Babies throw up. That’s what they have in common with old drunks and rock stars. Also, they’re blissfully unaware of themselves, usually they’re kind of lacking in muscle tone (except that baby Hercules thing, and iggy pop, respectively) and pissing their pants isn’t so much out of the question as it’s a given that it’s gonna happen.
My baby likes to barf. This morning, he had already barfed on my chest twice by six thirty. He’s previously barfed on my face and into my mouth. It’s one of the more shocking things, in that it instantly makes you wide awake, but it’s not as gross as it sounds. Okay, if it’s your baby. I don’t want YOUR baby barfing into my mouth. That’s just fucking disgusting. No offense to your baby.
I have tons of dumb shit to do today. I have to take my dog to get his nails cut. I have to get some printer ink. I have to vacate the house for three hours while it gets cleaned (fucking A right, everyone) and I have to teach my friend Chris the basics of picking my baby up from daycare and putting him to bed. Not that it’s difficult.
My wife’s gonna be out of town this weekend. It’s serious Mister Mom action, Friday to Sunday. I’m home on Saturday, but otherwise, I work, so it’s gonna be a somewhat grueling weekend. Well, actually, I plan on doing a lot of writing and reading and getting some sleep. Bedtime for BK? Seven thirty, Friday and Saturday. Nice.
Next weekend (Halloween) I’m going to Gainesville to play a few rock shows. It should be cool, and quite the opposite of my baby weekend. That’s also when Daylight Savings Time shuts off, so the baby will suddenly be waking up between 430 and 530, which is a bit of a drag. BUT HEY! I’m gonna be in Florida. That’s really more my wife’s problem. I’ll have my own issues to contend with in Florida. That’s for sure. Like where the fuck I’m gonna sleep, or how I’m going to get a bunch of hooded sweatshirts down there. God. The business of rock and roll is so boring. It’s all shipping and invoices and contracts and negotiating and stupid fucking truce arrangements that involve doing favors for some shady asshole so he’ll fuck someone over on your behalf later on. I mean, if all I had to do was crack a beer and go on stage, I’d be pretty happy, but unfortunately, I deal with all this other bullshit too. It’s dumb. Oh! That reminds me. I also have to go to the bank. Good thing I put that in there right? That’s interesting. Jesus Christ.
I can tell you all, without a doubt, what the most insane day of my life was. Is that strange? Do most people know off the tops of their heads the day that stands out the most as the craziest one they ever lived? I mean, for me, it’s not even a contest. Some day I’ll tell you guys about it. I don’t have the energy today, but let me just say that it heavily features my toothless German dwarf friend from most of my good stories.
People, if you ask them, will probably usually say the day they saw their kids get born is the most insane day of their lives. Actually, you know what? No. they say that’s the happiest day of their lives, which to me is fucking crazy. I mean, there is a lot of joy at a birth, but it’s also SCARY AS SHIT, MAN! For every iota of joy I was feeling on my dude’s birthday, there was a contemporaneous iota of terror, uncertainty and newfound unknowable responsibility, each. I think that the happiest day of your life would probably be one where there’s no pressure, right? Like, that day you woke up, got a blowjob, had a bloody mary, saw some friends, maybe another blowjob, and a great dinner. That’s like a perfect day. I understand it doesn’t have the dizzying highs of birth, but it also doesn’t have that terror factor, which, if you see the pictures taken of me on the day of my kid’s birth, was clearly in play, at least for me. Sure, it becomes less scary, but that first day, boy. Woo-hoo. Talk about having to use some expensive equipment without having a manual. You know how much a baby goes for out there? Me either, but I’m pretty sure this dude on my lap is worth more than my iPod.
Honestly, and this is so cheesy that I hesitate to write it, but I think my wedding day was the happiest day of my life. All my friends and family at a party that I had at least some say in making sure was cool…I knew I was going to Mexico for a week right afterwards. I was pretty confident in my spouse choice. Yeah, that was a great day. We also rolled through the Taco Bell drive through at 1 am and ordered 60 bean burritos. That was a nice capper.
Nah, but I’m not talking about happy days, or exciting days, I’m talking about insane days. Days where you maybe (in my case for sure) pray a little bit and say “hey god, I know we don’t really get along, but if you get me out of here alive to tell this story, I promise I won’t embellish it or anything, and I’ll never, ever, ever let a war photographer talk me into driving sixty miles and walking two miles into a French forest in a snowstorm again. So what if it’s the only place where I’ve ever seen someone ask cops for heroin, or seen a camper on fire. Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself. Today, office max and the dog groomers. That’s pretty exciting too, right? Stay tuned! Today may just usurp that day in France as the most insane day of my life. I kind of hope not though, I’ve got a weekend of parenting and bartending ahead of me, and I need my rest.