I have joined this ad exchange service called "blogsnob." I am looking forward to new traffic and I am also excited about the new sites that it will turn me on to. It is a text based ad and you can see it on the left at the top of my links list. They claim to be family friendly and I hope that is the case. I encourage you to click on the site that is advertised if it looks interesting to you. If not, don’t. What do I care?
I have recently discovered that I am addicted to Tony Pierce. I can not explain it. We both like baseball and we both enjoy writing, but that is about all that we have in common. I have found myself going to his site several times a day hoping for new material. If Rolling Stone magazine wanted to save themselves and regain some of that street credibility that they used to have, they should start sending Tony on the road with bands. The articles he sent back would be well worth the cover price.
This week is my first real test of the fall semester. I have two papers to write for school and a gig to prepare for this Sunday. I am going to lose it. Just thinking about it has got me all sleepy.
My hippie brother-in-law called last night and said, “Would you happen to be the leader of some outfit called ‘The Nathaniel Greer Trio?’”
I’m afraid so, I said.
He had seen an ad for Take Five Jazz in the newspaper. He said he was coming to the show. That will be great. He is an ardent supporter of the arts, and hippies are always fun at shows.
Hippie brother-in-law is actually doing pretty well these days, or seems to be. At least he has held a job for several months in a row. That makes me proud. I want to like him and welcome him around. Every little boy should get to have a hippie uncle.
I remember seeing my uncle Pete from New Jersey. He was tall and thin. His hair was receding in the front and pulled into a scraggly ponytail in the back. He smoked cigarettes (and he only knows what else) and was a great auto mechanic. One time he passed through in a big old renovated school bus with this funny hippie lady and a couple of her little hippieletts. He was helping them drive that bus cross country to Arizona, seemingly just because they needed the help. I thought that he was the coolest guy I had ever seen. I wanted to take him to show and tell.
When I was about thirteen or fourteen he came to town for Granny and Pawdy’s fiftieth wedding anniversary. He stuck around longer than everyone else and on his last day he wanted me to go for a ride with him. He wanted me to lead him to some horrible souvenir shops so he could get cheesy gifts for friends back east. Before we left I suggested that we find some good stuff in my cassette collection to listen to. He looked it over and declared Jane’s Addiction as high quality. I could not argue with that. After that one was over I played him some Ice Cube. Pete thought that was hilarious.
He said to me, “Hey man, does your dad every play you any Pink Floyd?”
I confessed that I had never heard of that dude.
He said, “Where is the nearest record store.”
I led him to the mall and he marched straight in and bought me a copy of Floyd’s “Dark Side of The Moon." Also he told me it was a band, not a dude. For that I will be forever grateful. I still have that cassette, even though it has long since worn out. My hippie uncle was the coolest.
We moved the boy, Wylie in to a big boy bed last night for the first time. He only fell off once, and that was at 7:00 this morning. Boy did it upset him. Ms. J said that it was all that he talked about all morning. He has my sister’s old daybed and we pulled the trundle out about half way so that he would have something soft to land on if he fell. Well, I heard a dull thud this morning on the hardwood floor (and when I say hardwood floor, what I mean is hard, wood floor) and skedaddled in there. He was sitting up in the floor and crying about half way across the room from his bed. I don’t know if that was where he rolled to or what, perhaps rolled off so hard and fast that he missed the trundle all together.
Ms J. and the boy had to go to the store this afternoon. Wylie fell asleep on the way home and she slipped him out of his seat with that lovin’ momma touch and carried him in the house. As she was easing him down on to the bed she said that he quietly mumbled, “No, not the big boy bed . . .” and went right back to sleep.