“In my defense, these prison walls…they couldn’t hold anything in at all.”- Mariachi El Bronx

You take an LA punk band named after a NYC borough and have them release a Mariachi album. You know what you get? The beautiful soundtrack to my current life. With the house we bought and all that comes with it ( you see what I did there Dan?) 2009 has been a series of dervishes and small fires. But with 60% of our boxes unpacked after living here for 4 months, I’m starting feel enough of a semblance of my former self to suddenly realize…what the hell just happened?

You see the problem lies in the tiny fact that somehow I am still not in Los Angeles.

In fact, strategically, I don’t see how buying a new house get’s me closer to this goal. Add to this the fact that my wife is constantly accompanied by this man and I'm lead to believe that something might be amiss here.

I may have been outmaneuvered. I think she swept the leg.

Maybe it’s for the best. She’s only known the Henri with that chunk missing, the LA piece. She might not like the complete me that she would meet back home. I’m like Voltron minus one tiger arm. I mean let’s say we get down there and she’s like… “Wassup with that flaming sword?”

Oh I’m sorry, you didn’t know I’m Voltron?

Meh.

Our new house calls to me with endless projects. So many little bits and big bits to repair and restore. By the time we got her she was incontinent and had been through one too many abusive relationships. I’m sorry anyone let you get like this. Built in 1915 this fine girl has seen it all. She saw the country go dry during the roaring twenties, she lived through the great depression, she watched the neighborhood boys leave to fight in World War II, she welcomed as many back as she could. She watched the Fords and Chevy’s rumble through her streets in the fifties, and listened to the college kids find their voices during the sixties. She listened to disco and newro. She’s watched many families grow and move on. I want to make sure she sees some better days.

So far I’ve given her new pipes wherever I could. I’ve put in a basement drainage system to keep her dry. New electric panel and systems to put some new spark in her. We’ve taken up three generations of flooring from the kitchen and removed the old furnace chimney. The giant asbestos monster octopus in the basement is long gone…freeing up a bit of breathing room for a truly bad-ass 98% efficient, full filtration, tiny monster of a modern furnace.

The fact of the matter is…I know we’re in this house for a bit. In this place. Away from Los Angeles for an uncertain period of time. And through tendrils of slowly sinking roots I hang on tight to the flickering hope that my first girl will continue to wait for me. It might be longer than I had believed, but every year or so I have to remind myself, and her, that one day I’ll be back.

So to make a long story short, that’s the reason why you hear Mariachi El Bronx coming from my pants every time you see me. I‘m just homesick.

People think it’s my ringtone.

Sorry bro, it’s my theme music. I’ll turn it off when I’m done.

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The Pope of Dirty Thirties

That’s odd. Yeah I’m sitting here in my living room and it’s oh…10 am and I’m all alone. I don’t work Mondays and the kids are in preschool and the wife, she got called in to work today to sub out another doc. And I’m thinking to myself…when in the hell was the last time I had a day to myself?

Damn. Maybe 4 or 5 years?

I mean don’t get me wrong, I’m kinda into this parenting/husbandry thing. But I’m sitting here in my living room with the leftover bone piece of a giant cowboy steak from the night before, a 7-11 cup filled with ice and black coffee, and I’m watching the Pope of Greenwich Village.

A giant steakbone, big gulp sized superblack iced-coffee, couch, empty morning, and the Pope of Greenwich Village.

I just had to repeat it again.

And in the middle of all this grace, I have to figure out what to do with the entire rest of the day.

This is good. Really really good.

It’s the kind of DIY grubby happiness that filled all of my college years. Usually a cottonheaded Sunday morning that was hot already, the first of many camel lights, a coke a coffee, some M&M’s, and big fat smile knowing I had to figure out what to do that day other than study. The heat in Los Angeles. My weak-ass little window swamp cooler. My ghetto apartment in oh-so-not-ghetto Brentwood, down the street from OJs wife.

Grubby happiness.

You really can’t let me out of my cage. I’ll devolve pretty quickly. I need some structure and deadlines and urgent tasky things to do to weigh me down. I could easily follow this morning with video games, 7-11 runs, assorted scratching and daydreaming until my wife came home to find college Henri sitting in the living room asking for more ashtrays.

