Okay, so yesterday I talked about this. I’ll sum it up quickly: did we leave our baby at home with a babysitter for a 6 hour event or bring her along? We did both. We’re out of the box thinkers. Keep that in mind, because rather than writing TWO blogs on a Sunday, the Sabbath, I’m also going to talk about the torrential rain pour in Hollywood today.

(For those of you who are visual thinkers, this box would not do well in today’s rain.)

We brought the babysitter along with us. She didn’t mind. She’s a friend anyway. In fact lately, she’s one of the top 3 people when it comes to getting Fyona to sleep. (She’s not number 3, either.) So off we went into the night: The Redhead, Me, Fyona, and our babystitter buddy, Ashandra. Meanwhile, it’s seriously, seriously raining in Los Angeles. Like, hard core. Our deck may overflow on account of a drain clog.

While the Redhead and I were stuck on stage doing a script reading, Ashandra and Fyona headed out into Bergamot Station to check out some art, a band, and some Goth kids. Meanwhile, the wind just blew over one of my trees.

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Fyona, I am your father.

(It’s not a broken wing, it’s to keep her from chewing on her IV.)

Okay, so that happened. Like most big recent events in my life, I found myself stranded in a semi-foreign land when it happened and more or less alone. Sure, this particular time I was about 4 miles from home and my wife and daughter were across the street, but in Los Angeles across the street may as well be Agoura Hills. I’m also not really complaining. I love strangers. On foot and looking for a bite to eat while Mom and Baby enjoyed deep sleep provided by mild antibiotics for various minor ills, I went to a bar.

The night after Christmas when the streets were empty, 4 people sat at the bar, all employees. I decided to have myself a little celebration: one vodka martini with blue cheese olives, straight up. I told the barman to “shake the shit out of it,” because asking for it “shaken, not stirred” is for jackasses. (Well, only one guy can do it.)

I’d like to thank the staff for a great time. It was a magical 30 minutes before I went back to the hospital, but in those minutes, there were no questions or worries or thoughts for the future. There was only Sinatra and vodka, an endless glass the barman would top off with individually shaken swigs to keep me to my “one martini” rule. I was a happy father, slapping backs of strangers in a bar and shaking hands with busboys. I am still a happy father. There’s always a lot on the horizon, but when the sun is rising and the day is looking bright, you feel like you can conquer it all by lunch. 

Thanks, strangers. Perhaps we’ll meet again, down the trail.

I am home from work in “preparation” for the baby. What that has meant so far has been an inability to sleep in and downshift from my previous “work mode” pace. Normally this would translate to all sorts of cleaning and organizing at home. So far it’s been a lot of video games.

(And avoiding carpal tunnel.)

Unfortunately, it looks like I’m past the last mini-boss and moving on to the finale. Work was the last thing standing in the way between me and daddy world. I’m not scared, it’s just that up until yesterday it was all happening “after work.” I just needed to get through a few more weeks on the clock, then I could focus on all of that shit that’s coming afterward. Well, work is over. I no longer have that to run away to (or run from). I don’t have to think about anything else besides the Redhead, little Baby Girl Blogs, and ridding Skyrim of pesky dragons. Rise and fall, pesky dragons.

There are, of course, just a few more things to take care of: packing for the hospital, getting a baby monitor, and ridding my cabinet of rum. I’m not a rum guy, but over the years people have brought plenty of bottles over to my house and left them, seemingly in their own bid to ditch the suntan lotion flavored bile they had been stuck with themselves. We could use the cabinet space, and I for one will not start my tenure into parenthood denying my wife and daughter ample storage.

Drinking and video games: the pre-father’s best friends. Just let me have this for a bit, world. I’m bound for better days.

As Indiana Jones said and I often plagiarize, “it’s not the years, it’s the mileage.” As we grow older our bodies naturally begin to deteriorate and show signs of the wear and tear we put them through on a regular basis, mine especially. I am without a doubt, an unhealthy man.

(But a rocker, nonetheless.)

The way I see it, things have got to change, but this makes me miserable. It’s not negligence, it’s not ignorance, it’s flat out discrimination against all things “healthy” and “responsible.” I have CHOSEN not to follow these things, but now I have no choice. I have to change my tune.

