Futago

Chaos, thy name is toddler.

2009-03-09T08:18:00.000-07:00

When was the last time I wrote? January? Strange, but I haven't been able to put words to events recently. Not exactly sure why this is, but maybe it has to do with the fact that:

MY KIDS ARE KICKING MY ASS.

As I look over all of my previous entries, I find the common thread through them all is one of goodness and wonder and, well, simply an overall feeling that I have something like a grip on this whole business of raising children.

Tsk...tsk...tsk....silly me. In fact, I have been introduced to a whole new spectrum of experience that has washed away some of the naivete that is inherent to anything new we find ourselves involved in. The early days, the salad days, regardless of the details are filled with vigor and an untested enthusiasm. That is until the day you meet reality. It goes a little like this:

Life: Hello there Scott, I'd like you to meet someone new. This is Mr. Reality.

Me: Hi, nice to meet you.

Mr. Reality: You too, by the way I just wanted to let you know that from now on your kids are gonna kick your ass.

Me: ......OK thanks.

The boys are three now. They just turned this milestone a few weeks back and with this age comes their own concept of "self". It's like for the first time they are beginning to realize that they are indeed people with their own thoughts and desires.

How dare they! How dare they have thoughts of their own! Nobody told me that my kids would actually be their own people and not lock-step in behind me, like, all the time!

Life: Uh...excuse me Scott. That's the way it works with raising kids.

Me: Really!!??!! I had no idea.

Life: Yeah, it's in the manual. The How To Be A Successful Parent and Raise Good Children manual. You didn't get it?

Me: You're lying. There is no such manual is there? You're totally making that one up.

Life: Yeah, you're right. Sorry. You just gotta figure it out as you go along. Ask your parents.

In truth, I find it hard sometimes now. The boys test my patience to no end. Someone must have come along and dumped a whole bucketful of self-awareness into them because sheesh, they sure like to talk about themselves A LOT. There is a great deal of "mine!" and a goodly portion of tears when things don't go their way.

Whoever said all of this business about "terrible-twos", yeah well, they must've never had kids. It feels like now that they've hit three that it's all gone a bit more complicated. At the end of it all, I simply want to feel like I'm doing a good job.

In some ways, all that has passed up to this point was just a primer. Now is when the real parenting begins.

Bay Area Christmas 2008

2009-01-02T10:55:00.000-08:00

I have never been a big fan of winter.
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Growing up as a kid in Florida just knocks the zeal for snowy days right out of you I guess. All those cold temperatures, slushy roads, and wearing far too many layers of clothes simply don't interest me anymore. I suppose that's why the Bay Area suits me just fine. If you want snow that's no problem, just drive a couple of hours into the mountains and you can get your fill of the stuff. Once you're done, drive back home to balmier temps. Very civilized.
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On the other hand, if you want to go to the beach without freezing your tooties off you can do that as well here (photo evidence above). Yeah OK, it's not like you can lounge around in a swimsuit or anything, but at least you can be outside at the sea without the risk of hypothermia.

Christmas this year saw my my mother and stepfather come out to stay with us for a couple of weeks. We had the big meals, we opened all the gifts, and the boys are now old enough to grasp the concept that a large man in a red suit will come down the chimney to bring them toys.
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That was great. The fact that my sons implicitly believed that in the course of one night a single guy would fly around the world and stop at each and every house to deliver the Christmas goods was pretty interesting. There was not a single question from the kids of how this was possible. The physics of it all were not challenged, they simply believed. How cool is that?
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They're still not old enough to get the whole idea of this Santa thing, but next year? Hoo-boy, it'll be full-on indeed.

Through the entire escapade of the holiday season activity and all that it brings, my best memory of Christmas this year though is a little one. A simple one. Something that says more about this time of year than any amount of gifts, or meals, or visits to Santa at the mall will ever convey.
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On the day my mom and stepdad were leaving, they were busily packing up and loading the car for their trip to the airport (they were returning back to frigid Michigan where it was like, minus 20 or something with snow up to the armpits - hence another reason I like the Bay Area in winter). There was a lot of coming and going as the suitcases were packed and shuffled out to the car. The boys looked on all of this and understood that Nana and Grandad were leaving.
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Now, during the course of their stay my mom and stepdad were great with the kids. They engaged with them as grandparents should and showered them with the kind of attention that only grandparents can. My stepfather spent a lot of time on the floor with the boys playing cars with them. We're talking about a 6'4" man in his sixties rolling about with two little boys pushing toy cars around ..... for hours. That's some real Grandad dedication.
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So anyway, as they were getting ready to leave, my stepfather went to say his final farewell to the kids. They gave the hugs and said their goodbyes. As he turned to leave, Finn walked back to my stepdad, held out his arm and said: "Here Grandad, this is for you".
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In his palm was a little toy car.
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No one told Finn to do this. There was no prompting. It was a simple act of pure giving on his own part. His Grandad had spent all of that time playing cars with him and now he altruistically wanted to give back in a way that makes sense to a 2 1/2 year old. Looking on at this, I felt a tweak in my heart and knew right then that this was the best thing I've seen all Christmas.
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My stepfather was a bit surprised as well and didn't know what to do right away either. He sort of went to give the little car to me, but Finn said: "No grandad, it's for you". My stepfather and looked at each other and I told him to put it in his pocket. He did, and Finn went back to watching TV or something.

In a flash that moment was over, but it will stay with me for the rest of my life.
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The extra bonus was that all of this happened on a 60 degree sunny day in California. The true spirit of selfless giving AND good weather? Yeah, that's a win.

Post-Halloween wrap-up

2008-11-19T09:04:00.001-08:00

When I was a kid, I loved Halloween more than Christmas.
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There was something about this holiday that caught me. The spooky, dark side to it simply spoke to me in a way that a fat guy in a red suit who gave out presents never could. That's saying quite a lot as all kids LOVE presents. That whole "better to give than receive" shtick certainly does not apply to a child's worldview.
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In any case, Halloween. The autumnal air. Talk of witches and ghosts. The chance for one night to dress-up in a costume and walk around in the dark. All of these things fully sanctioned by parents and adults. It just seemed to good to be true. The collected candy at the end was simply the bonus.

My brother and I would spend weeks deciding what our costume would be for that particular year. With great aplomb we would announce our choices at the dinner table a few days before the 31st. "This year, I am going to be ........... a WEREWOLF!". We would sit back after our declarations with great satisfaction at the wisdom we had displayed to our parents. Who in turn, would smile and then tell us to eat our green beans.
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And so, this ritual continued until the age of 13 or so. The time when trick-or-treating feels like the stuff of little kids and no longer appeals. We had a window of about 8 years or so when it did, but although we all end up retiring our candy bags eventually, the allure of Halloween stays with me to this day. I still love it all.
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This year was the first time I took my own children out trick-or-treating. Another great wheel in the cycle of life has turned.

Being twins, they both wore the same costume. Not so much because they wanted to, but being the incredibly wise parents that we are (said with tongue firmly stuck in cheek), we realized that at this age if the boys had different costumes then they would inevitably squabble over one of them. So, they were both Spiderman. A good first costume though I would say.
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The night arrived and I moved through the same motions that my parents, and their parents before them, have always done. We lit the candle in the pumpkin, we put their costumes on them, and gave them their candy bags. We all set off into the night.
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Now, since the boys are still not even 3 years old, I thought it would take some serious coaching to tell them what to do when they got to someone's door. "OK boys, knock on the door, shout "Trick or treat!", and open your bag. When you get your candy make sure to say thank you!". I assumed I would be conducting this coaching throughout the night. Well .....
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I suppose that when highly sugared sweets are involved, the learning process takes root very, very quickly. I had to run through the whole trick-or-treating process with my children the sum total of .... once. Man, they got it all very quickly.
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We tramped through the night. My wife and I drank wine as we shepherded (it's a word, I actually looked it up) our sons from house to house. When it was time to finish, we guided our little Spidermen home, took off their costumes, and put them to bed.
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I can't wait for next year.

America

2008-11-05T07:37:00.001-08:00

I woke up this morning to a different country.

A country that spoke its voice, made a decision, and changed history for everyone. The world feels different right now. Indeed, a feeling of hope now exists where there was once only confusion, frustration, and a kind of darkness. The 44th President that is Barack Obama symbolizes many things. It's about more than just one man, but he does carry all of our expectations, and some incredible responsibility sits squarely on his shoulders.

Who is to say how this story will unfold. Perhaps the status quo of politics will mire the message that inspired so many people as his term carries on, but suffice to say, our country changed overnight. A change that I am overjoyed to raise my sons within. They are too little right now to understand what has happened, but years from now, I can point to this day and say that they were alive when their country decided on a different course to follow.

The words aren't coming out right now as well as I'd like them. It's all a bit overwhelming.

So, essentially what I want to say is that for the first time, in a long time, I am proud of America.

Because I said so

2008-10-24T15:48:00.001-07:00

On October 23rd, 2008 I spoke those very words.

One of the boys was messing about and getting up to some kind of tomfoolery. I told him to "Stop doing that!".

He looked at me and simply said "Why?".

It was at that moment that the great wheel of parental karma turned a full notch and landed squarely on my shoulders. I uttered this most infamous of phrases so often used by beleaguered parents when their offspring are indulging in nonsensical shenanigans.

It was towards the end of the day, I was tired, and well, ...... I just couldn't help it. Those four words just fell out of my mouth.

So, for this reason, I give myself over to the fact that silly parental logic is simply a shared universal trait that spans all time and generations. We can hide, but it will find us.

I still ain't gonna walk around the house in my underwear though. I always hated when my Dad did that.

Time travel does exist....sort of

2008-10-07T14:03:00.000-07:00

There are occasions in life where we are offered the rare opportunity to return back to a certain time in our lives. I suppose for many people this would happen with like, I dunno, high school reunions, or homecoming games I guess.
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But as I essentially remain a punk rocker, those kind of events are not the kind of things I participate in. They're too structured, too expected. Although I'm 38 years old, I still rail against certain things that smack of convention to me. It's silly I know. But we are who we are, and I still have a punk heart that beats within.
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Last week a band from my "days of yore" played in San Francisco. They're called Radon, and I basically grew up through college with these guys. I was in a band back then as well. We were called Spoke. Spoke and Radon were like brother bands. Based in Gainesville, Florida we as college students didn't have a lot of local music to turn to back then. The town was awash with jam bands and your typical college jangle pop outfits. In the early days not many bands came to play our little sleepy northern Florida town either. In short, we were left to our own devices to make our mark.
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Radon and Spoke started out at the same time respectively and, in some ways, were the first bands that unleashed what is now referred to as "the Gainesville sound". I don't really know what that is, and I feel a bit preposterous by attributing my own personal impact into anything musically, but the truth of it was that we all did something fairly miraculuous. We created a scene.
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Well, that scene grew and since then quite a few "named" bands came out of Gainesville. It is on the map, so to speak, within punk rock circles and by the time we all left the place any punk band touring that was worth its salt would play Gainesville. Radon and Spoke kinda started all of this. It's weird to write that, but I'd hazard to say it's true.
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Incredibly, those days still linger. There are (unbelievably) people out there who still remember the band I was in. We still get played on college radio stations. I've met complete strangers who bought our albums. We did a couple of CDs and a couple of tours, but man, it was all in the name of fun. Guess that somehow just worked.
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Radon however carried on in a fashion. They still play shows every now and then. They released a new album last year. I couldn't believe my ears when I first heard it. It's nothing short of a masterpiece.
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ANYWAY, these guys in Radon were first and foremost my friends. Everyone who lived in Gainesville back then, and were into the punk stuff, were all pretty tight, but the Radon guys were my good, good pals. I've stayed in touch with them through the years. Our lives all mirror each other's in many ways. Basically, we're all getting older and making our way in the world, but that period of 1990 to 1993 was a kind of magic time for us all.
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So, when I got the news that Radon were playing in my own town I was uber-enthusiastic. I knew it would be fun. What I didn't know was how much fun it would turn out to be. It was undeservedly fantastic. Seeing all of these guys in one place again, and playing the old (and new) tunes was almost too much. Like finding a pair of favorite jeans that you thought you lost years ago only to discover that they still fit and are so darn comfortable. That's how the show was. People came out of the woodwork for this gig. I mean, people from my Gainesville past that live in San Franciso and I didn't even know it were there. One fellow flew up from L.A. Incredible.
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For that brief few hours, it was our reunion.
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The added bonus on a personal level, was that my knucklehead pals in the band actually let me jump on stage to sing their last song with them. It was something that I used to do with these guys back in the day. I say that "they let me", but in truth I think my insistent drunken heckling made them want to do it if only to shut me up. Either that, or they knew that the sight of a late 30's balding guy in a Hawaiian shirt (refer to photo above for comic reference) sreeching out a song was entertainment for the masses.
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I like to think they made a wise choice, but regardless, it made my night complete. So anyway, an immense thank you goes out to the Radon fellows. For one night they made it happen. Time travel that is. For a large group of people we were given that chance to recall just how great of a time we had in our youth. And just how great life has become since. We're all able to look back on those days with real fondness, while at the same time, being secure in the knowledge that our lives today are equally as good.
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We had a few beers after the show just catching up and telling tales. We laughed a lot. I felt the glow of friendships forged in the years before, yet still remain sound and true. You gotta hold onto those times because they don't come around as often as we'd all like.
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It was like medicine for the soul.

Radon are:

Brent

Dave

Bill and Mike

I wholeheartedly suggest you buy their latest album:

http://www.noidearecords.com/bands/releases/radon_metricbuttloads.php

Pea

2008-09-25T08:23:00.000-07:00

A pea.

One of nature's most innocuous foods. So utterly non-descript, and dare I say bland, that no one suspects that they are actually the king of vegetable villians.

How can this be? How can something that amounts to basically being a little green sphere of ..... well, whatever peas are made of, be so darnright sinister?

Perhaps the reason rests in the fact that they are the perfect size to fit right up a little kid's nose.

Which is exactly what happened two nights ago. My undeniably brilliant, and certain genius of a son, Lachlan stuck a single darn pea right up his schnoz.

Well, how can that be the fault of the pea? If my child is so dang smart why didn't he have the sense to refrain from placing vegetable matter into his head? It's because those little peas are ... crafty. Yes, crafty. Take a look at a pea sometime. Their innocent little green shapes just rest on your plate looking as if they would never harm a fly. But their innocent appearance belies a dark hidden agenda. They want to be put up kids noses. They cry out for it.

I can only imagine that to a 2 or 3 year old, the mere existence of a pea calls out for some nasal spelunking. "C'mon kid do it, stick me up there, it'll be fun!!!!" It's simply the absolute perfect shape for this activity.

Or maybe not. Maybe peas are indeed non-sentient beings, and my son falls into a long line of kids who just do stupid stuff sometimes. Whatever, the fact is, he put a pea up his nose.

Man, that sucker was right up there. At first I thought I could just sort of fish it out by pushing down on his nose, but nope, it had somehoow gone really far. I got a flashlight and could see its evil greeness (see? there I go again with the dark agenda stuff again) hiding well into his nasal ..... uh... cavity I guess you'd call it.

