Who's to say where the wind will take you?

I'm sitting in the dark, on an old brass bed, in the guest room of my parents house, typing. This bed, like so many other things in this room, in this house, are touchstones of my youth. The bed was my bed for most of my childhood. Strangely familiar in unfamiliar surroundings. That's the way most things are here. They invoke so many memories from my past, yet they reside in a house that has never been my home. I've never lived here. But, this stuff - I've known it all my life.

There is a portrait on the wall to my left. From 1964. Mom is captured at the tender age of 23. So young, and beautiful. Behind me is a family photograph circa 1970. The pièce de résistance though, is a piece of art drawn by the 1st grade version of me, which Mom shellacked onto a tablet to hang on the wall for posterity. The assignment, which I can still recall, was to write a few things about 'your family' and underneath the story, you drew a picture of your home. What did I write so long ago?

I help my family.
I help my dad carry fire logs.
I have to help mow the lawn.
I love my family.
And thies is my home.
I do not have any brothers or sisters.

Two things strike me hard. Gut punch hard. The first is the fact that I screwed up the assignment. I'm not referring to the obvious typo of the word this (once a dipshit, always a dipshit.) I was supposed to end the writing portion of the project with the line, and this is my home. Then underneath that line I was supposed to draw my home. As you read, I did not do that. Instead, I had a last minute knee jerk reaction to tack on the fact that I'm an only child. Why. I don't remember. But, reading it now, alone, in the dark, as I hear my Mom cough in the other room - it is eerily prescient - so much so that goosebumps break out on my arm.

Then we have the second thing, which is far worse than a gut punch. It is more akin to a baseball bat to the mouth, that breaks teeth. There, in my crude drawing, behind my childhood home is a graveyard. It is quite unsettling to see a graveyard behind my childishly drawn home. In fact, my teacher was so disturbed that I drew a cemetery, that she phoned my parents. To this day, they laugh recalling this story, and the teacher's fear that I was obsessed with death. That I had serious emotional issues.

You see Dear Reader, what the teacher didn't understand, what she failed to grasp, was that I truly did live in a house that backed up against a cemetery. That at the tender age of 6, with my limited artistic ability, I was trying to be representational in my art. Just like I added that line about being an only child. I was and am, a realist, which is why I'm reading my Mom's medical reports, looking up terrible words. Bilateral metastases. Hypermetabolic activity. Mediastinum. Hilar lymph nodes. Ischium posterior. Necrosis.

Sitting alone, in the dark, on an old brass, in the guest room of my parents house, I can't help but wonder, can I help my family?

Until I BLOG again...Who's to say what it is will break you?

That techno-rock you guys listen to is gutless

I'm not sure why, or when, but at some point music that me and the Boy(s) equally dig has been dubbed mad music. In the beginning this was primarily any music that was either hard, or fast. Jesus of Suburbia by Green Day is a good example. As is God Save the Queen by The Sex Pistols.

I freely admit their taste in music, which mirrors mine (which I guess is nothing more than ego stroking,) makes me extremely proud. I dig the fact that one of Ethan's first favorite songs wasn't a tune by Barney, but what he dubbed Pick Up The Pieces which is actually titled My Head Is Hanging Upside Down (Bonzo Goes To Bitburg). In my book, that is pretty cool.

Sure, the Boy(s) do like some kid type songs. They dig Laurie Berkner for example, but she's not that bad actually. I'd much rather listen to her sing about dinosaurs than the Hi-5 kids sing their crap.

Lately though, the Boy(s) have bastardized the meaning of mad music. The connotation isn't so much hard, or fast as much as it is music that they listen to with me, usually in my car.

Wy Wy digs Stacy's Mom by Fountains of Wayne. It is a catchy song, but mad, I think not. Still, Wy Wy will load up in the XTerra, and as I strap the Boy into his seat, he'll yell, "Daa! Want ear MAD music."

"Sure Wy Wy, what do you want to hear?"

"Stacy's Mommy." That alone is priceless, that he calls Mom, Mommy, but as is usual, trying to teach the Boy to be polite, I have to prompt him on his manners.