Seriously WTF happened to Mickey Rourke? The Pope of Greenwich Village is such a great film. And don’t get me started on Barfly. That would be a great double header.

Some days when I miss LA I’ll watch Wassup Rockers, Entourage, and Quinceanera all together. It’s like those jelly belly combinations. It works really well, takes the edge off for a few weeks.

There I go…devolving. Thinking of weird random stuff.

I think a lot about the day when the last kid goes off to college, and before the first kid comes back home to slum it for a few years. I think me and my wife will look at each other and say….what now? Or more like….I’m bored.

It’s odd how we get there. Baby steps. Slowly going from independent individuals, to parents who don’t really function that great without their primary objectives tearing up the house.

And it’s odd how that chain smoking slacker that used to live in the Westside, that dude that would spend those awesome lazy Sunday mornings driving along the beach in his little Celica with the top down, would end up here. Gigantic mortgage, cool little neighborhood that the fifties forgot, a job, a wife, some kids, some happiness.

Kinda like those little precursor fault-line tremors that build up to the big one. I think today is a way to look back at slacker youth and smile and reminisce before I break down in 10 years and buy a Ferrari in true “the big one” midlife crisis fashion.

I just wanted to say that I got a lazy day off with my breakfast of champions watching the Pope of Greenwich Village. I still have the Celica. It’s parked right outside. Maybe I’ll go for a drive today.

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Marriage in the Time of Geese and Aeroplanes

So I was at a kick ass brunch this morning celebrating the double baptism of my boy Fayedunnaway’s daughter and nephew when his wife, who I usually try to hit on because our boy Puffy is no longer around to hit on her, turns to me to tell me something about MetroDad.

First of all MetroDad is my boy because

a) We’re eerily similar in numerous odd ways.

and

b) Homie gave me a shout out on his blog way back which led to the raging success and fame of my own abandoned blog which led me to the tens and twenties of readers who adore me quarterly.

But then she said something funny…she said divorce. And I said wut?

And all I could think of was that damn conservatory of butterflies where he proposed to Bosslady. One thing I accepted long ago was the mystery and utter wackiness of life. I dated this girl in college for years and one night she came over and said it’s over. Out of the blue. The odd thing was that throughout our relationship we never had a single fight. I said wut? Then sadly moved on, sucker punched. I didn’t put up too much of a fight. I figured it’s hard enough to find the right person to be with in life…the last thing I wanted was to be with someone that needed convincing to stay with me. So good luck and go…quickly.

But marriage is a whole ‘nuther ball of wax. And add kids to the mix…and boy forget about it.

I’m absolutely shocked that I’m still married to my wife. I’m shocked that any marriage can survive kids. I’ll tell you the reason why.

It’s all dumb luck.

What people don’t get is the fact that having a kid, raising a kid, being married with kids, is an experience that cannot be prepared for or logically planned. Before you have your first kid, there is no way in hell you can possible pick the right co-parent. And that’s what marriage with kids is all about…finding your co-parent.

Ok. Say you’ve never flown a plane. All you know about piloting planes is what society and pop culture tells you. Now imaging picking your copilot. There are a few really stupid ways to pick a co-pilot.

“I want a co-pilot that’s hot”
“I want a co-pilot that makes me laugh”
“I want a co-pilot that’s rich”
“I want a co-pilot that likes the same movies that I do.”
“I want a co-pilot that is upwardly mobile”
“I want a co-pilot that drives a Porsche”
“I want a co-pilot that completes me”

Ok. Now you and the co-pilot you’ve picked get to go fight a fucking war.

“Damn I shouldn’t have picked the funny one”

I want a co-pilot that can fly a friggin plane with me.

You really, seriously, can not predict from dating how someone is going to go into war with you. It’s dumb luck. When it goes well people like to pat themselves on the back and say…damn I always knew the right person that I was looking for. When it goes bad, people always say, they didn’t try hard enough to make it work. The hell with that, I say you make the best choice you can with impossibly limited information and cross you fingers and hope for the best. Dating will never prepare you for parenting. And you will never know how a person will co-parent until you’re in a dogfight.

Then again you can have two great co-pilots that fly the plane great but one still punches out because they can’t stand the music on the plane radio that the other person insists on.

I dunno.