So, I did whatever any semi-panicky parent would do. I pushed it up into his nose even further. Somehow the logic of this made sense at the time. "If I push it up further, then it'll fall down the back of his throat and he'll spit it out".

But, it didn't work out like that at all. It was just stuck further.

I then did whatever a now medium-panicky parent would do, I checked the internet. Of course I received a bazillion hits on the key word search: "toddler, pea, up-nose". Per usual, the overwhelming first piece of advice from these esteemed medical websites I hurriedly perused was: "Whatever you do, do not push the object further up the child's nose."

Fabuluous. My wife however, was her usual calm self during this whole escapade. She put both kids in the bath (which helped calm poor Lachlan down), left me to look after them, and then went onto the internet to do her own virtual investigation. I imagine her key word searches included the terms: "husband, doofus, remedy".

Whilst in the bath, my pea-inflicted son did indeed calm down and I kept trying to get him to put his finger on the opposite nostril and BLOW! Some seriously ridiculous pantomiming took place on my part. Bless him, he tried and tried, but without success.

I was about to give up hope, gird myself for another trip to the ER (Good evening Mr. Huegel, what dumb-ass thing did you let your kid do now?), and started to finish up their bath. I implored with Lachlan to give it one final shot.

It happened as if in slow motion. A tiny green ball flew through the air and landed in the bath with an unceremonial plop. He had done it. He had ejected the Offending Pea.

I let out a whoop of victory. Victory over vegetables! I was high-fiving myself. I don't know why I did this, but I did. I high-fived my kid. No trip to the ER, no insidious co-pay, no admission of failure. My kid sorted it out himself. I was elated.

My wife came back into the bathroom, smiled and sensibly congratulated Lachlan (no high-fives), pulled the kids gently out of the bath, and got them ready for bed. Ah, life. It really is beautiful sometimes.

I still have reservations about the innocence of a pea though.

Colorado

2008-08-28T08:27:00.000-07:00

We recently took the boys to visit their Auntie and Uncle in Colorado. This is the view from their back porch. My oh my.
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What's interesting about all of this is that my sister and I grew up in suburban Orlando. If I had to choose an adjective for that place, the word "flat" comes to mind. In fact, I think most of Florida is below sea level. Well, my sis and her husband now live 8,000 miles above that marker.
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Colorado is a strange place. It has two faces. The eastern and western. Anything east of Denver is pretty much like Orlando (refer to the aforementioned adjective above), but anything west is what most folks think of when they think of Colorado.
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It's a stunning place. The western part that is.

Look at this. It's a frickin' elk. I don't think I've ever seen one of these before. Now, essentially elk aren't that big of a deal as I came to find out. They're everywhere in the mountains. The "frickin'" part comes into play because this was taken right outside my sister's house.

This is their "back yard". It's more like a "back cliff", but whatever, I certainly don't see this stuff when I gaze out my own back window in the morning. Closest thing I get to elk is my dog pooping on my lawn.

Right. So, my brother-in-law is a firefighter. We took the boys down to his station to check out the trucks and stuff. Well, he really made the effort. Instead of just walking about and such, we put the boys into these little get-ups, let them sit in the driver's seats, and he actually let us all take a turn SPRAYING WATER OUT OF A FIREHOSE.

So, I can check that off my "Essential Man-things To Do Before I Die" list, which is nice.

It was super cool that my brother-in-law (henceforth known as BIL because I can't stand typing that anymore) really took the time to basically give my children the thrill of their lives.

Kids and firetrucks? Yeah, that's a win-win.

Er....yeah, so me and BIL did some skating as well. I have no delusions as a 38 year old man that I'm out there to "shred", but I still enjoy poncing about on a skateboard. We went to Denver's biggest skatepark and it was phenomenal.

Having the boys watch me skate around was kind of a big deal for me. Being little boys means they already are pretty fascinated with skating, and to see their old man doing it really gave me a thrill. Thankfully, I didn't bust my ass too badly in front of them though. Nothing bursts a child's reverment for a parent's activity like, I dunno, a frickin' bone poking out of my arm or something.

One night my wife and my sis went out for a Girls Night. That left BIL and I alone with the boys. We fed the kids, we bathed them, and then put them to bed.

After that we also put two giant steaks to bed as well. Beer, meat, and corn. Yeah, Colorado was very manly indeed. I got to spray water out of a firehose AND consume stupid amounts of beef on one trip. We also smoked cigars. I can sense Hemingway nodding in approval already. Not to mention, I've had much worse views than the one above while eating dinner.

Red Rocks. Everyone's heard of the place. As they should, it's stunning.

Walking around these stones as they jut defiantly out of the earth was fantastic. There were lots of rattlesnake warning signs around though. Not so fantastic.

All good things must come to an end.

foundational....

2008-07-25T08:37:00.001-07:00

A couple of weekends ago I went to a party. By myself.
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The fellow that hosted it is a friend of my brother-in-law. I met this guy last year. Dave runs a tattoo studio, builds custom motorbikes, and just so happens to have directed possibly one of the greatest skate films out there: http://jasonjesseemovie.com/
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So naturally when Dave invited me to this crazy BBQ get together/party type of thing a while back, I was pretty keen to go.
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Turns out that Dave, in addition to doing all of the aforementioned stuff above, also happens to have a custom skate pool IN HIS BACKYARD. When I walked into the party there were at least a hundred folks there. Great BBQ, beers, a live band, and a custom skate pool IN THE BACKYARD ( I know I already mentioned this, but it deserves a second denotion because it's just so darn cool)
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Going to a party by yourself is kinda weird and also kinda goofy, but I wasn't sure if the boys would drive everyone nuts and if I would've been the only one there with offspring. Turns out I was wrong. There were loads of kiddies there, and the boys would have loved the skating. They're quite obsessed with the whole skateboard thing already.
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ANYWAY, as skating and punk rock pretty much serve as my foundations of my youth, I've noticed that as I get older that stuff still remains. I found myself alone at this party. I didn't know anyone except Dave, but it didn't matter. There is something pretty interesting about feeling right at home amongst people you don't even know, but because you all are into the same thing and are collectively hanging out, it's all good.
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In short, it's one of those times where you feel completely comfortable in your own skin. Yeah, I'm getting older, but yeah I still like the rocknroll, the skating, the tattoos, and to be surrounded by like-minded folks is like stepping into an old pair of jeans. It just feels easy.
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Considering all of this, it makes me realize just how all of these things from my youth stuck with me, and now serve as some kind of forward compass. OK, I don't get out to shows that often now, and I don't skate that often now, but it all still lives in me.
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So, I wonder, what will be those things that grab my sons by their souls and work their way to become their foundations? Will they find themselves 30 years from now at some party with a beer in hand cheering on some dude skating a pool? Maybe not, but it will be very interesting to see whatever it is that captures them.

Character(s)....

2008-07-09T11:33:00.001-07:00

There are certain moments that come to pass when I feel my heart is too full.

I watch my sons grow. I now have little boys in front of me that have replaced the babies that were once there.

We have little conversations these days. Their ability to develop language astounds me. Because our daycare lady only speaks to them in Spanish they are learning two languages at once. It's quite something.

On a sidenote, the other day one of the boys let loose a....uh.....a bit of flatulence. I laughed a bit and he looked at me with a deadpan stare and said: "Pedo". Pedo? What the heck is that? I've notice they say it often when they burp one out from the behind, so I figured it must be Spanish. I asked our caregiver about it, and sure enough, it means exactly what I thought it did. My little blonde, blue eyed boys say "fart" in Spanish.

ANYWAY, right now is the most engaging time we've ever had with them. They speak to us, they ask us questions, they pet the dog and call him by his name, they're learning to swim, they sit on park benches and drink their juice.

It's unbelievably fun and sometimes, my heart really does feel too full.

Tuned

2008-06-18T09:25:00.001-07:00

OK, well I have to say that I'm glad that's over. The recording went well. Actually, it turned out a whole lot better than I anticipated.
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But, as expected, it was a relatively grueling process to get through. No matter how many times I've been in recording sessions, they always are downright exhausting. Not only for me, but also for my poor friend Chris who engineered the whole thing, because he had to sit there and listen to my songs OVER and OVER and OVER. That's an experience I wouldn't wish on most people.

We started out last Wednesday at 9:00 a.m. 9:00 a.m! That is one seriously tough wake-up call. Chris, by nature, is a rocknroller who tends bar, makes music and lives a more....uh...nocturnal life than me. So, bless him. He was up and ready to go at a far too early time of the day.

But sheesh, the guy knows what he's doing. We were able to get through 8 songs. Recorded, mixed, and mastered. All done in 12 hours. By the time we finished in the evening we were both done and spent listening to my tunes, but we got them all in the can.

The great thing about recording is that you can tweak the songs in all matter of ways to make them sound more full, more robust. Chris and I sat there for hours fiddling with reverb, levels, and such. It was worth the effort. The result I now have sounds.......well......it sounds really good. Even the vocals. Singing is the most humbling of activities.

It's interesting that I wouldn't have ever have done this had it not been for this friend of mine. There was no way that I would have hunted down some unknown studio to go and record. First off, it's relatively expensive, and second off, recording with someone you don't know just wouldn't have worked for me and these songs.

I've known Chris since we were kids in high school. So, that kind of relationship and familiarity made the whole process far more easier, certainly more comfortable, and cut down on the pressure I would've felt in front of some random recording engineer.

Essentially, it was just two old pals hanging out, but getting stuff done at the same time.

So, when the final knob was tweaked, the last song was mastered, and the microphones were put away, we sat back and listened to the finished tunes while drinking A LOT of beer.

We sat on his sofa while the music played on his regular stereo. This is the true test of any recording. It's one thing to listen back to a recording through the uber-expensive speakers that are part of an engineering soundboard, it's quite another to listen to it all back through a regular stereo. If it sounds good there, then you've succeeded.

A few days ago I was driving around with the boys. I had the recording playing on my car stereo. My kids, my wife and my dog, have all heard my songs a bazillion times, so unfortunately for them, these songs are sort of engrained in their memory.

When the boys first heard the music come through the car stereo, the bewildered looks on their faces were fantastic. That was Dad's voice they heard, but he wasn't singing, there was no guitar to be seen. They were very quiet for a few minutes as the songs played on, and eventually Finn piped up from the back seat and asked: "Daddy's music?"

I felt really proud at that moment. "Yeah boys, Daddy's music."

In-tune? I hope so.

2008-06-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

How do I get myself into these situations?

I mean, I've got a pretty stellar track record of committing myself to certain activities that were decided on purely by bravado, but lacked any sense or reason.

Let's see....hmm....for example, offering to do all of the photography for a friend's wedding, or volunteering to "pitch" at the company's softball tournament, or bungy jumping.

You know, that kind of stuff. Tomfoolery and stupidity at its finest. In my defense, when I committed to most of these things, I'd already had a few beers, so it seemed like a PERFECT idea.

Well, nothing's changed. I'm still an idiot.

Case in point, and Exhibit # 42: I'm going to a studio tomorrow to record all of the "songs" I've made over the past couple of years. Extra cringe points: I sing on all of these songs. Super cringe points: I had no beers when I made this decision.

A while back I posted about how I play guitar (or wrestle with it as the case may be) and have made tunes for the boys, my wife, the dog. Here's a link to that little gem:

http://scotthuegel.blogspot.com/2007_01_01_archive.html

Well, lo and behold, I've soldiered on and have continued to expand my dubious repetoire of a playlist. I have no delusions that any of the stuff I make is good, I just like doing it. Sure beats watching TV I suppose.

A good friend of mine who I've stayed in touch with since high school runs a studio in the city and has agreed to spend a tortured day with me recording my stuff. I've been in bands before who all did recording, and while I found the experience to be fun on one level, it's absolutely excrutiating on another.

It's one thing to sit there and play your songs out to the air in the living room. It's quite another to have a microphone thrust upon you, and to hear that terrifying phrase of "We're rolling!" ringing in your ears. I get all jittery and goofy. Even if I've played the song a thousand times, once the sounds are being captured, I somehow find a way to mess it up.

Ah well, I'm only doing it for myself and the boys really. I want to have a document of this music. If nothing else, I can hand it to them later in life and say "OK sons, I know you think your old man is completely un-hip, but there was a time when I could still rock out".

Not that my songs "rock", but at least it's something.

So, I'm off tomorrow to go and do this crazy escapade. My only hope is that the end result doesn't make me wince and wonder why I even bothered in the first place. Oh, and if you're wondering, I won't be wearing that rad get-up you see me sporting in the photo, it was simply the only picture I had of me playing the guitar.

Or maybe I will wear it. Anything might help.

Ole!!!

2008-04-07T08:01:00.000-07:00

(Alternatively titled: Things you learn the hard way in parenting)

Welcome to the newest chapter in my ever expanding How-To manual for first time parents called:

"Hey dumb-ass, don't let your kid do that!"

Today's lesson: Salsa.

As a relatively new parent it is generally deemed unwise while visiting a Mexican restaurant to let your child drink/eat an entire dipping bowl of salsa while you are not looking.

This action will only result in your beloved offspring waking up in the middle of the night to return the aforementioned salsa to you. Only not in the usual way you have come to expect. Instead of changing a diaper, you will be changing his sheets not once, not twice, but yes, five times during the course of the evening. Five times.

Now, don't get me wrong. I love salsa. Salsa and chips? That's nothing but a win/win. Especially for guys I think. So, I'm more than happy to see my progeny taking up the torch for an appreciation of minced tomatoes, cilantro, and......whatever else salsa is made from.

But....

Upchucked salsa that covers a two-year old at 3 in the morning? That is a powerful index for misery. Repeat this process five times over in the course of 8 hours, and yeah, I pretty much never want to look at that condiment ever again.

Iron what?

2008-03-18T07:50:00.000-07:00

I spent a week in Dallas last month. Because I was in Dallas for more than a day, I needed something to do in the evenings while I was there. Did I mention I was in Dallas? No offense to that town, but unless you like strip malls and movie theaters, there ain't much else going on.

So, I picked up this book that is shown above at the airport on the way out. Basically, because of all my martial arts goofiness, anything that says "Shaolin" on it will get my attention.

This book got my attention. And kept it.

A true story of an American fella who in '92 left the sweet confines of Princeton to essentially go to China, live with Shaolin monks, and practice martial arts with them. Everyday. He lives at their temple, he trains with them, and my god, he fights challenge matches for them. Along the way, he learns a few things about himself, smooches a few girls, and watches a man repeatedly whack his own "privates" to practice Iron Crotch kung fu. That last part was not made up.

So, of course, it was a great read.

Accounts of us Westerners heading off to Asia to live and train in martial arts are everywhere nowadays. I've read a lot of them, but this book was the only one that captured the experience for what it really was. I too had my own 3 year excursion in Japan doing many of the same things that the author, Matthew Polly, did. Although I was "working" when I was in Japan, and didn't live in a remote temple, my experience echoed a great deal of what was in this book.

