Sitting in the backseat, zig zig bump

From the time the kids left the birth canal, we resisted buying music made for children. Sure we had a few CDs with kid songs, but none of the stuff produced by Disnee, Fisher Price, Mattell, etc. I had a policy: No kid music in the car. No Wiggles, no Kids Rock (i.e., kid singing bad popular top-40 songs), no Princes Songs, no Thomas the Train, no, no, no, and fuck no. So from day 1 and I mean literally from the time we tooks these kids from the hospital, we were spinning CDs or more recently, jamming the Ipod with OUR music. Sure, the more poppy tunes with great hooks seem to be the crowd pleasers, but I'm always amazed what I hear my kids singing when they're not in the car: a song from the recent Twilight Singers release, an old Steve Poltz tune, and this really old gem, Blitzkreig Bop (zig zig bump). Another generation of fans.

An ode to time

The clock ticks away the minutes.
August 22nd is only 16 minutes away.
Thirty-seven. One more than thirty-six. One less than thirty-eight.
I was 16 when my dad was thirty-seven.
He would have been fifty-eight this year.
But he was in the wrong place a second too soon.
The wrong place a second too late.
He will forever be fifty in the neurons that comprise the folds of my cerebral cortex.
What would he look like at fifty-eight?
My mom looks the same at fifty seven as she did at fifty,
but she is a women who likes to disguise her age with dyes and makeup and such.

What will I look like at fifty-eight?
Bald?
Fatter?
Hairier?
Definately Hairier.
Probably balder.
Hopefully not fatter.

Julianna will be 25 and Jack 23 when I am fifty-eight.
They will be grown.
Will they be happy?
Will they wonder about their grandpa who would have been seventy-nine?
Would he have outlived me?
His poor mother outlived him.

Tomorrow I will be thirty-seven.
In 9 minutes, I will be thirty-seven.
In 8 minutes, I will live another year.
In 3 minutes, I will go to sleep.
When I wake up and I am thirty-seven, I resolve to live.
I will choose to be happy.
The slate will be clean for another year.
And I will fill up the clean slate with anger and bullshit for another year.
And I will wipe it clean with my tears when I am thirty-eight.
One minute.
Hold your breath.
Go.