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Today is September 21st. 10 years ago today I arrived in Los Angeles to make my fortune in oil and affordable winter wear.

Neither panned out. Apparently some other guys beat me to the oil game, and frankly, they’ve pretty much cornered the market. My plan for selling knit hats, fur lined boots and interchangeable gloves/mittens was thwarted by the typically sunny Southern California weather. I have to take the blame on that one. A little bit of research on my part could have saved me from buying all of these bolts of furry fabric. But hey, Google wasn’t around back then, so how else could I have known?

Now I sit here, living a different dream…

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Friday night was so good, it killed all of Saturday. It left Sunday limping severely. It brought me to Monday feeling less rested than when Friday began. It was a sneak attack that almost left me down for the count, stranded in a foreign land. Almost.

Instead, I rose to the challenge. I peeled myself off of a couch at 2:32 in the morning and did what needed to be done. I left. I got up and out. I entered the streets of Hollywood intending to walk the 3 miles home through treacherous territory, battling ruffians and scallywags alike.

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On the iPad, so don’t expect any wacky pictures…..

I have arrived in Hotlanta, Georgia for the first leg of the big 4th of July Journey. Before we continue, I’d like to point that none of my in-laws know of this little Weblog’s existence. It’s the cardinal rule of my internet presence: no last names, no factual trail. Rule number 2 is whenever possible, lie. In fact, I end up changing around so many details here that even people who were there rarely recognize the recap. It’s my thing. This also allows me artistic license to say what I feel. Of course, the Redhead will eventually see it, so let’s just assume that for the next week I’m on borrowed time until the axe falls. I may talk some shit. It will never be acknowledged here, but rest assured, I will pay for all of it when the bell tolls.

Sticking with the “cardinal rule” vein, it seems to be a law that nobody related to my wife can live within 3 hours of an airport. Because of that, our journeys to visit them resemble those of our fore-fathers: endless miles of travel, with sleepovers and dysentery built in. It’s the Oregon Trail to get here, and most of the time we lose at least one companion to typhoid or Injun attacks before arriving.

Sticking to the subject, it’s already been an adventure. Our cab driver hesitated at every green light and slammed on the breaks at a yellow. Our plane was delayed 30 minutes. Now we’re in Atlanta, and I’m drinking in a stranger’s kitchen, alone, wondering if taking a cab to the hotspots would go unnoticed. My upcoming weekend involves 3 adolescent children: my two neices and my mother in law. There will also be retirees. My usual drinking buddy, the previously mentioned woman of red hair, is with child and cannot participate. My brother in law is a wonderful guy, but with 2 daughters under 5, the brotha from my lova’s motha just can’t hack it past 10 PM. All plans to see an Atlanta Braves Game, a Charlotte Knights game, or any local ball have been thwarted. I am stuck and at the whim of others, my most hated position. Mark my words: soon I’ll have money, and when that happens, I’m renting a car and staying at a local hotel. I don’t care if you have 6 empty rooms. I am a man who needs to steer his own course. You don’t want me in your spare room any more than I do. Oh well.

Tomorrow we drive 3 hours to South Carolina. As long as there’s beer here, I’m in no rush. Any readers in ATL want to meet me for a whiskey?

Yesterday we trashed the place. From the roof to the patio, we rocked this joint in the old school way. It was a fantastic time.

Thank you to all who came. The headaches and memories will last a lifetime.

Yesterday was the anniversary of my birth, which I spent trying to kill myself. It wasn’t the original plan, but as often is the case, adjustments were made on the fly to accommodate new desires. The best part is that I may have succeeded.

It’s been said that alcohol is the only intoxicant in the world where people have to tell you that you’re intoxicated. All others, be they pills, plants, or powders, cause the user to almost immediately exclaim, “Hot damn! I am WASTED!” With booze, nobody ever believes it. They assure you they are totally fine, and that very little of their abilities have been impaired. They say this while they’re laying on the floor.

I ended my birthday last night laying on the floor. A cake on the table, gifts from the Redhead next to it, and the Redhead looking on as I listened to Cracker and bemoaned my “carsickness.”

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