to be the perfect venue, no? i mean, how hard can it be? you grow your beard out for a while in advance of the event, you shave it down, and hilarity ensues. you've no-one to feel self-conscious around -- just the same bunch of dudes that haven't given a shit about what you look like for years. sadly, despite the seeming sartorial synergy, only two out of the 12-or-so attendees have committed (myself included), and we leave next weekend. so i've been recruiting. which leads me to my brother and the email exchange. here it is, edited for funny.

the players:
me -- me
shawn -- my brother and best editor
ben -- my co-conspirator and always the biggest supporter of Mustache Events.
Deep Creek -- Maryland, where most of these weekends take place
Kennywood -- legendary Pittsburgh amusement park

ME:
you should give further consideration to your participation
in Mustaches At Deep Creek In '07 (still working on the name...i know
it sounds a lot like Mustaches At Kennywood In '02. and '03. and
'04...you get the picture). now, ben and i are prepared to be alone
on this -- there's a lot of inherent "fuck you" in a mustache anyway,
and you gotta pay the cost to be the boss -- but at the end of the day
it's like the man say: "The Mo' Mustaches, The Mo' Better." there are
variations on it -- you may have heard it as "The Mo' Mustaches, The
Mo' Sammiches" or (of course) "The Mo' Mustaches, The Mo' Pony Rides."
when traveling europe, you may have heard, "The Mo' Mustaches, The Mo'
Unified Currency."

you get the picture. we're asking for your mustache.


SHAWN:
Mustaches. I don't know. Attitude toward the mustache has polarized the
house in recent days, and has captured far too many news cycles. Involving
the Europeans has only pissed them off. Except the Greeks, also known as
"The Guys That Invented the Mustache." They just snort and talk about how
they invented the mustache. I may just go centrist and avoid the situation
entirely while condemning both sides.

ME:
i am considering your global mustache concerns and will meet
with my staff to address them.

ME:
btw, you were right. the greek ambassador is gonna be a little bitch
on this mustache thing.

SHAWN:
I told you about the Greeks. Short bodies, long memories. And mustaches.

ME:
i tried the unified currency angle with those blasted hellenics, and
all they wanted to discuss was "moustaches" vs. "mustaches."
unbelievable.

SHAWN:
Yeah, bad tactical move with the currency. They INVENTED currency. And
democracy. And the gyro. The euro, feh. They wanted to call it the greeko,
but it turns out it infringed on some wrestling group's trademark.

ME:
i've decided i don't need greek support for Moustaches At Deep Creek In
'07 (they did have a good point with the "o," tho). the rest of the
world leaves them out of the decision-making; why should i be any
different? besides, we've got more than enough italian and french
support. say what you will about the frogs (hasn't everyone?), but
those testy gallic sons o' bitches know their way around a moustache.

let's leave the greeks to the goat meat.
(and...scene!)

so what? i had a vaguely vulgar, possibly-racist-although-admittedly-hilarious exchange about moustaches and now i'm saved? HALLELUJAH, everybody, i'm a-blogging? maybe. maybe not. maybe it just made me understand that no matter what i write about, it's still me writing about it. i don't have to narrow it down. people are at their best when they embrace their contradictions. life is just more interesting that way.

these things i know for sure:

1) it's hard as hell to raise kids right.
2) God is OK with it if music is your religion. if you think that's blasphemous, let's talk about it.
3) stephen colbert is a stone-cold, top-tier genius, and the fact that his faith informs his satire makes him not only borderline-revolutionary, but probably worthy of a CIA wiretap. or however else the government shows the love these days.

all the rest we'll figure out together. like the man say, we're looking for the baby Jesus under the trash.

ten YEARS! TEN YEARS!

...or maybe just the one. but let's face it: 2006 was a down year for blogging. barely anybody did it at all. totally on the way out.

i'm bringin' it back for the '07.

you're a handsome devil. what's your name?