The echo itself was one of comedy. Too many accounts written previously try to portray a rather romantic vision of what it was like. Yes, there were temples shrouded in mist. Yes, there was something undeniably cool about training in a martial art at its birthplace. Yes, there were moments when you (at the risk of hokiness) felt at one with the universe.

But through it all was an underlying feeling of comic ridiculuousness. This is where American Shaolin triumphs. There is a lot of humor to be found when you're a gangly foreigner who decides to move out to Asia and train in martial arts with the native folks. It's not all tough guy stuff.

Reading through this book really made me think about all of the kooky things that I had done in Japan. I sometimes can't even believe I had the pluck to do it. This was my life before the boys were born, but I am certain that it helped shape who I am today.

So, this is somewhat of a strange post. Part book review, part nostalgia trip. I suppose I write it because there are not a vast amount of books out there that feel so incredibly personal. Like hanging out with an old friend talking about the old times.

It was also one of the very few times I felt compelled to write this same stuff to the author directly. To the man's credit, he puts his contact details out there for everyone to see. So, I wrote a far too lengthy email to Matthew Polly. Basically just to say thanks.

He wrote me back, and indeed, his response felt like an old friend getting back in touch.

It's one of those books that I will have the boys read when they're older. I'll say to them: "Boys, if you want to know what it was like for your old man to do all that kooky martial arts stuff in Asia, read this". I'll say this to them, because no book could capture the experience better.

Whirlwinds - Chapter 2

2008-03-05T08:00:00.000-08:00

The boys turned two recently. Was it not only a few weeks ago when I was writing about their first birthday? It certainly feels like it.

As I look back, year one of their lives seemed to be a kind of parental marathon. It felt long. Sure there were great moments. Fantastic moments. But sheesh, I can see why the first birthday is a real milestone for the parents mainly. It is as if you made it through something. All of that "time flies when you have kids" didn't apply at all.

This year was different. The speed of it leaves me scratching my head a bit and wondering where the days all went.

So, birthday number two arrived and we found ourselves at one of those kid gymnasiums that seem to be sprouting up everywhere nowadays. We shelled out a fair amount of cash for two hours to rent the entire place for our boys and all of their gazillion little pals.

This is what we got in return:

A huge space with lots of stuff they can climb on without killing themselves.
The chance for about twenty kids to run around like the banshees they are.
An extra room where they could all sit down together to eat birthday cake. There is nothing quite as terrifying as seeing a large group of two-year-olds stuffing their faces with high fructose content food. The sugar-induced mania which follows is impressive.
The ability to simply walk away from the maelstrom of the aftermath without cleaning a single thing up. The flotsam and jetsam created by toddlers would keep a person busy for hours. Mulitply that by 20, and well, you'll be tidying up for like, a thousand years. We just said thanks and left.

Result? It was probably the best money we've ever spent.

Certainly the ability to not have to pick up after one's own children, or anyone else's for that matter, after a toddler's birthday party is something that all parents can appreciate. But there was more to it than that. Parenting young kids is a lesson in "firsts". First crawl, first word, first poo that makes your eyebrows melt, etc.

Their second birthday was the first time I really appreciated the unblemished joy of watching my own kids have fun.

I don't mean fun in the tempered sense we adults have grown used to. I mean the kind of fun that is the sole property of a two-year-old. Man, that's some crazy fun. Kids at that age look like they're gonna go out of their frickin' minds when they are at the zenith of their fun.

This place we rented brought out all the goods as well. Bubbles (what is up with kids and bubbles?), huge foam balls, one of those jumpy castle type thingys, and when the staff broke out "the parachute" I thought these children would pass out with glee.

My god, it was really something.

But here's the thing. It might have been one of the most fun days of my life as well.

My wife and I were the enablers of unabashed fun. We were the Ambassadors Of Good Times to our kids and their friends.

To stand back and watch your own children running around possessed by the spirit of pure joy while knowing that you were the ones that "made it happen" is really, really great. Simply, I felt happy that I could give that to my kids.

The bonus of being able to leave straight away at the end without picking up a single messy plate was pretty darn good too though.

Lists (Entry 1)

2007-11-20T13:16:00.000-08:00

Guys love lists. That's just the way it is.

I don't mean, like shopping lists or "Things To Do Today" lists. Those are far too useful, organized, and constructive for us. My wife makes them all the time. She'll hand me the grocery list only for me to forget it whilst I'm out the door to the supermarket. I then have to call her to read me all of the items over the phone when I get there.

It usually only takes two calls though.

Anyway, the kinds of lists guys like fall more into the "Top 5 Driving Songs While Driving Through Iowa" or "Top 3 Sword Fights From Dino De Laurentis Films".

You know. That kind of thing.

So, my previous post about swimming around in the ocean with sharks (see below) got me to thinking about all of the things I DON'T ever want to have happen to me in my life. The shark thing comes in at a tidy #3 ranking.

I therefore present my "Top 10 Things I Never Want To Experience" list:

10. Watching any film with Matthew McConaughey in it*
9. Having a bird poop on my head
8. Paper cut on my tongue while licking an envelope closed
7. Going on a diet that has a name attached to it
6. Listening to Kenny G’s entire catalog
5. Spontaneous combustion
4. A sudden and unexpected inspiration to take up jogging
3. Meeting any animal bigger than me while swimming in the ocean
2. Two words – Adult Incontinence
1. Being invited to a hunting party with Dick Cheney

* subject to change should demand for movies starring Ashton Kutcher begin to increase

Seafood (both human and other varieties)

2007-11-14T09:21:00.000-08:00

Last weekend I went diving for abalone.

It was me and a group of three other fellas. Were we experienced abalone divers? No. Did we really know what we were doing? No. Did we even know what an abalone looks like? No.

But what the heck. Nothing says "good times" like submersing yourself in the frigid Pacific on a rainy Saturday afternoon while fumbling around in 3 foot visibility waters for what is essentially a giant slug in a shell.

Actually, it was a lot of fun.

However, do you see this picture above? See how clear the water is? See the experienced diver nimbly plucking the elusive abalone off the rock? Yeah well, our day was nothing like that.

If you want to really know what it was like for us guys last weekend, just close your eyes (and keep them closed for the duration of this exercise), stick your hands out and thrash them about while being encased in like, 3 gazillion pounds of rubber, and then just to cap it all off, pour a bucket of ice water on your head.

THAT's what it was like.

Incredibly though we somehow managed to coerce six of those wily abalone out of their briny home, figured out how to remove the shell, and then......actually ate them. Tasted pretty good.

In any case, with all of that bravado of "plunging down into Davey Jones' locker to retrieve his bounty" aside it was kinda spooky at first though. I mean, it really was a dark and rainy day. We had to dive amongst these giant kelp beds in water that had the clarity of pea soup.

So of course, the only thing I could think about was sharks.

The coast of Northern California is notorious for Great Whites, and here I was swimming and floundering around in their waters like some neoprene appetizer. All of this done by choice. Ah, the things we do in the name of fun.

Anyway, we brought the abalone back to our wives and children who were waiting sensibly in the warm cabins we had rented. We felt like Hemingway's great white hunters returning back to the camp.

For all of our hardwork though, when we showed the abalone to our kids, they all briefly looked at them and simply screwed their faces in disgust and went back to bonking each other on the head with whatever object they were last playing with.

Ah...kids, someday they'll understand the call of the sea. Or the call to dubious, and somewhat goofy, adventure at a minimum.

Beginners...

2007-10-30T07:59:00.000-07:00

Life is busy. As I get older, it gets busier. There seems to be a never-ending amount of "stuff" to get done, and I get swept up in the minutia of it all more than I would like. Work, and bills, and mortgages, and grocery shopping, and fixing whatever needs to be fixed in the house, and....well, you know, the list just goes on.
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The home repairs and remodels are the worst though. Whenever I get one thing done and cross it off the list, lo and behold, some new project pops up and takes its place. It's like my house is possessed by some phantom from another dimension whose sole purpose is to keep me running around like a blue assed fly. Maybe Home Depot has figured out how to channel these phantoms and have released them out into the world. I go to that stupid store A LOT and I see many guys shambling about with the same look on their face as mine. Everyone's clutching their little lists of stuff to buy and hoping to god that the line to check out isn't like, a thousand miles long.
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ANYWAY. When did all this busy pace begin? Of course, I'm not alone in asking this question I'm sure. Pretty much anyone who is trying to make their way in this world as an adult with even a modicum of responsibility feels the pinch of this busy life. The thing is, I don't remember it always being like this.
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Well, there are moments when I look at my children that I am reminded of a time when life was much, much different.

Everything to them is interesting. Everything is something to investigate. All of it seems to have some element of fun in it. For example, they will crouch down and watch ants as they hurriedly travel by on the ground. Or airplanes, they really love to point out every plane that flys ahead. Swings, dandelions, crayons, dogs, shoes. All of it. They are interested in all of life.
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There are moments when I'll break from my own to-ing and fro-ing and really sit down with the kids and join in whatever it is has caught their attention for that moment. It's nice. For a brief point in time I don't think about anything else and I can briefly feel the fascination they do.
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It's like that whole Zen concept of "Beginner's Mind". Approaching everything as if it is new and you have never been exposed to it before. I suppose much of childhood is like this in the sense that we are born like little Zen masters. Little Yodas running around with the Beginner's Mind until we move into adulthood where it all becomes tempered and difficult to retrieve on command. Our ability to retain that pure fascination becomes only a whisper.

But hey now, don't get me wrong. By no means do I wish to regress back to childhood. Believe me, I don't pine for it in that way. I mean, pooping one's pants, mercurial moods, and constant drooling is not something to yearn for (but I guess we get in our old age anyway), however, it is like a true gift to be reminded of a time when all was good, all was interesting, and all was pure.
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As parents we are lucky enough to have moments where we live vicariously through our children.

Fast Forward....

2007-09-10T07:59:00.001-07:00

Somebody slow this bus down. Please.
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Certain things in life make themselves apparent very quickly. One minute they are not there and the next minute they appear. Other things take time. They mark their presence in the background like a shadow at the corner of your eye. You turn to look and it's gone, but after many months of looking you've hardly even noticed that what was not there before is all that you now see.
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It was sometime around when the boys turned 17 months that I finally started getting an idea of what this whole business of "children grow up quickly" is about. It started slowly though. I can remember marking their milestones in measured steps and at a pace that seemed under control. Now though, I barely even have time to get my head around whatever new thing they're doing because I'm still trying to figure the previous one out.

Walking. Talking. A whole mouthful of teeth. Climbing. Last week they just started running. I mean, their development is at a speed that sends me reeling and leaves me in its shambolic wake trying to feebly keep up with it.

Because, you know, this stuff is important not only to remember, but also feel like you're actively engaged in. I've wanted to write about each new crazy thing they do, but I simply can't keep up with it. Not to mention that both boys have discovered some new-found energy that would give The Big Bang theory a run for its money. I'm not kidding, these kids are inspired. Their relentless to-ing and fro-ing is impressive, but also downright exhausting. It's as if they just can't get enough of life and need to capture all of it RIGHT NOW.

I suppose this is why all parents speak of their chidren's early years with a certain amount of wistfulness. It seems to happen like a flash. A brilliant, overpowering, wonderful flash. You want to hold on. To say to whoever is in charge"Hey there, let's just slow this thing down a bit OK?", but your desire to cling and to savor falls on deaf ears. It is not to be.

We are merely given the time to do the best we can within the confines of relative chaos. It leaves me pretty tired, but full of memories. Memories not in a grand scope, but of the little things. The little moments.

Little moments like when your child crawls into your lap as you read a book to them, or the still-sweetness of their breath, or how they wrap their arms around your neck while you carry them, or how they laugh at the dog as he rolls around.
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I sometimes notice that there are millions of these little moments, and yet, they are not enough. I want to hold onto them all, but I am learning that this just doesn't happen. As a parent I am given the privilege as witness and participant, but at the end of it all, I am raising my children essentially to become their own people, and people are individuals. Essentially, I am raising them to eventually leave me.

I just wish it didn't happen so rapidly.

Shasta

2007-08-09T10:27:00.000-07:00

"Lonely as God, and white as a winter moon"

- Joaquin Miller

June came around quick this year. When June comes, it means it's time to go riding with my pals for our annual weekend motorcycle jaunt.
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This year we picked Mt. Shasta. We couldn't have chosen a better place.

Two of us had new bikes this year. Myself and Phil. If there is one way to find out how a bike will perform and handle, there's nothing better than taking it on an 800 mile trek. That's a fair amount of mileage in three days.
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Now, I love my bike as Phil does his, but let's put it this way, no matter how well-engineered a motorcycle is, the seat is seemingly always the last thing on the manufacturer's mind. Going for 100 mile stretches without stopping made my ass feel like something born of the devil. Ah well.

The riding was great of course. Sometimes you gotta go to where no one else is. Having Mt. Shasta in the background during the entire time we were up there was the centerpiece.

We did find ourselves on these desolate forest roads on half of our trip around the mountain. While the roads themselves were paved, twisty, and seemed perfect for bikes, the deer that occasionally jumped out in front of us tempered any speeds to be sure.

The roads layed out like ribbons. Without a single car in sight. You feel privileged to be there.

And sometimes when those roads were straight enough and blank of anyone else, they begged for a little speed.

I don't know why borders of places seem like something to go to. Like an accomplishment of some sort. But they are.

We rented a cabin. It sat under Mt. Shasta's shadow in the morning and showed its vermillion face in the evening. An ideal place for three guys and their bikes for a weekend. We barbecued, we drank beer, we rode our crazy motorcycles.

Then we went home to our wives and children. Happy to be home.

2007-07-10T08:42:00.000-07:00

37 Times Around The Sun

...

So as of last week I have been alive for 13, 505 days, 324,120 hours and.....er....a whole lot of seconds.

Heather threw me a big ol' Hawaiian party. Lots of friends came. It was amazing. It was one of those days that was not only incredibly fun, but also one of those rare days where a person is allowed to really step back and realize how lucky they are. My kids ran around with my friend's kids. Dogs ran after the kids. People relaxed with a beer or three by the pool. Music was playing at a volume reserved only for good parties. BBQ smoke wafted across the yard.

All of this under the golden California sun. I am a fortunate man.

Remember I mentioned that part about dogs and kids? Well, here you go. Those kooky dogs were probably more well-fed than us.

Young Lachie in his Hawaiian finest. Notice the upright position? Yep, both him and his brother are walking. It's basically all they want to do. Walk around and pick up bugs.

We must have had thirty people over on the day. Most were in the pool. I tell you, there's something about having all of your friends around you and hearing the sound of laughter. You see and hear that everyone is having a good time and realize that you are blessed with friendship.

Yeah, well. Later on things just got ugly. Beer was involved.

Which of course having the end (no pun intended) result of beer leading to nudity. Ah....what can you do eh?

Eventually the sun went down. Most of our friends with children of their own went home. Most of our friends without children stayed. We made a fire by the pool. We drank more beer and played guitar and everyone sang along. We sat together under western stars.