And then there’s “the one” argument. We have to divorce because I’m not in love with you anymore. You’re not “the one”.

Screw that.

Many people might think I’m a dick for what I’m about to say but marriage ain’t about love. It’s about commitment. It’s about being so committed that you’ll ignore the fact that you were meant to be with Megan Fox, despite the number of times she calls you, in order to follow through and raise a kid.

And despite all that, there’s this. Sometimes divorce, as nasty as it is, might be the right thing to do for the sake of your kids. If it ain’t going to work, dear god let it not work sooner rather than later. A lifetime of parents who stayed married for “your” sake really isn’t as great as it’s cracked up to be. It can hurt kids just as much, it’s just a slower more drawn out pain.

I believe in fighting like hell for a good co-parent. And fortunately I happen to love my wife like a madman, despite her silly rules like please stop dating Megan Fox. But that’s just gravy. I just need to keep this damn plane in the air. But all I really wanted to say is that this blog, for me, will never reflect the man that I am but rather the man that I had hoped to be. And with this in mind, I know that my boy MetroDad would do whatever he could for the sake of his girl. And I do believe Pierre would do the same. And I’m sorry for the struggle involved in reaching their ultimate understanding but I trust it was as right as rain.

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Son Meet Hockey

“What’s that?”
“It’s the Stanley Cup Final”
“What’s that?”
“It’s called Hockey”
“How come they---
“AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGHGHGHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
“How come you yelled?”
“AAAAARGARRGGGH NONONONONONONONONOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!”
“How come NONONONONO?”
[heavy breathing]
“No Yelling Daddy!”
“It’s called Hockey”
“Ok Dad”
“See the puck?”
“No”
“It’s right there”
“No”
“Now it’s there”
“No”
“It’s there now”
“No”
“See it? It went there”
“No”
“Ok there it is there”
“I See it!”
“Ok they have to hit it into the net”
“Ok”
“And they ride ice skates”
“Ok”
“It’s like futbol”
“OK”

[1:32 seconds pass]

“AARARRRARRGHHGHGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!NONONONONONONONONONONONONON”
“No Yelling Daddy!”
[heavy breathing]
“Mommy says how come there’s no goalie?”
“They pull the goalie to have more offensive players”
“But DAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaad”
“Yeah Buddy?”
“Wassagoalie?”

....

“Dad they’re fighting!!!!!”
“No son they’re hugging.”
“How come?”
“Because they won the Stanley Cup Finals”
“How’d they win?”
“They scored two goals and the other team only scored one”
“That’s not enough Dad”
“Huh?”
“Dad that’s only 3”
“Yeah 3 goals total, but one team has 2 and the other team 1”
“That’s not enough that’s only 3”
“You just have to have more goals than the other team to win”
“Because they got it into the tent?”
“Yeah they got it into the tent more”
“Now the other team is sad?”
“Yeah son they’re sad”
“They crying?”
“Yeah maybe, but it’s ok”
“It’s OK to cry?”
“It’s always OK to cry when you lose the Stanley Cup Finals”
“OK”

....

“Dad I want to play Hockey with them!”
“With those guys?”
“Yeah!”
“Do you know how to ice skate?”
“No”
“Then you can’t play”
“I have to Ice skate first?”
“Yes, and you have to have a beard”
“A beard?”
“Yes, it’s in the rules”
“Ok”
“Ok let’s count beards”
“Yay!”
“1”
“2”
“3”
“4”

....

“23”
“24”
“25”
“26”

....

“Dad I think I like Hockey”
“I think I like you”
“I like you too Dad”

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Goodbye Sweet Heart

This is not a home. It is a love story.

It was at the end of what would later be called our first date, looking for furniture for her home, me along for the ride solely because of my cargo capacity vehicle, that I walked into her house, burritos (that she bought us) in hand: fat chubby Salvadorian payment for my schlepping assistance.

You own this house?

Yeah.

Sweet.

She gave me a tour. I saw her tiny Toyota completely surrounded by boxes like a crazy person in her spacious two car garage.

I saw her pink bedroom with stenciled vines and a poor mattress set, sans bed frame, rocking a tatami headboard.

How exotic.

Are you making fun of me?

No. I love it.

You ARE making fun of me!!!

