Long ago, I was in a band called Gnome Dust. I wrote about that in this post from 2003: “The Drummer’s Story.”
Here are photos from that time we recorded a demo in a basement of an old building that used to be a church and our guitarist was literally in the furnace room: “Gnome Dust Recording in Bloomfield, NJ.”
I now live not far from where we used to rehearse. I regret losing touch with those guys and often wonder what they are up to. One of the guys had some heart issues. I always wonder how he’s doing. I don’t even know how to get in touch with any of them. Why do I let that happen in life?
Some mornings, I get up and the sun is shining and the birds are singing, and the William Tell Overture is floating softly through the hills.
Like in this video:
But some mornings things go awry right from the get-go.
Like this morning when I heard the baby waking up and I promptly went to the kitchen to prepare a delicious wholesome bottle for the child. I would let the bottle warm while I went to his room to greet him, William Tell emanating from the very earth around us. I would change his diaper and freshen his bottom before he had a chance to fret. He would smile at his daddy. I would smile back. He would smile again.
I pulled the bottle out of the fridge and in one swift motion the damn thing slipped from my grasp and propelled itself toward the floor like a Grade-A-Vitamin-D-Added-Homogenized Kamikaze!
“Oh, fffffffffffudge!!!!!!”
“Only I didn’t say fudge. I said THE word. The big one. The queen mother of dirty words. The F-dash-dash-dash word.”
Like this:
I threw up my hands in defeat. Then I threw in the towel. Literally. Hell, I threw in multiple towels.
The baby? Oh, he went back to sleep for another hour.
I don’t blame him.
This situation reminds me of “Super Moist Fat Tuesday.” Incidentally, I have a migraine as I did that day too. Spilling copious amounts of liquids must be a migraine symptom. I’m good at it, apparently.
Last night I had a dream that Elton John tried to run off with my baby boy.
My wife and I were on a train with our son. I don’t know where we were going. We were just minding our own business.
Who came walking down the aisle of the train but Elton John! He stopped when he saw us and asked if he could hold the baby. We were like, “Sure! You’re friggin Elton John! Of course you can hold our kid!”
Elton made baby noises at our little boy. He seemed to be enjoying holding the little guy.
Then he just wandered off!
I followed him, calling out to him, asking where he was going.
Elton then slid a big door open, like the doors on freight cars, and he jumped out with the baby while the train was moving!
I, of course, jumped out too. I don’t care if you are Elton John. You aren’t getting away with my baby!
I caught up to Elton and he didn’t have the baby. He pointed under the train, which had stopped by then. There was my little boy lying on the black stones of the railway bed. I ran and picked him up.
Elton then started crying. He kept repeating, “Now I’m in trouble! Now I’m in trouble!”
I said, “Look, Elton, just forget about it. Let’s get back on the train before it starts rolling again.”
“Now I’m in trouble! Now I’m in trouble!”
Music began to play from within the train.
Elton: “Hey! They’re playing music in there!”
Me: “Come on, man! That’s the signal that the train’s about to leave!”
I began climbing into the train with my baby in one arm. But as dreams usually go, it wasn’t as simple as climbing back into the open door. I was climbing on metal bars like a jungle gym. The door to the train was many feet above me. I kept climbing and climbing, worrying that I wasn’t going to make it into the train before it started moving, worrying that I’d drop the baby, or that we would both fall. The climbing seemed to go on for a very long time.
I don’t know if we made it. I don’t know if Elton started climbing to get back on the train. The last I saw him he was lying next to the train bemoaning the fact that he was in trouble. All I know is Captain Fantastic didn’t get away with my boy. No, sir!