It was a great day. A perfect day.

Is it a hair-do, or a hair-don't?

2007-06-15T08:51:00.000-07:00

Yeah...uh. I do this to myself every couple of years or so. It's somehow liberating to shave the ol' noggin. I mean, getting ready in the morning is a breeze. The best part is after a shower, I run my hands over my head and feel the water that was trapped in all my spiky little hairs run down the back of my neck.

Like a human squeegee or something.

My coworkers were amused. Gave them something to talk about, which probably went something like this:

"Man, that guy looks ridiculuous."

Ah well. The boys seem to like it anyway. They pat their little hands on top of my head. They laugh when they do it.

A long time ago....

2007-05-25T07:54:00.001-07:00

May 25, 1977. A mother and father take their two young sons to a movie.

It was "family" night and the father had heard about this new film that had come out. It was supposed to be quite something.

The two boys were just happy to be with their parents. They got popcorn. They sat in their seats and once the lights dimmed down and the film began, their childhood would never be the same again.

I still remember the night that my parents took me to see Star Wars. I was 7. From the beginning of that movie my jaw literally dropped. It stayed that way right through the end. When we left and drove home I knew I had witnessed something special.

Fast forward a few years and a couple of sequels later. I had collected a ridiculuous amount of the toys. My room was littered in X-Wing fighters, landspeeders, and a never-ending flotsam of action figures.

It is somewhat silly to write and say that these films had a huge influence on my childhood, but the reality is, they did. I know I wasn't the only one though. The mythic concepts of right versus wrong, hope, and overall mystery were powerful for millions of children. The toys, lunchboxes, and bedsheets were just the material bonuses that kept reminding me of the source of where they all came from.

I was Star Wars crazy. I stayed that way for many years. That is, until the 3 recent sequels were released. What a load of crap they were. I was hoping for so much more and yet I was delivered so little by them.

Perhaps they simply weren't made for me, but for the next generation who, like me as a boy, sat entranced from beginning to end.

It's all about context though. When the first Star Wars came out, nothing like it had been seen before. Movie tie-in toys were pretty much non-existent. At the core of it all, in 1977 people just didn't live in a world where bombastic films with huge special effects were the norm.

ANYWAY, I can only hope that something comes along for my two young sons that captures their minds the way Star Wars did for mine. It'll have to be something pretty damn special though. The world is awash with "big films" now. To cut through all of that and get right to the core of something new, fresh, and inspiring is a tall order indeed. Not to mention that a majority of what's out there now is full of "mind-candy", but mighty short of substance.

In short, it will take a film as unique and rich as Star Wars. Yeah, it's really just a movie with monsters, lasers, and spaceships, but there was a tangible something beneath it all. It gave some kids who were open to it, a "message". The world could use a bit more of that now.

Truthfully, nothing would make me happier than to take my boys to such a film, sit next to them and watch their world change in the span of two hours.

As I write this, I have two of those original action figures on a shelf in my sons room. Luke and Darth stand side by side overseeing my boys as they sleep. Good and evil. Father and son. I like all of that.

My mother, bless her, kept many of these toys. She continues to find them in random boxes in her house and sends them to me now and then. The toys are a bit weathered and have seen better days, but look like they got a lot of use, and gave a lot of joy. They really did.

So while it is somewhat maudlin and goofy, I'd like to wish Star Wars a proper Happy Birthday. You made so many kids happy and inspired.

This one included.

By the way, while it was always much cooler to like Han Solo (and I told everyone in public he was my favorite), in my secret, young heart, I was always a Luke Skywalker fan. He was the hero. The wandering son. He just whined a little about it.

The Velvet Underground ain't got nothing on me....

2007-05-01T09:26:00.000-07:00

People c'mon, no autographs please...

I'm busy pooping my pants here.

Hounding

2007-04-25T08:17:00.000-07:00

It was 10 a.m. and the smell of pancakes still hung in the air.

Sunday mornings spent leisurely over breakfast with your family just feel categorically and cosmically "right". For those brief few hours no one else seems to exist and nothing else demands your time. The "clink-clink" of forks on plates and the sound of your children's laughter fills the room.

The sun shone outside and brought soft light into the house. We sat there with the boys while they ate their food with their fingers and happily babbled in their baby-speak. Taking our time with everything, it is in these moments that all feels right with the universe.

Pure happiness can and does happen. Sometimes it comes courtesy of pancakes and a weekend morning. I suppose there really is something to simplicity.

I'm not kidding, I felt like I had touched enlightenment last Sunday. The feeling stayed with me throughout the day and I moved through those hours as if I was in on a big secret. We went for a walk, ran some errands, and everything seemed like a gift.

We had also previously agreed to dog-sit that night for this person from church. She had to leave unexpectedly for a funeral and called us up earlier in the week to see if we could help her out. It was no problem. A single night of dog-sitting isn't a big deal.

I drove to her house to pick the dog up in the afternoon. The morning's contentment still moved through me. When I got to the house, I found the dog in the backyard where the owner said she would be. An older dog, medium sized, and seemed very sweet. She shook a little in the legs as older dogs tend to do.

I had to pick her up to put her in the back of the car and drove back home.

This would be fun I thought. A temporary pal for our dog and I knew the boys would be entranced with another animal in the house. I called Heather just before I got home to get everything ready for this new visitor.

Pulling into the garage, I remembered that I had to pick her up to get her into the car, so as I opened up the back hatch I was expecting to have to lift her out once again. What I wasn't expecting was for her to bolt out of the car like someone had just shot her in the ass.

Which is exactly what she did.

She trotted away from the house and I figured she would just check the surroundings out and come right back. That didn't happen. I found myself having to chase after her at a panic-inducing increasing pace. She then began running down the street, and that's when I found myself getting downright frantic.

It was one of those moments that you suddenely find yourself in where things have gone terribly wrong very quickly and you are left thinking "This can't be happening", and yet it was. I was now sprinting down our street and watched her disappear around a far corner. Did I mention I was sprinting? Did I mention I was sprinting in flip-flops?

I finally had to kick the damn flip-flops off my feet as I was now in full marathon mode. The dog got further and further away. I can't remember the last time I ran so fast. For extra panic bonus points she would sometimes run right out into the middle of the road as well. At this point I figured she would either get hit by a car, or disappear completely.

I had no way to contact the woman who owned her, and as I ran like Apollo I played out various scenarios in my head of how I would explain how I lost/killed this dog to the owner when she got back from a funeral. These thoughts put some extra gas in my tank I assure you.

A frantic phone call was made to Heather who promptly put the boys into their playroom and jumped into the car. At this point we were basically abandoning our kids for some dog we didn't even know.

Oh yeah, I was also shouting the dog's name at the extreme top of my voice while running. I can only imagine what that looked like to someone as I sped past their house. A 36 year old man running like his ass was on fire while screaming the most petite of names.

Chloe!!!! Chlllloooooeeee!!! Chloooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

Heather finally shows up. I was completely out of juice, so she jumps out and runs after the dog, and I jump into the car and speed crazily after this dog. Salvation finally came when she ran near a group of kids who Heather yelled at to: "STOP THAT DOG". Thank god for kids man. They love anything like a mission. The 4 adults I passed during this whole insane time merely looked up lazily as they watered their lawn or simply just stared. Adults can be so useless sometimes.

Well, finally we kind of corral this frickin' dog between Heather, me and the group of kids. But she somehow bolts again through us, so I jump back in the car and make a full-on bootleg U-turn. The tires squealed. The kids, in unison, shouted: "Cooooool!!!". It truly was insane. We all caught up with the dog again and this time were able to get our hands on her. I wanted to rip that dog's head off man, but instead gently placed her back in the car.

It wasn't the dog's fault, she was just scared and didn't know what was going on. Some random guy plucks her from homely familiarity, drives her away, and then expects her not to react. Nope, the fault was all mine. In the end she ended up being a very sweet dog, our kids did love her, and it was nice to have two dogs in the house. I, however, had to sit very still for an hour afterwards to catch my breath. I got a whopping blister on my foot and my ankle has felt weird for days since.

The worst part was sheepishly walking back to retrieve my previously abandoned sandals. They sat forlorn on the sidewalk just where I had kicked them off only 10 minutes ago.

But that's life isn't it? At one moment all is right with the universe, and at the next moment you're running your ass off to catch a dog you don't even know.

Steel and chrome...

2007-04-12T08:05:00.000-07:00

I first rode on a motorcycle with my father.

I must have been 5 or 6 years old. When he put that helmet on my head I felt like I had been knighted by a king. I don't know why, but little kids LOVE helmets of any kind. He picked me up from under the arms and placed me on the back of his bike.

It was a summer's day in St. Louis. Hot, and the sun was setting. I can still remember it. Somewhere I have a photo of this exact moment. Me, on the the back of my father's bike while he looks towards the camera with a "Don't worry honey!" expression on his face.

The ride itself is blurry in my memory. Lots of speed and clutching on to my old man for dear life. But I guess a seed was planted. Sheesh, it took root and grew like a weed.

I bought my first bike when I was 20. I was in college, and had a real yearning to finally get my own motorbike. I found a very used Honda CB 450 in the classifieds. When I went to see it, the thing was pretty much in pieces. Literally. I paid the guy $250 for it and took the whole lot down to the local motorcycle shop. It took them a week to put it back together. I will always remember when I went to pick it up. They wheeled it out to me and although it was nothing special by any means, to me it looked like the most shining of steeds.

I rode that thing for a couple of years, sold it after graduating and never got back on another bike until 2003.

Now, the 2003 bike was a beauty. A '94 Suzuki Intruder. 800cc's and gorgeous. I have far too many memories to write about this bike in such a sort space. But, to suffice, it was a great way to get back into riding. There was, however, a growing desire in the end to graduate on to other motorbikes.

Well, that finally happened a couple of weeks ago. I now own a 2002 Yamaha Roadstar Warrior, which is quite a mouthful for a bike, but this is quite a bike indeed. 1680cc's of monstrosity. That is more than double my previous engine. In fact, it's more engine than some cars have. Seriously, what a beast. See photo goodness below.

My long suffering wife wasn't overjoyed with this latest purchase, but in the end my zeal and loony fascination with these two-wheeled machines was pretty powerful. I'm sure she was just tired of hearing me talk about "a new motorcycle". So, it was done. This tiger of a vehicle now sits in my garage. It is a work of art in my opinion.

I won't go into boring technical details, but the 200 rear-tire is a sight to behold, and the low end torque on this monster demands one's attention. Not to mention the after-market exhaust which seemingly demands anyone's attention as I ride by. Yes, it's one of those "loud" bikes.

I'm a sucker for that stuff.

To be honest, it's a big bike for anyone to handle. I nurse the thing around town for now as it will take a good while before I get to know it. "Get to know it" is a strange phrase to use for a machine, but anyone who owns a motorcycle will tell you that it is so.

Each one is like a living thing with its own unique personality. Just like people. It takes time to figure out the unique quirks that every bike will have. Its strong points and its weak points. They are all there. So unlike cars, which to me are all basically the same.

I still think back to that summer's evening in St. Louis when a little boy sat on the back of his father's motorcycle. Scared but excited. So thrilled by the speed and fascinated by this machine that was so more intriguing than a car. That feeling stays with me today.

My father's bike was a Yamaha. I can still see the gold letters on the side of the tank. Ironically, it is the same make of bike that now rests in my garage. The shapes are different, the engine is different, many things are different between the two.

But the feeling is the same.

Fleming's discovery, both a blessing and a curse

2007-04-04T07:48:00.000-07:00

Heather was out of town a couple of weeks ago. I was with the boys on my own. Normally, I enjoy this time. It is exponentially more hectic, but it gives me a chance to just be with my sons.

On the Wednesday, I get a call from our daycare woman. This is what she says:

"Oooh, I think Lachlan has chicken pox."

Chicken pox??? He's only 13 months old. How could he possibly have chicken pox I'm thinking? I kind of banter this around with my co-workers as I'm trying to decide what to do. One of them asks me if he's had the chicken pox vaccine. Chicken pox vaccine?? They haven't invented such a thing I snort, and walk away.

So, I call Heather and she tells me that INDEED both boys did have this vaccine the previous week. I sheepishly walk back to my co-worker and apologize. He just kinda looks at me with the look reserved for morons, which I am one. I then call the doctor and they say that Lachlan could be reacting to the vaccine, but it should pass in a couple of days.

I pick both boys up from daycare. Lachlan does have some spots, but is otherwise his normal chirpy self. He's fine through the night and I take the kids to daycare the following day.

Well......

I then get another call from our daycare lady the next afternoon. I tell you, if there is ever a phone call I will answer within nanoseconds it's the one that rings which shows her name on my caller ID. She now sounds a bit more frantic and says that it's definitely NOT chicken pox, but something "weird". Weird is not an adjective you ever want to hear when it comes to your child's condition.

I race over to her house and Lachlan not only looks weird, he looks real bad. Swollen purple hives cover half his face, his neck, his arms, his legs.

This would normally be a good time for me to fuh-reak out, but I hold it together, take the boys back home and call the doctor. Of course, it's after-hours at this point so I have to take him to the emergency clinic, which I do quite rapidly. Thankfully, our neighbor watches over Finn while I'm gone.

I wait with Lachlan to see the doctor. People look at him like he's a leper escaped from French Guiana. I have to admit, I would've probably done the same. We're ushered into the doctor's office where he looks Lachlan over for, like, 15 seconds.

"Is this boy on any kind of penicillin?"

I tell him that he is. He's on it for an ear infection.

"Well, not anymore, he's allergic to it."

So, he goes through his treatment regime which includes things like steroids and antihistamines to take the hives away. He assures me it's not a problem, they see it often, and there are many drugs that replace penicillin nowadays. Interestingly, he also tells me that Lachlan could outgrow this allergy as penicillin is, and these are his words, "a weird drug in that way".

I took him home, put both boys to bed, had a beer, and was real tired of anything weird.

UPDATE: Oh yeah, he's fine by the way. Those frickin' hives went away in a couple of days.

White and Blue

2007-03-19T08:50:00.000-07:00

It was Heather's birthday recently. My mom was in town which meant we had an automatic babysitter, so we thought it would be a good idea to do something sans kids. You know, something that we used to do before becoming parents.

We could have done anything. Gone into the city. Gone to a museum. Gone up to the wine country and drank ourselves silly. I left it up to Heather.

Well, being the woman that she is, we went snowshoeing. What a girl. Nothing says "birthday fun" like tramping around for miles in the snow.

In the endless list of "Why California Is The Coolest Damn Place Ever" having the opportunity to get up into the snow region ranks pretty high. I mean, it only takes a couple of hours driving before you find youself in alpine conditions. It could be 70 degrees where we live, but after a little bit of drive, you're up at 9,000 feet in the Sierra Mountains.

I'm sure there is a scientific reason for why the sky spreads out before you at altitude in a jaw-dropping wash of cobalt blue. I don't really care, but I'm glad it exists. I've never seen such blue before moving here. To contrast this deep, dark hue against the white snow is really something.

