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...which -- as we all know -- is the great Jaz Coleman's birthday. Celebrate accordingly! Smear some warpaint on your face, drink some "wines that foam," shout `til you're hoarse, upset an Icelander, leave a maggot-riddled bleeding cow's heart on an unsuspecting co-worker's desk and -- why not? -- set something on fire.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JAZ!
I just realized that the title of this post sounds worryingly like the title a transgressive porn film. Apologies for that.
It's about twenty-seven hours after that last post, and both Oliver and I are still hanging in there. Because there might be a beneficent deity after all, it actually warmed up yesterday afternoon, and O. and myself were actually afforded the opportunity to go outside, be productive, stroll around different neighborhoods and get some errands done. While in the entirely lamentable-but-convenient Babies 'R' Us on Union Square, we ran into John S. Hall, erstwhile lead singer/monologist with local snark-laden indie-rock-turned-novelty act from the 1990's, King Missile. He seemed as genuinely surprised (and maybe even a little alarmed) to be recognized in the diaper aisles as I was to be seeing him there (sporting his own little offspring in a Baby Bjorn). I was going to engage him in a discussion and remind him of how I interviewed him back in 1992, after the release of Happy Hour and how he spent the entire interview bitching about his record company and complaining about a chest cold (he autographed my copy of Mystical Shit with the inscription, "Don't Worry, I'm not Contagious"), but he looked at me as if I was wielding a pin-less hand grenade, so I just said "I'm a fan, congrats!" and left it at that.
That was about as exciting as our day got, honestly. There was a minor "laundry emergency," courtesy of little Oliver's unpredictable digestive system, but I'll spare you the details on that. Unfortunately, possibly as a result of that, Oliver could not be persuaded to fall asleep until quite late in the evening (causing much frustration for both of us). He eventually settled down around 11:30 pm, leaving me entirely spent myself. I'd been trying to enjoy Jim Jarmusch's excellent "Dead Man" (I never tire of watching this film) over the course of a few beers, but I figured I might as well throw in the towel myself. I hit the sack just before midnight, fully expecting Oliver to be up again shortly.
Mercifully, my little lad did not wake until 6:15 (still wicked early, mind you, but better than expected all the same). Despite sombre warnings from the news media about an impending winter storm (which we were supposed to get yesterday), the morning weather was fine enough for us to go outside again. There is the nagging fear that this purported storm will complicate matters for my wife's travel plans (which, quite frankly, would suck for everyone concerned). She and Charlotte are due to land this evening at 10 p.m. (right when the snow is hitting). Hopefully, there won't be any delays. I meanwhile, will be working from home this evening, orchestrating coverage of the Oscars for the Job, and hoping little Oliver doesn't keep waking up again.
Even as I type this, however, the skies outside are turning a malevolently opaque white. Up yours, Old Man Winter.
It's Saturday morning, 9:10 am, and I've already been up for four hours. For the second time in as many months, my wife has left town with my daughter to visit relatives (her sister last time, her mother this time...as it's her mother's birthday this weekend), leaving Oliver (11 months old) and I home to hold the fort. While I'd be telling a Hindenburg-sized fib if I said I didn't mind my wife leaving me -- still largely all thumbs and two left hands when it comes to child-care -- alone with the baby, I've certainly handled it before and really have no right to complain about it anyway. Both Oliver and I survived the last time, I'm sure we can do so again.
The weekend got off to an inauspicious start. As Peggy and Charlotte caught a flight to Houston yesterday, little Oliver was left in the care of a tag-team of babysitters, while I went to The Job to keep the world abreast of the latest incredibly momentous events in Britney Spears' tragically bananas life (normally I'd provide a link to the story in question, but c'mon, if you haven't heard all about it already, I can only assume that you're refreshingly above such things and do not care). I raced home around 6:15 pm last night to relieve Sitter #2 (who'd been there since noon). The first sight I was met with as I walked through our front door was grinning little Oliver -- sporting a sizable, reasonably fresh-looking goose-egg on his forehead. Somewhat predictably, Sitter #2 claimed Oliver's pinkish cranial bump was "there when she got there," passing the buck off to the conveniently absent Sitter #1 (who'd handled the 9am `til noon shift). Too tired to conduct an interrogation (though mark my words -- there will be one), I let Sitter #2 flit out to her dinner plans as I took over looking after my son.
To be fair, Oliver is a typical little boy in the sense that he is tirelessly physical, kinetic, curious and prone to bumping his little noggin against every hard surface he can find. Mercifully, he's also quite resilient. Despite his bump, his mood wasn't dampened at all (I'd almost suggest that he was proud of his wound). Still, it'd clearly been a long, strange day for the little fella, so I threw him (not literally) in the bath, gave him a bottle and put him to bed. The rest of my evening was spent eating Indian food, draining a couple of tall boys of Taj Mahal and catching two episodes of the entirely entertaining (don't laugh -- it's true) "Ladette to Lady" on the Sundance channel. I ended up closing up shop around 11 p.m. That's when the fun started.
Oliver rose repeatedly over the course of the night, waking at midnight, 1 am , 2:30 am, 4:15 am and finally for good at 5:45 am, this last point at which being when my efforts to coax him back to sleep had become entirely pointless. By 6:30 am, I was on my second cup of coffee.
Despite more hopeful earlier forecasts, it's rather face-smackingly cold out today. Feeling a bit stir-crazy (or "woodsqueer," as my wife insists on calling it) by 8:30 am, I figured a walk and some fresh-air was in order. After spending a good fifteen minutes attempting to get my son's constantly moving, flailing little limbs into his cold weather duds, we set out for what turned out to be a thoroughly unpleasant, bracing twenty minutes in the blustery cold, leaving all parties concerned irritable and perilously close to tears. We've since repaired back inside, and Oliver has thankfully gone down for a brief nap (I must rouse him by 10 am, or it'll upset the whole crucial nap rhythm of the rest of the day).
I'm already exhausted and it's still only Saturday morning.
...as I can happily report that -- contrary to rumors -- Ace Frehley is not dead!
Thank the deity of your choice for this blessed news and carry on with your day.
Hey again kids. As I said in my last post, I'm sort've busier than all get-out at the moment, but I spotted this item on my pal Erik's blog and found it fascinating. If you're a Bowiephile like myself, you'll doubtlessly be interested in reading Erik's account of this rareified bootleg of Bowie in the studio with the late, legendary Stevie Ray Vaughn during the recording of Let's Dance (arguably the last album of quality Bowie released -- I'll leave that up to you to debate) and preparing for the "Serious Moonlight" tour. As fate would have it, Vaughn never ended up touring that album with David (his tremendous shoes filled by the entirely yawnsome Earl Slick). Check out Erik's review of this bootleg -- a fleeting taste of what might have been -- by clicking hither.
This was simply too good to be true.
This is just pointless and sad, albeit entirely predicatable
And unless she's done it as a sign of solidarity with the Manson Family Girls, who the hell cares?
....she ups the ante. What an asshole!
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