Whistle For The Choir

Somewhere, not sure where, but somewhere I am a much younger man. In youth I spent so much time being a jaded smart-ass that when I hit this strange land called married and kid and kid again I couldn't help but label myself as a different man. A dorky man. And I distinctly remember crossing that line, when I went from husband to father. In my mind there are cool husbands, but cool fathers? Not really.

It's like the old guy at the club. Everyone knows the old guy at the club, the dude you see and think to yourself, man I hope you...

a) own this place
b) are a media executive dude
or c) own this place

because otherwise...wtf? I mean really, you get to be my age and you just have to drop it...you have to realize that as young as you feel and as cool as you think you are, you're bound to be a little out of touch. But I can't let go of the silly things I like and I can't stop laughing at myself for being a dork. Like music...I'm sure that I think the bands I listen to are cool, and I'm sure that if my kids were teenagers right now they'd laugh their heads off.

Right before BabyJ was born, like days before, me and my very pregnant wife waddled into a My Chemical Romance show. You know that's actually one of the coolest things about growing up and getting a job...seeing shows. Every show I wanted to see, I could now afford. That is of course until the kids. The kids have actually been to a bunch of shows while being carried in utero. Concon saw The Strokes, Kings of Leon, Pixies, The Distillers and BabyJ saw My Chemical Romance. Oh yeah so back to MCR, so we decide to meet at BART and I park my car while my wife BARTs in and I'm waiting for her train and it arrives and I'm by the exit and I watch the train unload.

Have you ever seen a subway car full of My Chemical Romance fans?

It's like the cast of The Nightmare Before Christmas the Musical got in a fight with a MAC cosmetics convention and everyone decided to put their differences aside for the shared love of checkered suspenders and hoodies!hoodies!hoodies!

And in the middle of this sea of black is my lovely and very pregnant wife wearing her "I'm Cool Too" headband. And then there's me waiting for her...having come straight from work wearing a pressed shirt and tie and trousers. Which is my usual garb for most of the shows we've seen since I'm always coming straight from work. Sometimes I go wild and loosen my tie. I saw the Flaming Lips one night with my tie entirely askew. I shit you not.

So anyways we make the trek from BART to the coliseum and for any of you who aren't from Oakland, the trek from BART to the coliseum must be what I imagine the trek into Guantanamo Bay must be like...a concrete bridge with high fences and barbed wire...ok maybe no barbed wire but seriously it's hilarious, any second I expect to see Kurt Russel jump out looking for the President with his one good eye. Ahhh I love the East Bay. OK so we're going to the concert and that's when it hits me. I'm surrounded by thirteen year olds. And I think...wait a second, when I was young and going to shows, I never saw a bunch of thirteen year olds. And I know that MCR is as much a goth band as Green Day is punk (ooooh) but I never thought they were a teeny bopper band. And that's when I was reminded once again...34 year old Dads are not cool. I have the musical taste of a thirteen year old girl who shops at Hot Topic. C'est la vie. I loved the show, my wife loved the show, BabyJ just kinda rolled her eyes in her Mom's belly and hoped her friends didn't see her at an MCR show with her parents instead of smoking Pall Malls at a Tom Waits gig.

So what I really wanted to say is

a) I know I'm not cool
b) I don't care, I'm still gonna pretend I'm cool
c) I really really know I'm not cool

Not to say other 30 something husbands and fathers are not cool. Ok actually yes you're not cool. I don't care if you're Beck himself, once you live a day past Jimi Hendrix, James Dean and Kurt Cobain you have joined us: the dorky...um wonky if you're British. So this all brings me to the point of my story, I am really bummed that I can't go see the Fratellis play the Fillmore next month. I was bummed and listening to them tonight when I realized that the song I was listening to was a great dedication to my wonderful wife and super-kick-ass Pall Mall smoking Tom Waits fan of a baby girl supercool daughter: BabyJ.

I love my girls. The women in my life. And it's cool to be dorky, and I'm fine missing shows. Because in the end, this show in my living room, with wonky Dad and pretty Mom and super-jump-on-everything-this-week son and look-dad-I-can-move-BOTH-my-arms-now daughter, is better than fireballs. That's right I said it...better than fireballs. And for my wife, this next one's for you...