the perils of being a rocker dad

Hey all,As you know, I've recently become a father. But, as you also know, for some time now I've been a rocknroll superstar on the local dingy, beer-stained tribute band scene. As a member of bands paying tribute to Kiss, Motley Crue, and others, it has been important for me to retain my streams of rocker hair (even as it begins to thin ever so little on top -- if anyone wants to buy me some rogaine for my next birthday, I wouldn't be offended).

Now, when doing dadly duties like changing diapers and burping, it's mighty convenient to put the old mop back in a pony tail. But here, kind blogreader, a problem arises. I want Daisy's formative images of me to be accurate. If during these early days, weeks, and months she sees me only in pony tail and glasses, I fear she may see me only in terms of one aspect of my personality: the pretentious wannabe bohemian intellectual type. To be sure, that side of my life is important, but what about the mighty Rawk Warrior who lives alongside (and sometimes in conflict with) him? Daisy needs to know me not only as Daddy, not only as a responsible adult, not only as a thinker, but also as a God of Thunder, a Lord of Darkness, and Monster of Metal, as an arena rocker prowling a sticky-floored stage at a dank suburban watering hole.

As a result, I make sure to wear my hair down around my daughter, even when doing the tasks described above.But last night, while wearing a favorite Screaming for Vengeance shirt and letting my mighty mane flow upon my shoulders, I picked up Daisy to burp her. She promptly spat up onto my shoulder and into my hair, as if to say, "Get off it, you vain piece of semi-talented crap! You Jon Lovitz with stringy long hair and a Les Paul!" Such are the risks a rocknroll dad must take -- spitup in the hair. Does this compromise my rockingness? Hell no! When I thought about it, what's more rocknroll than puke in your own hair? Maybe Daisy is just reminding me what rock is all about! What kind of rocker would I be if I minded getting my hair tangled and wet with regurgitated milk? I mean, would it bother Ozzy or Nikki Sixx?Thank you Daisy, for keeping me real.

Daisy's budding musical tastes

The indoctrination begins! Here's Daisy wearing what I hope will be her favorite shirt! (Next to her other two Kiss shirts...)

stool sampler

I know this is probably not the most significant thing to happen in the recent days of my life, what with the new baby and all (whom I love beyond my wildest expectations and stuff), but here's something I have to share.

Due in some way to her cesarian (spelling?) deliveray, Sarah has been prescribed stool softeners (sorry, honey -- I know this is very personal and too much info, but it has to be described). When Sarah remembers to take the caplets or tablets or whatever they are, she says, "I need my stool sampler." "Stool sampler"? She's made this little slip of the tongue at least seven times. Now, of course it's understandable; Sarah is eliding the term "stool softener" with its cousin "stool sample." But the result is delightful: I imagine a smartly attired waitperson bringing out, tastefully arranged on a clean white plate, several varities of stool, turd, poop, dung, fesces, etc. The guests admire the selection, licking their lips and reaching greedily for a taste.

Stool sampler -- thank you, honey, for the image...maybe it should become a song....

more daisy

Oops -- I selected the wrong picture before. Here's one where you can see more of her.

young rocker chik hitz the scene!

Hey everyone,

Here's my baby, Daisy Susannah Meritt! Mom-Sarah heroically endured tough and lengthy labor, and ultimately a c-section for her, so hat's off to you, honey! Here are a couple of pics. More to come. I just bought a "Pottey Crew" t-shirt. It's black and presents said words along the chest on Motley-Crue style lettering.

Rock on, Daisy Sue!

I hate venetian blinds

My new apartment has vertical venetian blinds -- you know, the kind that are about four or five feet long and four inches wide and hang from the top to the bottom of the window. You pull them back to reveal the outside world in its full glory, or you turn a small rod to make the blinds rotate and allow degrees of illumination.

Well, anyway, I hate the damn things. I'll rotate the rod, and one snotty recalcitrant blind will refuse to comply with the rotation imperative -- then another refuses, and this clicking sound begins, and then they all won't move.

These things never work. Now, I know some of you may write in and tell me I'm doing something wrong or give me a tip that will ensure that the blinds always work. Fair enough, but please, let's stop right there. True, perhaps there is a way to make them work, but (a) I don't think it's worth the effort and (b) even if my failure is resulting from my ineptitude in handling the blinds, then I'm just not the kind of person who should have them. Sure, one might argue that this is an opportunity to confront -- and overcome -- a failing of my own. Where would I be today if I simply said "That's it -- I can't play the solo on 'The Trooper,'" or "Well, reading Milton is just too hard, so I'm not going to continue"? My friends, there are only so many battles I'm willing to fight within and against myself, and this just isn't one of them.

(C) I just don't like the way they look that much.

I want curtains or the horizontal blinds.

With too much time on my hands and attempting to waste yours,
Mark "looking forward to when I can be a curmudgeon" Meritt