There also must be a scientific reason as to why dogs go absolutely bonkers once they are let loose in snow. Again, I'm not bothered about the reason, but I loved seeing it happen. We probably hiked 8 miles that day, and that dog of ours did double. Back and forth, back and forth. His running was endless that was only interrupted by an impromptu jump into a snow drift for some kind of weird doggy snowbath.

We walked along with the "shoosh-shoosh" sound of our feet moving across the powder. It was the only sound you heard. You feel like you have the world to yourself. As I looked around the mountains that surrounded us everywhere, I simply felt privileged to be here.

It was like a gift. I can see why Heather wanted to do this on her birthday.

So, Happy Birthday to my wife. A woman that is compelled by the simpler, yet more real, things in life. She doesn't want material things, she wants to experience. That's it. She just wants experience.

We returned home after the sun had set. My mother was on the couch looking suitably tired yet happy to have helped.

Heather and I crept into the boys room and had a look at them. It was a great day. A perfect day.

I am a fortunate man.

Quaking...

2007-03-02T08:30:00.000-08:00

BA-BOOOOM!!!

I leapt off the sofa and stood there completely caught off guard and wondered what the hell just happened.

It felt like someone had picked the house up and inch or two and just dropped it.

This is not something you want to experience while lounging around and watching TV at 8:30 on a Thursday evening. The dog fuh-reaked out. Seriously, every single hair was up on his back and he was barking like mad.

BAAAA-BOOOOOOOMMMM!!!

The second quake that hit was stronger. By this point I was running to the boys room. I don't know why, it just seemed like something I should be doing.

As I was running, I briefly glimpsed out the back window into my yard. All of the water in the swimming pool was sloshing around. All 25,000 gallons of it. That was the spookiest part.

And then.......nothing. That was it. In a matter of 10 seconds the house had rocked twice and then everything was quiet again. Except for the dog.

The boys didn't wake up at all through it. After pacing around a bit and checking to see if there were any cracks in the pool walls, I sort of resigned myself to the "California-ness" of it all and settled back into the sofa and carried on watching TV.

I think that's the weirdest part.

Anyway, hang in there California. I don't want you sliding into the Pacific just yet.

365 Days Old

2007-02-27T08:20:00.000-08:00

On February 15, 2007 the boys turned 1 year old. We had a big party for them. Many of our friends and their children came. My mother made everyone lasagna. It was, in a word, awesome.

To be surrounded by people you care about, and who care about you, always makes for a special time. A time in which you have claimed a moment in your life that is completely, and utterly, yours. Nothing else intrudes, and for that short while you feel, I don't know, a sense of community I suppose. It's something I think we all wish we had a bit more of.

Not too mention we had, like, a buffet of booze for everyone as well. Yeah, that always helps. I mean, a birthday party for two 1 year olds, who are surrounded by other kids all under the age of 3 is really a party for the parents isn't it? The party was on a Sunday. It feels good to drink champagne on a Sunday. Extra "Stickin' It To The Man" bonus points for drinking champagne on a Sunday afternoon.

Whenever people ask how old my children are and I tell them that they are 1 year old, I usually get the "Boy, time really flies by eh?" kind of response.

But to me, in some ways, it feels like the first year was a lifetime. Like a million years. I don't mean this in a negative way. Yes, it was tiring, but that's not the point. It just seems like the boys have always been here and I find it difficult to immediately place myself back in time to the day we brought them home from the hospital.

I imagine the first year of a child's life is exceptional for any parent. It was for us. In a short span of days, the boys have grown from 7 lbs to almost 24 lbs now. They are about to walk, they are about to talk. They show real signs of their future personalities. They have teeth. All of this in only 365 days. It really is incredible.

I think the 1st birthday party is more of a milestone for the parents than for the children. I mean, the kids don't really know what's going on aside from suddenely being allowed to smoosh some incredibly sugary cake into their mouths and then having to deal with the subsequent sugar-high. (See below photo for evidence of this)

Yep, the 1st birthday is a time for the parents to take a brief moment and kind of congratulate themselves on achieving a milestone. It's like "Wow, I managed to sustain and nurture this little life with relatively few screw-ups for a whole year!". It is a confidence booster for sure. I am certain that this is exceptionally so for first-time parents.

The thing is, I still can't quite get over how it doesn't feel like the first year flew by at all.

I suppose, the best way to put is that the days felt long, but the months felt short.

Happy Birthday boys.

Away...

2007-02-09T13:44:00.000-08:00

I was away from home this past week with work. There was a time when I really enjoyed job-related travel. In some ways, I still do, but man, I really miss these little fellows when I'm not home with them. I miss my wife. I miss the whole thing.

I miss a home that has come into the true definition of the word since the arrival of our sons.

I can see their faces in my mind so clearly when I am not with them. The way they move. The way they make me laugh.

I arrived back yesterday. The flight was really delayed. The last train from the airport had long departed, and I had to take a ridicuously high-priced cab ride home. It was raining. It was late.

When I finally got to my house the front porch light was still on. I paid the cabbie and walked to my front door and unlocked it. I could hear my dog shuffling around on the other side.

The house was still. Very quiet and yet full of life. I went into the boys room and watched them sleep. The rising and falling of their steady breaths was my welcome.

I slipped into my bed. My wife was curled up and fast asleep. Before I drifted away I could only think of how damn good it was to be home.

In Tune

2007-01-31T09:42:00.000-08:00

"My music is best understood by children and animals. "

- Igor Stravinsky*

I have been in bands before.

I recorded CDs with these bands. I toured with these bands. I have stood on a stage and played music to crowds of people. Sometimes the crowds were big, but usually they were small. In short, I have had the opportunity to experience music as a participant and creator. In my more delusional moments, I like to think that I have lived the rocknroll life a bit.

Don't get me wrong though. The "music" I helped create was made solely for fun. For the creativity of it all. Thankfully, myself and my bandmates never really had any aspirations beyond that. To say that the songs we made were groundbreaking on a grand scale and would appeal to millions would be a lie. They were groundbreaking to us. They moved us, and luckily they moved some others as well. That was enough.

Heck, most of the time we were still aside ourselves that some club would actually even let us get on stage and play. I think we all secretly were waiting for the proverbial cane to come and snatch us around our necks. Yanking us away as we struggled to find the E Chord.

I played bass guitar. By playing I mean I "attempted". I was never interested in being a musician, which is a good thing, because I am not. No, I used my instrument solely as a vehicle to create something out of nothing and have an incredible amount of fun with the guys in the band.

I was never a "bass player". I only played the bass. Hopefully that contrast is clear.

However, I love music. I love making music. But, there came a time in my life when being in a band just wouldn't work anymore. If you want to make any progress at all, being in a band is like a second marriage. It takes a lot of time, a lot of effort, and a lot of patience. Your other relationships outside the band will suffer a bit. Trying to explain to your partner why you must practice 3 times a week, and sometimes all day on Saturday doesn't exactly create a harmonious atmosphere.

Being in a working band becomes a thing that takes on a life of its own. It can be a cruel master at times.

ANYWAY, so after being in a band in London and moving out to California and having children, clearly my musical options were limited. But, my wife, being the star that she is, bought me an acoustic guitar for Christmas two years ago.

Now, I had never really played a guitar before. I played the bass. With only 4 strings, the bass was infinitely easier for me to get my talent impoverished fingers around. A guitar has 6 strings. 6 strings!! I had no idea how this was going to work, but I was keen to try.

So, for the last two years I have been bashing away at this poor guitar. Woe be it to this particular instrument in my possession. It could have been bought by someone that actually knew how to play it, but nope, it was bought by me. I bet when I walked into the shop, tried it out, and then bought it, this guitar let out some sort of cosmic sigh of acceptance to its eternal fate of mistreatment.

Ah well. Things have come along a bit now though I swear. I play this thing all the time. Seriously. I think it bugs my wife, but what can I do? I'm hooked on it like some music junkie.

It got even worse last year. I was in the guitar shop in August when I spied an acoustic 12 string guitar. To me, a 12 string sounds amazing. So full, so rich a sound. It really does sound like two guitars being played exactly at the same time. Some people decry the 12 string as a kind of folky, gimmick instrument. Maybe, but I'm a sucker for it. I was drooling to add this new guitar as a companion to my long-suffering 6 string.

ANYWAY, this 12 string guitar was on sale for a pretty good price. I mentioned it to Heather that night. Incredibly I heard these magic words fall from my lovely wife's lips:

"Well, I could buy it for you as your Christmas gift"

Zowee. I was over the moon. But, hold on, it was only August I thought. Christmas is like, a gazillion days away.

This is the part where my wife does something that reminds me why I married her. She goes on to say that although I can run down and spend our family's money on this thing, it is indeed only August and it is indeed meant to be a Christmas gift.

So......I was instructed that I would not be allowed to play it until December 25th.

I had to laugh. She's quite a woman for sure. I agreed to this kooky deal and had to look at this brand new guitar sitting in the corner for 4 months before I ever got to play it. The waiting made the acquisition all the more sweet. I enjoyed having something to look forward to, and it's a great story to boot. Once Christmas rolled around and I actually had my first strum across its 12 strings, it was more fun than I could have possibly imagined.

The most satisfying part for me about playing my guitars (as in the plural of "guitar", that's 2 guitars in my collection now! Nigel Tufnel has nothing on me!) is sitting on the sofa making songs and writing down lyrics to go along with them. I sing them to my kids, my wife, my dog, myself. All of my "songs" deal with family stuff really. My dubious quiver of tune topics run the spectrum of who I sing them to, which is again, my kids, my wife, my dog and myself.

Who am I to think I can write a song about the world? Or politics? That would be a bit goofy really. Some suburban guy in his mid-30's sitting on a sofa he bought from Macy's writing about the intricacies of global issues? Nah, that's something I can't bring myself to do.

But I can sure write a song about how much I love my family.

I gotta work on my voice a bit though. Sometimes even the dog will leave the room.

*thanks to J.Resh for bringing this quote out into the open.

Mobility

2007-01-18T08:07:00.000-08:00

The boys are crawling now. Finn started on Christmas day. Lachlan followed a week later.

It was interesting to see how it happened. I could tell that they were getting ready to do this next step in life for some time. They would sit up on their hands and knees, rock back and forth, and occasionally move backwards. Seemingly though, moving into 1st gear eluded them for a while.

But once they got it, wow, within days they made up for lost time.

Sometimes we will put both boys at the end of the hall and race them. I think this is the kind of thing parents do to amuse themselves. Over the course of a few races the boys now have their own racenames.

Finn - "The Bullet"
Lachlan - "The Saunterer"

Do these names reflect future personality types? I don't know. I just wanted to give them cool sounding nicknames.

I love watching them crawl around. I'm told this is a very important skill for children to acquire and shows "development", and while this is a good thing in itself, I just like seeing their little butts wag back and forth as they move across the floor. It keeps me on my toes though. With their new-found mobility they are all over the place. I'm constantly picking them up, moving them away from steps, bookcases, etc.

I repeat this sequence, like, a thousand times a day. I think I'm losing weight.

There is a scene from the film "Raising Arizona" where there are multiple children crawling around the floor in a great frenzy, much to the consternation of the main character who is trying to herd them into one group.

This is my life. I am H.I. McDunnough.

Britannia - Christmas 2006

2007-01-05T08:41:00.000-08:00

The above photo is the reason we spent silly amounts of money for plane tickets, endured 10 hour international flights (avec two 10 month olds), faced un-ending jet lag with the boys, and basically didn't sleep for two weeks. The amount of aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents my children have in England is never ending. Even the Pope would be impressed I think. My kids were showered with attention and were introduced to a whole other half of their family that lives thousands of miles away.

The trip itself seems like a blur now. I suppose it was really. We were on the move from London to Hampshire to Kent to Wiltshire constantly. Our days were filled with travelling from one place to the next, unpacking the car, setting up the portable cribs, greeting the people we would stay with for a couple of days, and finally sitting down to cups of tea. Our nights were filled with drinking (per the usual British custom), eating much-missed for Indian food, and then waking up at 3 a.m. to the very confused cries of our children whose internal body clocks were most likely wondering what the hell was going on.

It was exhausting, but worth it. This is my wife's home really. It is also part of who my children are.

I had the good fortune of being able to spend a night out with my London friends. I miss the whole lot of them. There is a creativity, a spark, a buzz, to London and the people that inhabit it. In true East London form, we lounged like Wilde in smoky pubs and then skulked in gritty nightclubs full of arty denizens who are much cooler than me. I don't know what the country has against "hoodies" though.

As a sidenote, this was the only opportunity I had during the entire trip to actually sleep in as I was staying at my friend Mal's flat. Jon, myself, and Mal wound down the evening at some stupid hour in the morning. We sat on his sofa having one final beer, listening to music set low, and possibly the sound of birds chirping outside. I then settled in for an actual night of unbroken sleep. I intended to wake up as late as possible.

Instead I woke up at 8:00 a.m. to the sound of a chainsaw.

What the hell is a chainsaw doing in London was my first thought. I threw open the curtains to find a guy, suspended in a tree just outside the window, pruning the friggin' branches WITH A CHAINSAW. I wanted to cry. I am destined to never have a decent night's sleep ever again.

Alan, my father-in-law. Never a man has lived that appreciates real beer as much as him. There is something truly welcoming about going into a pub. No TV, no neon, no loud music. Just the sounds of glasses clinking and people laughing. Alan is a veritable connoisseur of the best pubs that serve the best beer. He likes to sit facing the bar. Everytime I'm in a pub with him it is like a little ritual. He scours the place with a determined look to find a seat with the best view. It's incredibly endearing.

Young Finn on Christmas day. I don't know why these hats are worn on Christmas. They look cute and spirited on little kids, but absolutely ridiculous on me.

I really do miss being constantly reminded of history and the times that have come long before you. I never took things like driving past 12th century churches for granted while I lived in the UK. On this trip I made us all stop and take photos in front of them.

Aside from my two main goals of drinking real beer and eating stupid amounts of Indian food, my other main goal for this trip was to take the boys to Avebury. Forget Stonehenge, Avebury is the real deal.

Heather first took me there just on a whim back in '95. Little did she know that she would open up an utter fascination in me for very old stones that stick upright like defiant teeth into the sky. My interest in these neolithic megaliths burned (and still burns) within me. I have some ideas as to why these 5,000 year old monuments interests me, but it's hard to pin down. For some reason they resonate down to my very neurons.

I held the boys in arms. My boys, my children, my flesh, and walked around those stones. It was really something.

As I write this we have returned now. I am left with a need for sleep, the boys are sick from all the travel, and I feel like doing nothing for the next zillion years. If I ever have to put up one of those portable cribs again it will be too soon.

And yet, I am also left with the good memories. The boys are not. They are too young. But, as they grow older, and we sit down and look at the photos someday, they will be reminded.

Leaving on a jet plane....

2006-12-14T14:35:00.000-08:00

So, tomorrow we are off to the UK for two weeks.

