Dads in Uniforms

Coming from the library the other day I passed by our local uniform store. Pleated, boring cotton/poly blend workclothes and uniforms were awkwardly displayed behind barred windows. And I suddenly felt comforted.

Comforted? I've always hated uniforms. I never wanted to join the boy scouts, 'cause I would have had to wear a uniform. The military? I have some moral qualms about it, but I think my biggest problem would have been having to wear a uniform.

And then I thought: Milkman, Baseball Player, Garbageman, Fireman, Policeman. The uniforms tells the job. There's no ambiguity. It's comforting.

And then I thought: My father ran a garbage company since the time I was 4. He came home every evening in his uniform. My relationship with my dad was not simple or easy, yet when anyone asked what he did, the answer was simple: He's a garbageman.

Some kids' fathers wore suits to work, and there was no way of telling what they did. It was unsettling - "He's an accountant." "He's a professor." ." He's a stockbroker." The words were vague, the jobs were vague, what did they possibly DO in their suits? They all got on the train to San Francisco, they never sweated, so what did they DO?

I heard an interview with the daughter of Frank Loesser (Guys and Dolls) recently. As a girl, she didn't know what his work was. She saw her father pacing around a room, running over to the piano to plunk notes, muttering under his breath for hours on end. What kind of job was that? What could she possibly tell her friends?

Well, I'm afraid my son may have the same conundrum. I'm going to go over to the uniform store today and see if I can't find a uniform that says "Composer". It might provide comfort to him for me to wear such a thing. Heck, it might provide comfort for me.

Gout? From an MRI?

A year ago, while I was out jogging, I had a strange episode. Coming to a cross street, I glanced to the right to check for traffic, and just then I lost a piece of time. It was just a fraction of a second, I didn't even come close to stumbling, but it was a strong sense of "Where did I just go?" It was trippy, cool, a little unsettling, but I just kept jogging. Then, 30 seconds later, it happened again. That wasn't so trippy, that was a little scary.

That got me to contact a doctor, and a preliminary EKG suggested a small heart attack. So, I underwent a barrage of tests: a stress test, another EKG, Carotid artery scan, heart scan, and an MRI. According to all the tests, I'm in great health, nothing discernible to be concerned about, no heart attack, brain looks like it should be firing on all 2 cylinders.

A week or so after all these tests, my thumbs began really hurting. I couldn't remember injuring them, I hadn't been doing a lot of computer work, but they both hurt tremendously whenever I tried to do a pinching motion. Helping Quinn with Lego's was impossible. Lots of things were impossible. I went to a hand therapy center, and we did weeks and weeks of acupuncture and therapy, but my recovery was very slow. My entire summer was proscribed - no boogie boarding, riding a bicycle hurt my thumbs, everything hurt.

In the fall, my sister, who is an MD and anthroposophical doctor, saw me and gave me an injection which gave me the first relief from thumb pain in 5 months. It was great! I had to learn to give myself injections, but it was worth it. My local doctor, who also knows anthroposophical medicine, commented that the injections she prescribed were for gout, and that gout attacks the thumbs and toes.

Gout? Isn't that one of those ancient Elizabethan complaints? What the heck is gout? I looked on the web, read up on it. One of the triggers for it, apparently, is the dyes they inject when you have an MRI. Whoa. Sure, they gave me a phone-book sized sheaf of papers to sign before I did my MRI, and I'm pretty good about reading through anything before I sign it, but if it mentioned gout I must have missed it.

My thumbs hurt only mildly now, I'm grateful for the medicines my sister gave me. But be aware, that seemingly non-invasive things like MRIs can have strange and sometimes big consequences.

Scat Attack

Back in December, my pal Tito Uquillas, who has a hip rock group for kids called The Hipwaders, asked if I'd do a guest vocal on his upcoming EP release "Goodie Bag". I love Tito and his band's work, they have a real groove goin' on. Tito digs Captain Beefheart and other 'other' musical genres, and it all bubbles up into the stuff he's doing.

So, he came over to my studio and had me improvise a bunch of scatting over the tracks for his song "Goodie Bag". It was a blast, and in an hour we had some pretty cool-sounding vocals. Here's my part:

The Titan of Tenors? The Gepetto of Falsetto? I'm happy with those monikers...

I feel like a king. A good king. I had such a royal time recording at Skywalker Sound. When you drive through the gate, your jaw drops at the beauty of the place, the rolling green hills, longhorn cattle chewing grass, hawks circling above. Nestled against a hillside of olive trees and surrounded by grapevines is what appears to be a 150 year old building, some kind of huge barn of stone and wood. You walk through the doors, and the smell of fermenting grapes is noticeably absent. Something's different, off. Go through a few sets of double doors, and you're in heaven - If you love recording, that is. The smell of quality electronics giving off their heat, metal and plastic and glass, that's the smell in here. Yes, fermenting grapes or aging cheese is a 'better' smell, but if you love recording studios as much as I do, that technical smell can be quite heady, too. Through the huge wall of glass, you can see it -Acoustic Nirvana. A huge room the size of concert hall, made expressly for recording. It's a 5 minute walk just to get to the piano sitting in the middle of it. A lovely piano, fit for a king. Polished, gleaming, every note tuned perfectly, the pedals operating effortlessly and soundlessly, the keys giving way as if they were in love with your fingers. You sit. The red light turns on, you play. You play again, the red light glows red, you play and play and play, losing track of time. Eventually, your stomach tells you it's time to eat something. Reluctantly, you pull yourself away from the piano, and walk out the doors...

Hawks circle, cows chew grass, it's peaceful and beautiful. This is not a parking lot in Burbank blanketed by a brown hazy sky. This is paradise.

So, apart from feeling like I'd spent a few days at a five-star resort, I also got some great work done. I had prepared, and we were able to record everything in 2 long days. I'm now editing the takes (some pieces are one-take wonders, others will benefit from a bit of slicing and dicing) and working up the song order for the CD and writing the liner notes and etc. The CD will be done by this summer, as promised, but due to the exigencies of distribution, it won't be in stores and downloadable until late summer or fall.