I saw an entire floor’s worth of unfinished basement and my eyes grew wide.

You’ve got to be kidding me. Look at this crazy space down here.

Yeah I know.

Do you have any idea what you could do with this space?

Yeah I don't know.

It opened up into a big overgrown backyard.

I love
you
r house.

Thanks.

We ended up getting married.
Me and the girl with the house.
And we laughed
And built
And threw raging parties
And fixed
And laughed
And drank
And dreamt
And ate
And wished
And built
And had kids
And threw quiet kid friendly completely non-raging parties
And loved one another
And loved the little life we build in this lovely house.

We’ll miss you
Dear girl.
May our good times and love continue to
Bounce off your walls
For many more families to come.

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The Night We Bought the House

Your mom packed you kids up along with a bunch of toys and met me after work at the other house, the one that we didn't want to buy but the one we had to see nonetheless because it was on the market and a bunch cheaper than the house we wanted. You kids ran amok in the dark old walls of this wacky home as I looked at all the potential it held. Your mother saw only a dilapidated old house with bad bones. Our agent didn't think much of it either. So we crossed it off the list and left.

We hauled ourselves into our respective cars and caravanned through the winding streets of this great little city, got turned around a few times before finally arriving at the real house we wanted. We let you kids loose again as we sat in the staging and signed page after page after page of our offer. It was dark, and this house too was old and worn down. But it had good bones and I was going to put a new heart into her. You kids laughed screaming through the house, amazed at the fact that you could see one another through different corner windows in the living room.

Finally we were done. The offer was going to go in. And as our agent left, we gathered you kids up and walked out of what we hoped would one day be our new home. We were all hungry and tired. We headed to a local ice cream shop to have our dinner. The thought that this could be our little ice cream shop in our little town was heartwarming. Sure, the reality of any small town usually lies in the dark bits, and kids can get royally screwed in any place U.S.A., but all that we can do as your parents is simply make the best decision that we can, cross our fingers and hope that lady luck is on our side. We hope that you kids can grow up reasonably safe and although we can not prevent you from seeking out dangerous situations, we hope that danger doesn't always have to come looking specifically for you.

We wanted a place that had good public schools yet was close enough to the real world that you kids would not grow up tooooo sheltered. We've been looking for a few years for the right house. Well to be honest, we've been looking for two years to find ANY house in this town that we could afford. We finally found one. She was a wreck. A fine girl that hit some hard times along the way. She needed a heart transplant and some neurological work as well. Oh and she leaks, did I mention she leaks? But you couldn't help but notice she had some class and some dirty grace. She was almost a hundred years old. She was the one we wanted and we did everything we could as fast as humanly possible from the moment we saw her to be at this point tonight. Our agent was on her way to present our offer.

So we sat that night, the four of us, in an ice cream shop eating dinner way past your bedtimes. Your eyes were as big as saucers at all the ice cream in the place. There were college kids from Cal celebrating birthdays, there were local high school kids hoping to one day be those Cal kids. There were older couples sharing dessert. And there were even a few kids that, like the two of you, were up late in disbelief surrounded by sweets. There we were, your parents, knowing that we could not predict the future and understanding that sometimes fate is inescapable no matter what your zipcode is, yet hoping nonetheless that this town could be a good place for you kids to grow up. That night we ate cheeseburgers and Reubens and chicken fingers and fries. And everything tasted better dipped in the little packets of hope that we carried with us. And the ice cream was as sweet as could be.

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Slainte

This month has been a complete whirlwind. We've been undergoing supersecret project 9000 which is of a sensitive nature and a complete timesuck. However from within this frantic dervish of which I shall share much of in the future upon its supersecret completion...I rise my head long enough to whisper...ahhhh it's my favorite day of the entire year.

We've been so busy that tonight is the first St. Patrick's day in a million years that I did not even have time to make colcannon.

Crying shame. In then end when everything is done...it will all be worth it. But for now, forgive me for not sharing our supersecret family project for now.

I do have enough time to stop a moment and listen to The Pogues, one of the finest bands in all of human history. I'll have a bit of Tullamore Dew. And wish all of you a Happy St. Patrick's Day.

May the roads rise to meet you.
May the wind be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
The rain fall soft upon your fields
And, until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

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