"Stacy's Mom - what?"

"Stacy's Mommy PLEASE!"

At which point I'll crank it up and Wy Wy does what can best be described as a seated (in a car seat mind you) slam dance. He'll thrash his head back and forth (looks painful) and rock out to what is probably his number one song, Stacy's Mommy.

The Older Boy is a bit more punk rock, as illustrated above about his love of The Ramones. But lately, he also has altered what the meaning of mad music. Dig this. One of his current favorite songs, are you ready - My Kind Of Lover by Billy Squier. Seriously.

About the only thing I can think Billy Squier would have to be mad about, would be his his unrequited stroke request.

Until I BLOG again...Man, it's like tripendicular, ya know?

Sunday's on the phone to Monday

We have the Little Warrior in Like Henry mode. He is taking those first tentative steps toward being potty trained.

Being a second child, I figured he'd be easy to potty train. I thought seeing his big brother pee, and poop would show him the way. That the peer pressure from his brother would make him want to be a big boy, and not poop in his pants. In fact, the Younger Boy was doing something the Elder Boy never did, going off to be by himself when he would crap in his diaper. I thought we were ready, steady, go.

I like to start potty training with trying to master number 1. Urination. That's how we did the Elder Boy. In fact, I figured I'd employ the same method I did with Ethan, and let Wy Wy pee in our backyard at first. This horrifies many of My Lovely Brides friends, but trust me, it works. Not only does the Boy think it is fun to pee out of doors, you also don't have any issues with their bad aim and the subsequent clean-up. Added bonus, we're in the midst of a drought in the Messoplex, so I figured we're helping the lawn. And, to be completely honest, I often pee in the backyard myself. Even when we're not having a drought.

So, there we were this past weekend, in the backyard, trying to pee. Wy Wy was a natural. He quickly mastered the art of peeing in the yard. When he would finish, he'd yell (my poor neighbors), "I did it! I pee peed like a big boy!" He'd then run into the house to find his Mom and tell her the good news. Other times, he'd pee, and then want to immediately pee again. I tried to explain that it didn't work that way. That just made him mad, and he'd huff back into the house and watch more Dora.

After a few hours of this, Wy announced that he needed to go poop. Outside. Excuse me? I tried to explain that peeing outside was ok, sort of, but pooping outside, well, that was not. Trying to seize the moment, I took Wy to the bathroom and tried to get him to poop on the potty. He wanted none of that. He sat there for a minute or so, then started to complain violently, asking, then pleading for a diaper. Not wanting to scar him (any worse than we already are!) I suited the Boy up in a diaper and he promptly went into his room, and then into his dark closet and took a shit. Potty training doesn't happen overnight.

Sunday morning coming down, we did the same thing as Saturday. We had numerous successful number 1 trips to the backyard, followed by the requisite celebrating. We also had the same set-back when it came time to poop. Still, after only one weekend, I felt good. I thought we were ahead of the game when compared where Ethan was at the same age, and right on track with Wy Wy's potty training.

As usual, I was wrong.

You see Dear Reader, sitting at work on Monday Monday my cell phone rang. I picked it up and noted that it was My Lovely Bride, who was calling very early in the day? Figuring something was up, I answered by asking that question, "What's up?" I said.

"Wyatt shit in the garage." My Lovely Bride replied.
"Excuse me."
"Wyatt. Shit in the garage. He said that he had to pee pee and the next thing I know he was in the..."

I'm sorry to say at that point Dear Reader, I quit listening to My Lovely Bride. I was to busy, I'm afraid to say, laughing. Father of the year. That's me.

Until I BLOG again...Tuesday's on the phone to me.

When you said to me

I recently turned 39. July 25. My 12th wedding anniversary too. July 30. I'm obsessed with age. Numbers. Time. Always have been. Every birthday since my 25th, has bothered me at some level. I simply can't believe I'm going to be X years old. I don't get hung up on the milestone years either. The round numbers. 30 felt the same to me as 28. 34 felt as odd as 36. It is always the same. I just can't believe that I'm going to be X years old. Then when I get used to being X years old, it is time to do it over again. That's life. Right? I won't bore you with my usual age obsession game of choice. I have something better. You see Dear Reader...STOP! Tangent time.