Am I anxious about this? Well, let's see, a 12 hour flight with two 10 month old babies and an eight hour time difference at the other end which is sure to result in some serious jet lag with the the boys......Hmm......

Yeah, I'm anxious about it. Actually, I'm expecting some real difficulty with the whole trip. The photo above (once AGAIN another brilliant picture taken by my wife that outclasses my own photography per usual) is me bowing my head to the fates and throwing the outcome of child-laden, international travel into the laps of the gods.

But, my children are half-British, and so we have heeded the call of geography. They have a huge family on the other side of the Atlantic which they have never met, and it's time to introduce them to the multitude of aunts, uncles, and cousins that have only seen my boys in photos. That will be nice. I do look forward to introducing them to everyone. Plus, Christmas in England has an undeniable charm to it.

Not to mention the buckets of real beer I'll be drinking when I'm there. I'm sure that will help.

The Land Of Nod....

2006-12-12T09:38:00.000-08:00

I usually check on the boys 4 or 5 times before I go to bed.

I don't do this for any reason other than I love to see them sleeping. The day has long finished, the usual chaos has ended, and the house is peaceful. Restful. My children lay in their cribs, quietly breathing and dreaming of whatever babies dream of. Surely they are good dreams because the look of contentment on their faces is captivating.

Watching my children sleep tends to be the highlight of my day, and I am already aware that these moments will have a resonance with me for the rest of my life.

My wife was out of town last week with work for a few nights. It was just the boys and I. It's somewhat more complicated, and tiring, looking after two babies by yourself, but there is a kind of "bonding" that occurs during these times as well. One night, as I lay in my bed, I realized just how content I am as well. I was in my bed and my children, my sons, were in the next room. Sleeping peacefully and soundly.

It was a small moment, but sometimes small moments have their own subtle power that lingers far longer than expected.

There are nights when Heather and I will be on the sofa watching TV or reading and one of us will spontaneously say "Let's go look at the kids".

We get up, and gently pad into their room. The glow of their nightlight allows us to see them in a softened, golden focus. Two cribs. Two children. Our children. Holding onto the edge of their cribs we look down on them for a minute or two. We look down on them in wonder.

We then look up at each other with a kind of smile that all parents share at these times. I'm sure this ritual transcends to the beginning of the human experience. We are not the first couple to know the tangible joy that one's own children are tucked away safely in their beds and are watched over with love and awe.

No, we're not the first to have this experience, but at that exact point in time, those moments are ours alone. The intimacy is almost overwhelming.

9 months

2006-11-22T09:40:00.000-08:00

Lachlan

Finn

The boys are now past their 9th month. It really is something to see how far they've come along. Where at one time they were tiny infants, I now see little boys in their place.

Ah....vanity, thy name is tattoo

2006-11-17T14:57:00.000-08:00

There are certain things we do in life that are purely for ourselves. Tattoos are one of these things.

If you've never had one done, then believe me, the narcissism involved in the whole process from start to finish is ridiculuous. To begin with, you decide upon an image that will be on you for the rest of your life, and then spend an extraordinary amount of time in front of a mirror making sure that where you want to put it is the "perfect place".

Once this has been decided and you actually go to a studio to have it done, you spend even more time in front of a mirror while the artist places the image transfer onto your skin. When it's done, and you have the stencil outline ready to go (this requires LOTS of mirror checks), you then sit in a chair for X amount of time, watching as a relative stranger jabs multiple high-speed needles into your epidermis. The ink slides in, the skin raises, and a distinct kind of pain is felt.

Then it is finished. There is the final "Hey, check me out with my new tattoo" sauntering in front of the mirror again, and you are now left with a permanent marking of a decision made. Receiving a tattoo is an arguably strange thing to do, and one of those decisions that unless you know why it gets done in the first place, then you probably never will. This is not to sound pompous, but most people who get tattoos get them simply because it feels like the right thing to do. There's not much second guessing going on.

I'd say that I fall into the above category as I have undergone this process multiple times, and although the more narcissitic aspect of tattoos does play on mind a bit, the truth of the matter is:

I really, really like them.

Last week, Phil, Ken and I went down to a studio in Oakland with the intent of all of us getting tattoos. We have been planning this for a long time, and the three of us going made it a real event. A real friendship kind of thing. It wasn't just about the tattoos, it was about the whole experience of doing something relatively momentous together as a group of pals.

Well, we weren't let down. It was perfect. The artist was a great guy, the studio atmosphere was laid back and fun, and we truly had a great time. For me, the feeling of a tattoo while it's being done on your body is, I don't know, something quite extraordinary. If you can share the experience with your friends, or your partner, well then it's a moment in time that is frozen in your mind and lives on in your skin.

For the sake of my friends' privacy, I've left their tattoos off this page. It's up to the individual to allow others to see what has been etched into their bodies. As for me, well, it was one of the easiest decisions I've ever made. I had to get the boys names put on. Lachlan and Finn's births have marked a momentous point in my life.

I suppose it only made sense to me to have it marked in another way as well.

Phil, our artist friend Derek, me, and Ken. The very serious countenance he's projecting belies an extremely friendly fellow. In the end, we tipped him well, and bought the whole studio staff a round of beers.

Hey, you've got to support the arts, you know.

Choppers

2006-10-26T07:55:00.000-07:00

I looked at the clock this morning. It read 2:58. 2:58 a.m. is not the kind of time you ever want to see on a clock. Especially on a Thursday. OK, maybe it's not that big of deal on a Saturday when you've come home from a big night out and you've had a great time and what not.

But 2:58 a.m. on a Thursday when you have to get up for work in a few more hours? Well, to describe it in scientific terms, it basically sucks. If you compound this crazy time of the night with your child constantly crying due to teething pain, it really sucks.

So Finn is getting his teeth in now. He already has two on the bottom, but there must be more coming in, and coming in with a vengence, because he is by no means happy. Last night was pretty bad. A consistent wailing for a good hour and a half. This sound cuts through your sanity and frays a parent's already fragile nerves.

Heather and I will lie in bed listening to this cacophany. Each silently praying that the other will be the one to get up and go to soothe the poor kid. It's kind of like a parental "Showdown at the Kiddie Corral", which plays out mentally between the two of us kind of like this:

"Hey pardner, this bed ain't big enough for the two of us"

"Yep, one of us varmints is gonna have to get up to take care of that baby"

"Well.....who's it gonna be pardner? Who's it gonna be?"

"It ain't gonna be me varmint, I'm using the fake snoring tactic to try and fool ya"

You get the idea. I think we each got up at least 5 or 6 times in the end though. This teething business is hard.

Our pediatrician told us that in some very, very rare cases babies will be born with a full set of teeth. A full set of teeth straight out of the womb??? While it's a pretty bizarre concept, the reality is that you would never have to deal with teething pain. What a score that would be.

ANYWAY, so we were up all night. He finally settled down around 4-ish I guess, and when we went in this morning to get the boys dressed for the day, that little bugger Finn was sleeping. I have to say I took a microscopic fraction of delight in waking him up. But you know, unlike my grumpy-ass self, when I woke him up the first thing he did was smile at me. Darn babies, they know how to work you.

The incredibly sobering afterthough of all of this is that Lachlan hasn't started getting any teeth at all yet, which certainly means we will have to go through all of this again very soon.

Ugghhh........one coffee please. Large.

What's this????

2006-10-23T11:21:00.000-07:00

In the immortal words of Edie from Absolutely Fabulous:

"Le quois, baby spew?"

Right. So the picture isn't that great, but I put this shirt on yesterday and went about my business. After a few hours I looked down on my shoulder to see this awfully bizarre looking ....stain.

Well, what could that be I thought? Indeed, upon further inspection, it was crusty chuck-up courtesy of one of my sons and their subsequent belching.

That's my life. Trying to be cool and punk rock in my mid 30s by still wearing "edgy" band shirts, but being brought right back down to earth by what amounts to essentially partially digested baby food.

Rock on man. Rock on.

Andy....

2006-10-17T13:27:00.000-07:00

It's strange to look at this name in the post title.

It was my brother's name. He was 28 years old, and he died on this date five years ago. He would have been 33 now. So strange. So damn awful. I don't even like to think about it most of the time.

These types of "anniversaries" are things I can do without, and yet here it is. For the past couple of years I've somehow sailed past October 17th without giving myself over to mulling over the event of his death. I think about my brother everyday, and I usually don't subscribe to the idea that I should choose to feel rotten on this date if I am not already predisposed to doing so. It's almost like feeling bad for the sake of it.

But today, on this date, on this anniversary, I do feel it's edge more than I did in the previous years. I know it is because of the birth of my sons. With their births I am reminded of what has come before, and what will never be. The absence of this person, my sibling, is pointedly apparent this year.

Andy is gone, and I sometimes have moments where I think "Was he ever really here?". It feels like something that happened to someone else, and I am only an observer. Passively absent from it all.

But then, I have also had moments where the light will catch one of my son's face in such a way, or the angle is just so, and I will see my brother in that face. Looking back at me from some place I never knew existed, but full of joy that it does.

So yes, this year I feel the loss more than I have done before, but it is only because I now see that he lives on in some way through my own children.

Andy would like that. I just wish I could tell him, or better yet, let him see it for himself.

This is not to be though, and so I must remain content with the reminders.

Fresh Water....

2006-09-29T09:42:00.001-07:00

So, a few weeks ago we went up to Lake Tahoe and rented a cabin for the weekend. This time we actually stayed in something that could be called a "cabin". It had a bathroom, a bedroom, and lots of wood panelling.

Tahoe really is a gem in California's crown. I feel privileged to spend time up there. The stunningly blue water commands attention and admiration. Surrounded by mountains that still have snow at the tops in September, the lake reflects the sky and reminds you that real beauty exists outside of the human experience.

Too bad it's so frickin' cold that you can't swim in the thing though.

I swear, it's like putting your feet in the North Sea. The photo above (yet another example of how my wife can take far better photos than me) while romantic and one of my favorites ever caught on film belies the reality that poor little Lachlan didn't know what hit his little toes. It wasn't too bad at ankle deep, but deeper than that, pfft.....it was popsicle city. Mind you, our dog didn't care. We couldn't get him out of the water, but then again he is a Labrador and so, doesn't know any better.

We stayed up on the north shore, which is ....ahem....where the natives go to. That south shore is for the tourists. ANYWAY, there is a hike up to the top of this mountain that is worth the trek. Heather is a big fan of views, and man, there were views a plenty. The camera sometimes can not capture all that you see, but only reminds us that we were there.

On the Saturday we took this cable-car, gondola thingy up to the top of Squaw Valley. It's great that they still keep this place open in the summer because the hiking up there is fantastic. There is a surreal aspect to it though as you are hiking about in the summer sun with ski lifts all around you. They sit lonely and unused, just waiting for the winter.

Ah, the poor little buggers. I have to consistently remind myself that we take them out on these trips to somehow influence their subconcious and expose them to a variety of experiences, but sometimes I think they'd rather just be at home playing with their toys and spitting up on the carpet.

On the last day we were there we took a 5 mile hike up to the top of a ridgeline. The promise of a mountain lake at the summit made it seem like an ideal pursuit, but it proved to be a pretty steep 1,500 foot upclimb. There was indeed a lake at the top, and the scenery was the wild California chaparral forest I love so much, but man, those packs proved heavy. The boys are getting bigger, and what used to be ambling day hikes before they were born are now more like military marches since we now strap them on our backs.

California. It has been very good to me indeed.

Jim Henson???

2006-09-20T10:04:00.001-07:00

Why is it that everyone says I look like Jeff Daniels, but he is nowhere to be found on this collage. What's with Kirk Hammett anyway? I hardly look like that goofy Metallica guy in the first place.

David Schwimmer? Oh dear. You don't see a lot of swooning over that guy.

Ferndale 2006

2006-09-15T09:28:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago we made the trip up north to Ferndale, CA to see some friends of ours. It's a quite a lengthy journey and takes 6 hours to get there. 6 hours in a car with two 6 month olds, a dog, and a heck of amount of gear is a fair challenge, but we did it. Heather and I are like that. It's funny though, because if you travel 6 hours from one end of the UK to the other you'll cover about half of the entire island. Incredible that it only gets you to another part of the state here in Cali.

We were meeting up with Chris and Randi. Chris is an old pal of mine from high school, and regardless that he lives pretty far from me, he still is in the same state, so we had to go see him. Not to mention that his wife is due to give birth virtually anyday now, so time was of the essence before they have far too much to deal with and won't be able to entertain the veritable circus that is my family.

As Chris and Randi live in an apartment, Heather and I decided to rent a "cabin". The word "cabin" sounds very romantic indeed, however, the reality of ours was one that looked like it was picked up at IKEA and put together in about 4 hours. Don't get me wrong, it had heat and was pretty solid, but let's just say space was at a premium. The picture above was taken in front of our only window. We had two portable cribs, Heather and I, and our dog in this place. It was like a cave. I felt like a caveman sleeping amongst my clan. That was pretty cool.

ANYWAY, I've been wanting to visit Chris for some time now as he is working at this remote recording studio which he has told me a lot about. It sounded intriguing. A proper studio stuck out in the back and beyond of California. I imagined some small-ish operation that catered to Humboldt County hippy rockers.........but man, was I wrong. In short, I've never seen anything quite like it. Let's put it this way, I'm sure if The Rolling Stones were sent here to record their next album they wouldn't mind at all. This place was rocknroll heaven. More to follow below.

Randi and Chris (plus my progeny) on their balcony. They live right on main street in Ferndale. It is a town that time has left behind and Hollywood pines for. Incredibly charming, strikingly quaint, and an amazing representation of old California coastal towns. The place is so friggin' far from anything that it has the extra bonus of few tourists. You feel as if you've stumbled upon a place that is secreted away from the world. You see that little blue building behind Randi? That's a PUBLIC restroom. When is the last time you saw one of those anywhere?

Chris in the studio he works in. I wanted to post all of the pictures I took in this place, but there are far too many. The studio is basically a mansion that has been fitted out as a recording space. Every room was designed with specific instruments in mind. There are individual rooms for guitars, drums, etc., each one conducive to that particular instruments acoustics. They have an in-house chef on hand everyday, a lounge that would not look out of place in Trump tower, grand pianos everywhere, and when Chris showed me how every single room was wired to be used as a potential recording space which included the multiple bathrooms, I pretty much just gave up on being impressed and moved into being overwhelmed. When I asked Chris how much this place cost to put together and fit out, he paused for a moment and said, "Oh, I dunno man, lots of millions". Considering that the main engineering sound board in the place cost 3 million alone, I'm sure he was being conservative.

A surplus of guitars are kept on hand in case the recording musicians suddenely feel the urge to incorporate a rare Les Paul into the session. I almost passed out when he showed me this room. When I asked Chris if I could possibly play just one of them he simply replied "These guitars are meant for playing, play them all if you want". Thanks Chris. I could only get through about 3 of the damn things before my head was spinning. A twelve string electric Rickenbacker? Hello? I felt weak in the knees.

