They Said You was High Class

Max likes to dance. What that means is, we go into his room, put Max on my shoulders, pop in some Elvis (how he knows who Elvis is is a much longer post, fine by me, and mostly Kelli's fault) and jump around. Used to be, you could throw in anything: Elvis, Talking Heads, James Brown, Beck was ok for awhile, and Max would be fine up there, bouncing around. Slowly, he became more discerning, until we got it down to a couple of songs: Jonathan Richman's all-time ass-kicker, "Roadrunner" and the Elvis (coughcoughBigMommaThortoncoughcough) classic. The other day, Max and I had this amazing conversation in front of the boom box. I was about to put in Disc 1 of an Elvis box set. Disc one is mostly Sun Studio recordings, early stuff, before evil Colonel Parker came on the scene and E went all poppy. Disc 1 is fairly raw stuff.

I'm putting the disc in and Max pipes up, "Different."

"What, Max?"

"Different. Disc. Elvis."

"You want me to put in a different Elvis disc?"

"Different. Elvis. Disc." Emphatically, he says, "Hound Dog."

Stunned, I say, "Let me get this straight." I look him in the eye and ask, "You want me to put in a different Elvis disc, the one with "Hound Dog" on it?"

"NnnnnnnnNNnnnn," says Max.

Just so we're clear this means the boy knows which disc (they're different colors and have different pictures of Elvis on them) has Hound Dog on it. And he knew I was putting in the wrong disc. Next week, it's going to be: "Father, if you please, Pixies, Surfer Rosa, track 6, and make it snappy."

Max: Season 3

It was two years ago to the minute that our lives went kerplooie in the most spectacularly wonderful way. Happy Birthday to Max! Better than the best bike ride in North Carolina; better than the best cup of coffee in the best cup; better than a 93 Volvo 240 turbo wagon, manual transmission, with air conditioning that works and fewer than 100k miles, driven by grandma at take-it-off-my-hands-pricing; better than michaladas and pescadillas on Playa La Ropa; better than the Kahlua pig omelet at the Hawaiian Style Cafe, Waimea, Big Island; better than Soul Coughing, 7th St Entry, November, 1995.

I was pretty sure, about 2.5 years ago, that we were screwed beyond belief; that the little bugger gestating away blissfully was going to be the embodiment of the very worst of me. There was Katie, the goddess of everything good and true in the world, to balance that out, but, still, there was a pretty heavy thumb on the wrong side of the scale thanks to my genetic input. At least, that was me, 2.5 years ago.

All I can say is, everyday, every moment I get to be with Max. . . I've just never been so glad to be so very, very wrong. Happy Birthday to my Son, Max.

Worth the Wait

Check, baby. Check, baby. Check, one, two! Hey, hey, y'all! We're back in action and, guess what? Indeed, our computer has-AH riz-ON fa-rom the dead-AH!! I've said some awful things about comatose people before because, well, they're unconscious (and could be faking) and I can. But, I gotta say, it's good to have my old friend, Mr. Glowy, sort-of-thinky, Silicon, back! Miles is happy too!

KO

Live dead computer blogging! Paramedics are gathered around our computer in the back of ambulance; IVs jammed into ports, pumping in healing data. It doesn't look good, though! The computer hears a voice and sees a light: "Cross over, children! Come into the light! All are welcome, all are welcome!" Yep, flatline, baby. So, we'll get y'all your Max and Miles fix once we're back up and running.

Traffic

I had a beaut set to go in my head: A long, winding examination of the socio-political ramifications of crack cocaine on our nation since the late Eighties to the present. And how the echoes of that epidemic have insinuated their way into almost all of our daily lives. But, really, why bore you all with that, when a picture will do?