Wednesday, 3/29, and Momma is, as usual, at work. The weather here has a hint of coolness, yet it is a beautiful day full of sunshine. I've scooped the dog poop from the yard and kicked the boys out into the outside to play. I however sit hunched over the computer tappingtappingtapping the keys, trying like hell to write something both legible and readable with just a touch of worthwhileness to it in the hopes that one day I will be the king of blogs.
I have a mental list of chores that need to be done. I can look into the garage from here and see one of my big chores, cleaning that giant hole that hasn't been clear enough in years to admit a car. The grass is growing in wild patches of grass here, of lovely little purple flowers there. The lawnmower awaits, still resting from last year, hoping like hell that this is the year I change the oil.
Being Wednesday, tonight is Momma's roller derby practice. I'm sure I'll take the boys, and Big Brother will get even better on the roller skates while The Boy will continue his baby stepping along, convinced that my hands will forever hover just so, ready to either catch or pick up as soon as he should slip and fall.
Being 3/29, tomorrow is Lucero. I love getting to go out to see bands, and I've been looking forward to this show for a couple of months now. I certainly plan on fitting as many High Lifes into my belly as I can, and I might even raise the rock fist and sing along. Being the stay at home dad these days, along with Momma's all too often insane work schedule, my going out has been seriously curtailed. Subconciously, that seems to mean make up for lost time when the chance finally drops into my lap.
I know that it wasn't that long ago that I mentioned Lucero, and perhaps I should take a break between my rabid fan talk, but I just can't. Remember being a teenager when a single band could really change your life? You would get that album/tape/cd and listen to it so much that you almost wore it out that first week. The band took on some mythical greatness in your teen mind, and every word and note spoke to you of something bigger than you'd ever known, love greater than has ever existed, things you alone understood.
Then you grow up and things aren't so big, so grand, so right or so wrong anymore. You appreciate and love music a little differently. You've seen more of the world and of life and you just aren't as green as you were back then.
I believe that almost anyone can write a good song, and almost anyone can fall into a just so alignment where they have that one huge hit song without actually being a good enough band/musician to last. I need only mention the song "Come on Eileen (sic?)" to prove that point. Many bands can pull off a certain sound with a certain panache that they attract a cult following without having to actually be a good band, i.e. The Smiths (blech.) Some bands seem formed by someone else, a sort of musical ID that sits alone in the heavens, always knowing how and when to nudge this guitar player with that drummer who is friends with that guy that writes songs.
I fear I'll never stop adding to this meandering thing. I've come and gone several times, most recently to fix lunch for a pair of monkeys. Now I'm back and wondering what possessed me to start writing where I did, and what took me around that random corner to finish writing where I did. The world is certainly a worse place because I can't answer that question.