We finally moved on from the Shangri-La of all recording studios and on to the beach. North West beaches are all relatively the same. Sorta cold, sorta windy, and make you feel that you are somewhere wild and rugged. It ain't Florida that's for sure. Our pooch pictured above would probably want to stay there forever if we didn't drag him back to the car. What is it with dogs and beaches? I guess it's the same as it is with people and beaches. They simply captivate.

Heather and I with the little fellas, but heck, they don't seem so little anymore. Although they will never directly remember weekends like this, I hope in some form that things like sleeping in cabins, waking up to cool forest air, and the feel of the salty wind across their faces leave an imprint on them. In even the smallest way, I hope it helps shape who they become.

Clear....

2006-08-16T08:30:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago Ken, Chris and I rode up to Reno for the weekend on the bikes. It took about 6 hours and is around a 250 mile ride or so. Therefore, a respectable journey to undertake on two wheels. Particularly because we had to stop every 75 miles to fill up my puny 2.4 gallon tank.

Rides of this kind are a big reason I like motorcycling in the first place. Everything you need for the weekend is strapped onto the bike, and for the next couple days, it's just you, the motorbike, and the wind. Having good friends along is the capper.

We passed through the gorgeous northern California countryside, cruised around the east shore of Lake Tahoe, and then navigated our way through the wind tunnel that is the Nevada high desert. It was during this part that we went through Carson City, NV. A strange place indeed. Very hot, very inhospitable to human habitation, and full of strip malls. Strip malls in the desert seem odd and somehow sad. Perhaps David Lynch created the whole town as a movie set and then split, only to have people move in and attempt to live there. I was happy to see the back of the place.

Anyhow, I digress.

If you put all the trappings of riding aside, the main reason I have found motorcycling to be so incredibly appealing is that for those few precious moments when I am on the bike, on an open road, and there is no one around me, I can finally get some thinking done. Some clear thinking.

It seems to be a combination of the rushing wind against your face, the constant hum of the engine, the surrounding landscape, and the speed as you move across the world. Unlike a car, which is self-contained, and you view the outside through a framed window, on a motorbike the frame is gone. You are there in the landscape. Not viewing it. It's at this point that my mind slows down its to-ing and fro-ing. Like the sea settling at a low tide. It's odd that it happens this way. It's tangible and I can feel my mind change the way it's working. I welcome it. I love this feeling, and yet if I become too aware of it, and start to hold on too tight, it will slip away. I just have to let it happen. It too seems to ebb and flow like a tide.

I think about the boys a lot. I think about Heather. I think about family I suppose. Not work, or mortgages, or things like these. Just family really, and how blessed I am to have them all. I see my wife's face, my boy's faces, very clearly. How they smile, or a certain profile of theirs that makes my heart swell.

Perhaps, what I think about and feel, is love. Love in its true definition. A love that encompasses family, friends, life, and the privilege it is to be here in the first place.

Nothing else really matters. It's just strange that I recognize this on two wheels at 70 miles an hour.

Work those muscles boys!

2006-08-14T09:04:00.000-07:00

Top shot is of Finn, bottom of Lachlan.

Poor wee Lachie though. His head is so darn big that you have to apply a mathematical equation to it. Works like this:

Head + Gravity = Gravity wins

When he pushes himself up you can see him really straining. Like some infant work out. With every push upwards he starts breathing hard, and then gravity will eventually win out and pull that noggin of his downwards. He's getting it though. It's cool to see the progress.

I believe mobility is just around the corner for the two of them. Oh boy.

Props to my better half...

2006-07-24T12:17:00.000-07:00

Right. So, I did a photojournalism degree in college. I sweated for 5 years to get the thing, and what do I have to show for it? Well, I work in engineering and my wife takes far better photos than I do.

So, not much.

I mean, to me the photos below are great. Put a camera in Heather's hands and she produces these gems. I'm humbled.

Finn never ceases to smile when you hold him up like this. Plus, it never ceases to put that dorky look on my face either.

Everytime I look at this photo of Lachlan it makes my heart twinge just a bit.

Truly, I am a blessed man.

Fatherhood in a single photo...

2006-07-18T08:14:00.000-07:00

I am convinced that this pretty much sums up what it is like to be a new dad.

Tired, somewhat perplexed, and left hanging with half a bowl of Rice Krispies on a way too early Saturday morning.

Yep,.....that's pretty much it.

World Cup Fever...

2006-07-17T07:55:00.000-07:00

This is late in coming for sure, but I already miss the World Cup and needed a reminder of it. Tell me a game that brings more countries together for one sporting event. American football? Baseball?

Nope.

Soccer really is the only international game that truly can lay claim to a series of matches that can be called the "World" cup. The soccer behomeths like Germany, Brazil, and Argentina are ever-present during World Cups, but it's the little guys I like to watch more. The US, Japan, Australia, etc. These teams are playing with their hearts because they want to win no matter how elusive that win may be.

Usually, once the semi-finals start I lose my zeal a bit. It's really the beginning knock-out stages that are more dramatic. You have all these underdogs that might just make it through if they are the better team on the day. Then again, it's hard to beat drama like Zidane's headbutt. That's another story though.

I was sorry to see the US tumble down like they did. Myself, just like many others, after watching the US performance in 2002 thought that maybe we have a chance to be a world-class team. Maybe we do, but after our recent round of matches, maybe we were just really lucky in 2002. We sure as hell had an easier table to get through back then. Ah well.

In the photo of above, we're all wearing England shirts. Since the boys are half-English you gotta support that stuff. Plus, I love the English squad. They just manage to break my heart everytime. We took this shot at 6:00 a.m. on England's opening day this World Cup. In the end, England broke my heart once more. Sigh.

Anyway, I look forward to the next one. The boys will be 4 years old by then. Wierd.

By the way, extra street-cred/punk rock points for you if you got the Air Miami reference in the title of this entry.

Phew.....

2006-07-12T17:00:00.000-07:00

Well, we're finally all back to relative health and happiness.

The illness chain of reaction formula worked liked this:

Croup + Lachlan(Finn + Heather + Me) = Domestic Misery

All 4 of us being ill combined to create a powerful index of sickness hell. No one slept for 5 days straight. The boys would wake up every two hours or so crying. We'd stumble into their room all blurry eyed, feably try to get them back to sleep and then stumble back into our room only to have the other kid wake up and start the whole process 20 minutes later. It was like a tag team coached by Beelzebub himself.

Slowly, slowly things got better. They're back to sleeping now, which means we're back to sleeping now. It was just one of those parental experiences we'll have to re-live again and again I'm sure. Ah well.

You see this picture above? This was taken during the previous week when we were existing like the living dead. I'm not actually looking down at Finn lovingly, I'm actually nodding off into oblivion.

But at least I'm wearing a Helmet shirt. Old school punk mixes with sick fathers real well.

Sick boy....

2006-06-27T08:29:00.000-07:00

Last Monday we had a 12:46 a.m. wake-up call.

I assure you, we didn't set the alarm clock for this time. It was Lachlan who got us up. We awoke to the sound of.......what can best be described as a seal barking because someone is stepping on its tail or something. A really, grumpy seal.

I've never heard anything quite like it. Heather rushed into the boys' room and picked him up. Earlier that evening he had been showing signs of some kind of sickness, but we took his temperature and figured we'd just ride out the night and see what happens in the morning.

Wrong. The spectre of infant malady had other ideas.

Heather handed Lachlan to me. I held him up and remember pale moonlight flooding the room. I looked into his face. He was honking like a goose and the worst part was that it seemed he couldn't catch his breath or get any air inside his lungs. Like he was choking or something.

It's at these moments that all of the day-to-day pressures and the general "this parenting stuff is hard" tiredness simply disappears. Suddenly, it was GAME ON. I recall a surge of energy washed over me, and feeling somewhat objective and detached as well. I wasn't panicking, only determined. Like some kind of suburban superhero ready to face the foe of whatever had grabbed onto my son. The battleground was inside our 3 bed/2 bath corner lot house, and damned if I wasn't going to win.

"Let's take him to the emergency room", I said. That was it. I threw on some clothes (the weird part was I remember thinking about what shirt I should wear, I really do suck sometimes), put him in the car, and off we went to the hospital. Just my son and I. On a very early Monday morning we drove together. I listened for his breathing the entire way there.

Emergency rooms are bright. Bright areas of the reality that sometimes the human body fails us, or we fail it. Dates and time do not live in emergency rooms. ERs exist on their own terms independant of the outside world, and although they're kind of scary, you also feel like you are in the right place. Things get fixed here. I needed to fix my son.

I went to sign in. The nurse asked me questions. I declared "My 4 month old is having difficulty breathing". That seemed enough to move us straight in. However, there wasn't anyone really in the ER anyway. Take your punk rock potshots at living in the suburbs, but when it comes to medical care and treating little babies in the middle of the night, I'd rather be where I'm at now versus back in San Francisco or London. A late night visit to an emergency room in a big city? No thanks, I'll pass.

The doctor came to see us. He looked at Lachlan for a few moments. Listened to his weird-ass barking, and promptly declared it was Croup. Croup. Even the word makes me kind of sick. It's a sickly word. Apparently it's not unusual in infants and easily treated. The quick diagnosis was a relief. You want the medical community to be able to efficiently point to what is wrong and say "that is it, we will fix it now".

And they did. They gave him various medicines. They did what they needed to do via shots and stethoscopes. He lay on a giant bed as nurses passed their busy hands over his body. They cooed over him. Said he was beautiful. I agreed in a "gee thanks" kind of way, but inside I confirmed that they were completely correct. He is beautiful. There was something about looking down at my boy as he lay there sick and slightly whimpering that charged my heart. It overfilled with how much I love this little character that I've only known for a few months.

We were discharged a few hours later and at 4 a.m. as we drove home I felt.....I don't know.......at peace I guess. It was an emotional experience, but we got through it. I realized that these times are what parenting is all about. Forget all of the surface trappings, it's simply about taking care of your children.

At 4:15 a.m. we were home. I walked inside and put him in his mother's arms. She gently sighed to him and put him back into his crib to sleep.

Marquis De Sade now designs baby stuff

2006-06-13T07:58:00.000-07:00

So these Baby Bjorn sling baby carrier things are all the rage now. You can't flip through a magazine without seeing some star couple sporting one with their baby ensconced in it. They look happy, the baby looks happy.

That's probably because they have tons of cash to pay for the chiropractor bills, which will certainly come later.

For us flunkies who fall prey to such trends (such as myself) I am taking this space to warn you not to buy these back wrenching baby toters. My wife and I spent a lot of time hiking and camping before the boys were born. Now that they're getting a bit bigger we are starting to do day hikes again. It's nice. You know, doing this kind of stuff as a family makes parenting seem pretty cool. We walk along these trails in gorgeous northern California countryside. We have our boys with us. Our dog runs up ahead. For those moments, all seems well with the universe.

Until the frickin' muscle spasms kick in from the unholy Baby Bjorn.

I mean, I should have been dubious about the design from the beginning. All of the baby's weight is carried on the front supported by these two flimsy straps in the back??? Holy cow, some Swedish designer is cackling all the way to the bank to deposit the far too many Euros (Is Sweden using the Euro yet? I can't remember) he made from us trendy suckers. I'm going out and getting one of those baby backpack things ASAP. I will then burn the Baby Bjorn in a ritual ceremony of "Reclamation Of Common Sense".

You see that look on my face in the photo? That's not a smile, it's a grimace.

Sucker

2006-05-31T15:37:00.000-07:00

I used to hate all that cutesy-poo behavior that parents exhibit with their children. Case in point would be doing things like putting sunglasses on newborns. It just seemed fairly goofy.

But..........

I've fallen prey to it now that I have children of my own. It's just kinda funny to watch them when they're wearing these things. They sort of look around in slow motion wonder. Clearly their brains are registering something has changed with their field of vision and they react by these somewhat dazed looks. It's funny for me and they seem to enjoy it.

Plus, sunglasses on babies are a heck of a lot cooler than.....I dunno.....Mickey Mouse clothes and stuff like that. I'll continue to resist that for as long as possible.

Decibels Gone Wild...

2006-05-24T09:28:00.000-07:00

Have you ever heard a baby cry? I don't mean a cooing, vaguely dissatisfied cry, but a full-on wail?

It commands attention.

Now, try TWO babies blaring their lungs out at the same time. Extra bonus points for misery if they are your own children. Their stereo howling goes right into your gut, and your heart.

I was looking after both boys by myself yesterday. It was a cacophany of unparalleled noise. Whenever they start rocknrolling with the crying gig I run between the two of them frantically trying to placate their cries. I'll soothe one, and move onto the other only to have the boy I just soothed start all over again.

It usually ends in tears. Mine.

I imagine it must look rather comical to an outsider to see me running to and fro while these two babies are declaring their unhappiness. I'm sure I look like an idiot.

The thing is though is that nature seems to have designed it this way. Crying forces you to want to do something about it. Anything. With the volume my kids produce sometimes you'd think the world is ending, or that they are in some dire pain. The reality is they probably just have a poopy diaper.

I'll tell you what, the silence that follows a serious round of wailing is the sweetest moment. At that point, all seems right with the universe once again.

Nature is a clever thing. Its cleverness sometimes kicks my ass though.

A strange kind of sightseeing...

2006-05-17T08:46:00.000-07:00

I was in Seattle all last week with work. It was hectic and poor Heather was alone with the boys for an entire 6 days. I had to go up there though, so off I went.

Last Friday a colleague and I finished the day early and decided to do some sightseeing. I suggested going to the place in the above photo. It is, in fact, Bruce Lee's grave. His son is buried right next to him. I wasn't sure if my colleague would be game. I mean, going to a cemetary isn't exactly everyone's idea of a good time, but I think he was just glad to get out and about. It gave us something to do aside from going to that dopey Space Needle.

I had been to the Lee family grave a couple of years ago, but I wanted to see it again. For all the years I have stuck with martial arts, it is a kind of personal Hajj I guess. Certainly I am not the most accomplished martial artist out there by any measure, but I've put about 20 years of my life into these pursuits, so it is part of who I am. I really cringe when people talk about martial arts though. It wears a bit of a dorky face at times. I try to keep my zeal to myself therefore. It's a personal thing that I don't wear on my sleeve.

Bruce Lee however......now there was a real icon. He transcended racial, national, and martial arts boundaries with incredible success. Regardless of whether someone does martial arts or not, everyone knows the guy. He had charisma, vision, and dedication in spades.

How this ties into the theme of my journal is relatively simple. As a young boy I watched a fair amount of TV as young boys do. I can remember from a very early age, maybe 7 or 8, catching one of Bruce Lee's films. I can't recall the film, but I recall the moment. For reasons I can't explain I was drawn in as a moth to a flame. His mere presence captivated me. That feeling resonated throughout my youth. I was drawn to Asia. Eventually it would draw me to live in Japan for 3 years as well.

Now, here's the part I think about from time to time. It was in Japan where I met my wife, and it was with my wife that we now have our two boys. Considering that Bruce Lee stands as my initial catalyst into an interest in Asia and marked the beginning of my path that would lead me to Japan, perhaps I do feel some kind of gratitude to this man that I never met.