Someone asked about my use of Dear Reader in these here BLOG entries. I've always assumed anyone who frequented the Team Tinsley BLOG, got what I meant by saying Dear Reader. So, lest you think I'm being cheeky, which in a way I am, the true meaning of Dear Reader boils back to my original mission. Why I do this BLOG in the first place. It is a chronicle for my family - Team Tinsley. A remember when, then, then being the Buck Rogers future. Dear Reader is my time warp way of addressing the future version of the Boy(s). I'm superstitious, so much that I can't bring myself to type out their names in this regard. Plus it would be odd. Pretentious even. So I simply type, Dear Reader(s), with the thought that their future versions will know their Dad well enough to get that I'm typing to them, for them, from the here and now, which will be the past, in that Buck Rogers future. See, it does sound mighty pretentious, especially for my bad writing. STOP! Hammer time.

My age game today has to do with a recent snippet I read in Entertainment Weekly. In their Hot List, EW cited a reissue of the Girlfriend album by Matthew Sweet. The reason it was reissued was that 2006 marks the 15th anniversary of the original release date. The reason that got me is simple. That was the last new release album I purchased as a cassette tape. After that album, my new music would be purchased as a CD. Well, up until 2003 or so, when I started purchasing my music on iTunes.

Right about now, funk show brother, you are asking yourself, why in the heck would I remember something like that? Simple. 15 years ago. Actually, it was 14 years ago, since I bought that album in the Spring of 1992. That's not the point though, the reason I remember buying it was after I purchased it from the Sound Warehouse (which have went the way of vinyl records and cassette tapes) on Greenville Avenue in Dallas, Texas, I drove back to my Love Shack on Prospect. As I was getting out of my car to go inside, an old friend of mine rolled up in front of said shack. With him? Well, it was the lady who would one day become my Lovely Bride. She was far from my Lovely Bride at this point though. In fact, at this point in the story, I think she still thought I was funny. Not the ha-ha variety either.

14 years ago. I was 24 years old. She was 21. Now, I'm 39. Fuck me. 39. She's 35 (I usually round up to what she'll be in this year which is 36, but that makes her mad) and we've been married for 12 years. 12 years!

As Jerr says, blink your eyes and bam. Time. It moves fast. The older you get. I used to get so annoyed when he'd tell me that. The thing is, he was right. You see, I can still remember the first casette tape I ever purchased. Blackout by the Scorpions. I purchased it at K-Mart in Sand Springs, Oklahoma in the Summer of 1982. I had told my Mom that the 8-Track tape was obsolete. Casette was the future. I needed a boom box. I was right, of course, but at that point, I had no idea. I just wanted a boom box. Mom got me one at K-Mart along with my first tape which was Blackout. I wanted that album for the song, No One Like You. I liked that song (still do, actually.) So, there I sat in my Mom's car, the 14 year old version of me (soon to be 15, if I round up) loading a gazillion batteries into the back of that boom box so I could hear No One Like You by the Scorpions. So excited, and impatient (still am, actually) that I couldn't even wait until I got home. Blink your eyes. 10 years. Pulling up in front of the Love Shack house listening to Girlfriend in my car, about to see my future Lovely Bride. Blink your eyes.

10 years. Looking back, with my goofy little bookends of Blackout and Girlfriend, I'm amazed at how much my life changed in that decade. How fast it changed. How I went from a teenager living at home in Sand Springs, Oklahoma, to a man living in Dallas, Texas. How I went from seeing my Mom and Dad on a daily basis, living in the same home as them, to living in a different home hundreds of miles away which made it difficult to be able to see them more than few times a year. I think of the friends I had and lost during that time. All those changes that would shape who I would become, for good, and bad.

10 years seemed like an eternity to that Boy version of me sitting in the front seat of my Mom's Oldsmobile Toronado listening to The Scorpions. Ditto to the young Man version of me rolling up to the Love Shack in his Geo Storm listening to Matthew Sweet.

Dear Reader - blink your eyes.

Until I BLOG again...You are not so old.