Standing three stories above the streets,a lot of things seem deceptively simple
June 23rd, 2007 (12:26 a.m.)
Last night was boys' night out, when my cousins and I traditionally descend on the ancestral feeding grounds of Chili's for some good-natured catching-up and withering sarcasm.
We covered the basics, asking about each others' families, talking about books and movies and such, and generally chewing the fat.
One of my cousins, though, has bought a building downtown. He's converting the upstairs into loft apartments, where he and his co-investor will live with their families, and renting the bottom floor out to a restaurant. It's an ambitious plan, one with more risk and debt than I'd be able to take on and still sleep at night.
We headed over there to take a look, oohing and ahhing at the framing of the walls that would soon be drywalled and shelved and such. Old brick ran down each side of the building, with giant exposed beams everywhere, and incredibly sturdy wooden floors throughout. The place immediately set us to envying our city-mouse cousin, and those of us who didn't have massive restoration projects in the works immediately started calling each other worthless.
We went into the massive basement, with ceilings that were easily twenty feet high, and with a bricked up access tunnel that used to meet the railroad tracks. My first thought: put a basketball goal down there. Or a gym. Or a martial arts dojo. It was just too cool, too full of possibilities.
Lastly, we went up on the roof, a slanted tin affair that stretched the length of the building. From there, we could look in one direction on the suburban neighborhoods (or at least the tops of the trees that towered over them) and the sunset. In another direction, we could look down main street and see the weekly jazz festival that the city's been putting on.
My hometown has been trying to revitalize its downtown for decades now, and they may have finally managed it. Restoration projects are all over the place, with buildings being turned into condos and restaurants and offices, and the property values skyrocketing as a result.
As we stood up there, looking across the street at the old John B. Lee's building (where we'd all bought our first records decades ago -- mine was "Funkytown" by Lipps, Inc., while another cousin's was Neil Sedaka's "Little Devil"), we started feeling the age creep in. There was only one thing to do: send someone for some beer.
So we sat on the top of this building for a few hours, enjoying a nice summer breeze, as we sipped our way through a 12-pack of Coronas and watched the city roll up its sidewalks. We talked about the old days, and about how easy it would have been to go places, to do things, when we were younger -- if only we'd known it at the time. We all agreed that our best vacations had been the ones where we just drove around doing whatever (in my case, it was a recent driving tour of the southwest).
This, of course, led to the inevitable promises of a road trip, to be taken soon, of flying out and camping in Yellowstone, or going to a Braves game. If we're lucky, one of our wives will get on the ball and research that kind of trip for us -- because unfortunately, none of us are motivated to look the logistics up on our own. Maybe a training wheels road trip to the beach.
There Should Have Been Only One...
June 22nd, 2007 (9:34 p.m.)
Hot on the heels of the 20th anniversary of Highlander comes a comic book, a new movie later in the year, and an anime take on the mythos. I got to review
Highlander: The Search for Vengeance,
which was better than I thought it would be.
We're just setting ourselves up for parent-teacher conferences left and right
June 04, 2007 (11:17 p.m.)
I don't mean to turn this into a baby blog, but, hey, we have a baby. Kinda comes with the territory.
One of her newer habits is fighting sleep, screaming her head off when she's tired, and having to wear herself out before she finally nods off. So it's up to us to speed up the process by walking her around the house, and singing to her.
Problem is, we don't really know the right songs.
The missus, she may know a few, but she tends to rely on a sea chanty, of all things. Many's the time I've heard her singing, "What do you do with a drunken sailor..."
I'm in more of a bind, having spent years cultivating a keen interest in what High Fidelity called "sad bastard" music -- songs that at first blush sound pleasant enough, but which would make a Celine Dion fan want to slit their wrists. Consequently, I can't remember the words to even the simplest nursery rhymes.
Here's me singing "Three Blind Mice:"
Three blind mice, three blind mice, see how they run, mumble mumble mumble, three blind mice." (Repeat)
Instead, I know songs like the Drive-by Truckers' feud-chronicling "Decoration Day." Sample stanza:
Daddy said one of the boys had come by
the Lumber Man's favorite son.
He said, "Beat him real good but don't dare let him die
and if you see Holland Hill run."
Now I said, "they ain't give us trouble before
that we ain't brought down on ourselves"
But a chain on my back and my ear to the floor
and I'll send all the Hill Boys to hell.
Or how about Neko Case's "Dirty Knife"?
He sang nursery rhymes to paralyze
The wolves that Eddy out the corner of his eyes
But they squared him frozen where he stood
In the glow of the furniture piled high for firewood
Oh yeah, that's the kind of thing to soothe your wee bairn at night! And then there's the Replacements' "Here Comes a Regular":
Sometimes I just ain't in the mood
To take my place in back with the loudmouths
You're like a picture on a fridge that's never stocked with food,
I used to live at home, now I stay at the house.
Yes, these are my options for lullabies. I think I even kicked into "Stairway to Heaven" today, and let me tell you, that song gets harder and harder to keep at a lullaby pace as it goes on.
Lord, I really need to find some new tunes before our daughter becomes even remotely verbal. Maybe I should go ahead and start listening to the Wiggles -- I hear they're what the tots are digging these days.
Might as well get it over with. A few years from now, I'll be the one you see at a kiddie concert, with my tattered Truckers t-shirt hidden under something more sensible, with a tear in my eye, wishing the Veggie Tales would sing something with a little more angst.