Granted, I won't dramatically say that all of these things can be defined so simply. There were many other factors that led me to martial arts, an interest in Asia, and an eventual residency there, but certainly Bruce Lee factored into it.

So, the least I can do is go and pay my respects to this person. Clearly, I am one of thousands to do so, and my little journey there seems a bit corny, but whatever, it was good to go.

As a parent, I am keen to expose my children to some of the same interests I hold. I would be overjoyed if they showed an interest in learning Kung-Fu or any other martial arts. It would be something we could share together. It would feel as if this part of my life had come full-circle in some ways. I remind myself though that they might not be into it at all. That's fine as well. These are just thoughts that go through my head.

I do wonder who will be the icons of my children though? Aside from the obvious parental component that is ever-present in their lives, who will influence their paths?

Which face on the screen will ignite something that already rests within?

What will be the soundtrack to their lives?

2006-05-11T14:47:00.000-07:00

How will I ever explain to the boys the importance of having the entire collection of The Chemical Brothers discography, or why Husker Du's "New Day Rising" is something to be honored?

Will they understand it? Or will they look at me with rolled eyes and a sigh usually reserved for adults when they attempt to get hip with youth?

I think about this quite a bit. Music, punk rock, and all that came with it was pretty much the foundation on what I built my adolescence on. The trickle-down effect into my adult life is certainly noticeable. While there has been obvious (and necessary) temperance in my zeal towards living with a punk rock heart, it still pounds within me. The naive edge is gone and has been replaced with a somewhat wiser world view, but it is part of my grain.

So, I wonder, what will my boys grain be?

I have far too many CDs in my house right now. As I write this, Fugazi's entire work sits next to Firehose, and Leftfield is hanging out with Led Zeppelin. My music collection is not a vast one compared to others, but it's healthy enough and lives like a secret treasure in two wooden cabinets handmade in India. Finn and Lachlan sometimes lie on the floor in front of them.

I look forward to the day when I can begin to pull out some of this music for them. For example, the anticipation of explaining the brilliance of Pulp's "Common People" is a thing I look forward to greatly. However, will it all be lost on them? I can remember looking through my father's music collection when I was young. I was drawn in by his LPs, but somehow his Boz Scaggs, ELO, and gospel stuff never took hold.

Will it be the same with my children? Will they look at these musical touchstones of my life as mere dinosaurs? Relics of the past that have no relevance to them now? Or will some of it seep into their conciousness resulting in a "Yeah Dad, this stuff rocks!!" confirmation.

I suppose it doesn't really matter though if they get into Mudhoney, The Verve, or Death Cab for Cutie. I just want them to find music as important as I did. Who knows what songs and styles will sing to this generation's soul? It could be radically different than what I was into, and perhaps it will be just as confounding to me as my love of punk rock was to my parents, but I just hope that the sirens of music are strong enough to pull my boys into shore. It happened to me, and it was music that guided me through life many times. More times than I probably realize.

So yeah, forget the genre, I simply desire music to be a part of who they become and I hope to be one of the aural navigators that leads them there.

It would be cool if they got into Naked Raygun though, and they better like The Pogues no matter what.

Kids don't like facial hair

2006-04-21T16:00:00.000-07:00

So, about 4 weeks before the boys were born I decided to stop shaving. I liked the superstitious angle to it. As if somehow me growing what amounted to a scraggly beard would somehow ensure a safe birthing experience.

Well, everthing turned out fine in the end and the kids were born healthy, but after that I was stuck in an endless loop of superstition. "If I shave now then something will go wrong" or "If I shave now, maybe they won't recognize me".

Or maybe I was just lazy.

Anyway, I finally decided to shave the darn thing off before the naming ceremony so that many years from now Lachlan and Finn won't be subjected to the horror (or the humor) of having to look at me doing my best Grizzly Adams. I can recall looking at photos of my father when I was a child with his big ol' handlebar mustache, and although it probably seemed like a cool idea to him at the time, they would just sent me into peals of laughter.

Me: "Dad! Check that out! That thing is sooooo seventies!"

Dad: "Shut up kid."

Plus, I don't think Heather was so keen on the beard, and I noticed that everytime I would go to kiss the boys they would get fidgety and uncomfortable. Both of these factors created a powerful index for cutting the whole business away.

So, it's a bit anti-climatic as I've already razored my face, but I wanted to pay homage to my one manly attempt at sporting a beard.

Paying homage to a beard? Weird. Ah well......

All hail facial hair.

Naming

2006-04-18T10:24:00.000-07:00

This past weekend on April, 15 we held a "naming ceremony" for the boys. As Heather and I belong to a local Unitaritan Universalist church, it made sense that we hold something like this event there. The ceremony went fantastic. The godparent's speeches were all very complementary, and dare I say, touching. Our minister did an excellent job of bringing everyone into the moment, and injected sincerity into a ceremony that can often be dry as dirt.

I am not a Christian. Although I was raised one, somewhere along the way in my life Christianity's tune no longer caught my ear. I don't decry it. I don't look down on it. It's just not for me any longer. However, I have an undeniable belief in what I can best describe as "the great mystery" or "the divine". In the most convenient terms, I believe.

At the risk of sounding pompous, I have found my own way and am comfortable in my own faith. Therefore, it was important to mark my son's birth with ritual. In a Joseph Campbell way, I believe in the power of ritual within society. It seems to be fading away within recent years and anything that smacks of spirituality or religion seems more like a hobby nowadays. It is a loss lamentable and consequently drove me to incorporate it within my own life. So, we had our ritual.

The foundation of baptism or christenings is to wash the sin from a baby. I can not give myself to believe that a newborn has anything sinful attached to it, so our ceremony, our ritual, was merely one to recognize these boys as they are, and to celebrate love that brings us all together. If only briefly.

The party afterwords was fab as well. We are blessed with friendship.

Heather pouring the champers.

Derek and Kate. Derek had the best line of the day when after holding a very sleepy Finn for a while, looked up and said "This baby is boring". Brilliant man. Truth be told, at 2 a.m. the babies are not so boring, and very different adjectives apply.

Beerage. It helps with changing diapers.

Misty, motherhood becomes you.

(Thanks to Ted L. for all of these photos. They rock pal.)

Hibernation.....

2006-04-06T10:37:00.000-07:00

Time has passed enough for me to write and think about this in a more settled way.

About 7 weeks ago, just two days after the boys were released from the hospital and sent home, Heather and I had to put Finn back into the hospital. It was bad. Real bad.

When we first brought both boys home initally all was well. Yeah, there was the expected "freak-out" of suddenely being completely in charge of these two babies on our own and without the constant attention of nurses, but we actually felt more relieved to be away from all of that. Hospitals are fairly intense places to begin with, and it was more comfortable to be at home surrounded by familiarity.

On the following Tuesday we were scheduled to meet with our doctor for a regular check-up. The boys up to this time seemed fine, so we loaded them into the car and off we went.

Arriving at the doctor's office we went in, and it was all smiles and "Getting any sleep?" kind of good-natured banter. We had met with him everyday in the hospital previously so this was meant to be just a routine visit.

As he began examining Finn he suddenely became very quiet, and very serious. The mood changed on a dime.

"This boy is very cold" he said somberely.

He quickly took off Finn's clothes and felt his chest. He asked me to feel it as well. It was like ice. A thermometer reading was taken and it couldn't register a reading.....at all. Finn was breathing and moving a bit, but he didn't look good at this point. Heather and I exchanged anxious glances.

"I want to put him back into the hospital" the doctor said, and then added the parting shot of "Maybe we should call an ambulance".

There are moments in life when you are hearing words, and your brain takes them in, but the import of them is almost too much to process correctly. We listened, but did not believe.

It was decided that us taking him directly would be faster than waiting for an ambulance, so we loaded both boys back into the car and drove to the nearest hospital. It was a drive unlike any other I have ever done. I was behind the wheel, I was driving, but I was a million miles away. In a place I did not know existed. A place I never wish to return to.

They rushed Finn into Pediatric care. Nurses flew around us doing things I can't remember, but when they finally got his temperature I felt like the world had stopped.

He was 89 degrees. 89 degrees. The normal body temperature of a human is 98.

Clothes were stripped off, multiple blankets were wrapped around him, an IV was put in, and they placed him under heat lamps. They were able to stabilize him, but the aura of doctorly concern was thick around us.

For four days I lived with Finn in this hospital. I slept on a cot. I read him King Arthur. I cried a lot.

Heather would visit in the day as she still had to look after Lachlan. We moved through these days as if a blanket of worry was suffocating us. Every test under the sun was conducted on Finn. No conclusive answers were given. He didn't move much and rarely opened his eyes. Although his temperature was back to 98, he just didn't seem well. My heart was breaking with every beep on the LCD that he was connected to.

One day I went home to pick up Heather. I walked through the parking lot to the car and had to sincerely muster the strength to put one foot in front of the other.

Towards the end of the third day Finn began to rouse. He looked better. He was eating. He was pooping. When he finally opened his eyes and looked around for the first time for more than a few seconds I just cried and said to him "Where have you been boy, where have you been?"

In the end the official diagnosis was simply: "We don't know why this happened. It's just something that can occur with babies and especially twins." It seemed flimsy. We wanted to have something to point to. To say that it happened because of a definable problem, a problem which we will now fix. I guess life just can't be compartmentalized all the time, even when we want it to the most.

They took him off the heaters, and after he was able to regulate his core temperature by himself for a full 24 hours, we were given the OK to take him home. It was the sweetest, purest day. Even more than the first time we brought him home.

This little boy had knocked on death's door. It never opened and instead our parental love poured in. I discovered a burning love that took a near-tragedy to ignite. Strange.

I can certainly say that we watched Finn like hawks after that. Taking his temperature every few hours with the slightest deviation in a reading making us pause.

All is well now. We'll never really know why this all happened. All we know is that our son is safe, and for a few weeks afterwords we probably had the warmest house in the state. I don't think the thermostat ever went below 70 degrees.

Photos.........

2006-04-05T11:29:00.000-07:00

Future philosophers

Some very suspicious looks from the crib.

Nana Gail bathing young Finn. His first bath.

Grandma Joan with the boys while still in hospital. They look incredibly small compared to the Michelin Men they've since become. This photo is only 7 weeks old. Incredible.

Sleep = Commodity

2006-03-31T14:01:00.000-08:00

I'm running on about 5 and a half hours of sleep per night. I've never been the strongest sleeper either. I used to have to lie in bed for a good 20 or 30 minutes before drifting off.

But now I could sleep on shards of glass if given half a chance.

It's interesting in a way. I'm sort of learning a new skill and am amazed at how the body can adapt to any situation. Somehow, I'm getting through the day on this minimal rest and still manage to get stuff done at work.

Unfortunately, I remain a grumpy bastard in the morning. This causes much chagrin with Heather who has to put up with it. On numerous occasions while sitting with one of the boys at 6 a.m. bleary eyed and half delirious, I will spout out a declaration that I think I'm getting sick.

Heather replies that she feels she is too, but instead of getting sick in a physical she probably means she's getting sick of my cranky-ass. This is a fair comment considering that she gets about 3 to 4 hours of sleep in one stretch max. I'm surprised she hasn't karate-chopped me yet when I go on about how tired I am.

Anyway, I keep having to remind myself that this isn't permanent. Eventually the boys will start sleeping through the night.

Right now that seems like some impossible event. Like winning the lottery or being an astronaut or something. My mind reels at the very thought of actually going to bed at night and waking up in the morning without interruption.

I fantasize about it from time to time. If someone invented some kind of gadget or product that enabled babies to sleep through the night from the day of birth, then that person would be a gazillionaire.

But through it all, Lachlan and Finn will do things that sweetly distract me from my slumbering state. We bathed them last night. There is something undeniably enjoyable about bathing your child. The way they enjoy the warm water, and the soft murmurs they make as you pass the soapy suds over their bodies.

Without sounding weird about it, seeing them completely naked is compelling. For the one reason that this is how you first saw them when they entered this world and our lives.

These moments pull you back into the warmth of parenting. It would just be easier if sleep wasn't such a commodity.

Ol' Faithful

2006-03-29T16:10:00.000-08:00

So, I get about 4 ounces of formula down Finn this morning.

He looks up at me, gazing contentedly, and I congratulate myself on a successful feeding. All seems well with the universe.

This momentary bliss is interrupted by an ungodly stream of the aforementioned formula returning back to me in a streaming fountain right out of his mouth. I don't mean a little bit of upchuck, but the mothership of all upchuck. It should be made into a noun and capitalized to The Upchuck.

I stare down at the mess as it spreads across my chest, my legs, the sofa.

I then look at Finn. He stares back like "What's the big deal?"

This has been going on for a couple of weeks ago, and the worst part is that when it happens, it only happens when I feed him. Guh-reat.

So, we see the doctor today for the boys' scheduled check-up. He asks "Does it happen every feeding?"

"No, only when I feed him", I reply somewhat sheepishly.

"Well then, you're gonna have to feed him slower."

I have to admit, I'm relieved. At least it's not something wrong with him. Both boys weigh over 10 pounds already and are growing well. This Exorcist-like vomiting has been disconerting to say the least.

Sorry Finn, I'm learning as we go pal.

Navigation.........

2006-03-28T16:07:00.000-08:00

You can read all the books you want. Heather and I did. We read a lot of them.

You can talk to people who already have kids for hours about their own experiences raising children. We did this too.

But, NOTHING really prepares you for what happens. It's so personal. So individual.

When I first looked down at my sons when they were born I knew that a new chapter was starting. It was such a clear moment, and my life crystallized right then.

From one day to the next, my world was turned right around. In a matter of hours, many things were different. Some would remain the same, but many would not. The responsibility factor was undeniable. Up until this point I had never been responsible for sustaining a life, or lives as the case may be, aside from my own.

Man, did that ever change.

Changing diapers? Had no idea up until then. Feeding a baby? No clue. HOLDING a baby? Nope. Some things are learned quickly by necessity.

I remember that Finn went almost 3 days without having a poop. We became anxious despite reassurances from our doctor. When the day finally arrived and his diaper was unveiled to show a concoction of green goo, Heather and I were doing high-fives.

I've never been so happy to see crap in all my life.

Whoever said that baby poop doesn't smell, doesn't have babies though.

These are the kinds of things I had no experience or concept of how to deal with. Yeah, we have read the books and take advice from others, but never before have I felt like such a navigator in uncharted seas.

Sometimes when I look down on my boys while they sleep in their crib it feels like the sweetest arrow has pierced me through the heart........

Birth

2006-03-28T16:01:00.000-08:00

On February 15, 2006 Heather and I became parents.

We became parents to twin boys.

Lachlan Stephen Brockway Huegel was born at 5:19 p.m. and weighed 6.8 lbs

Finn Andrew Brockway Huegel followed a minute later at 5:20 and was a bruising 7 lbs even

This site is for them. It's also for me.