Nuclear Family Warhead

Nukeboy1 has been blinded by the light.  Well, sort of.  He has taken up the guitar for the second time.  The first time was 2 years ago when he was 8.  This time he’s a little more serious about it.  His turnabout can be explained in one compound word: Rockband.  He got it for Christmas, and has been rockin’ out ever since.  So much so that his guitar will only strum “up”, the “down” strum is broken.  So, since the guitar doesn’t work properly anymore, he has picked up the drums.  His buddies have Guitar Hero III or Rockband, and they talk about it endlessly.  “Dude, I could so kick your butt on ‘Highway Star’”.   “I nailed Weezer on EXPERT last night!”  Overnight they are getting an education into old school music and what rock and roll really means.

The coolest thing for me about all of this, is that he is getting a glimpse of some of the music I grew up with.  I’m obviously biased, but I think I grew up at the perfect time.  I had my older sister, who turned me on to all kinds of music.  Usually just by playing it in her room while I sat in the hallway outside her door; silently.  Listening.  Taking it all in.  I learned about Moody Blues, Gino Vanelli, Carole King, Boz Skaggs, Chicago, Todd Rundgren and so many more.  My brother got an 8 track stereo system for Christmas one year (Yes! I’m  THAT old!), and I learned about Bachman Turner Overdrive, Led Zepplin, ZZ Top, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Steve Miller, The Doobie Brothers and the list goes on and on.  Once I started my own collection, I soon left my older siblings in the dust as my collection grew and grew.  In 1981 I bought my first stereo system.  That same year my album collection grew to 300+ lp’s; much to my Father’s chagrin.  He thought I should save my money for a car.  I thought I needed to rock.  By 1984 I had amassed over 450 lp’s and put a stereo system in my VW Bug that once caused my Father to walk out of the house, knock on my window, and tell me to “TURN THAT CRAP DOWN!”  I had to smile after saying “Yes, sir”, and watching him walk back inside.  He heard my car stereo (windows closed, no less) inside the house?  Cool.

By the late 80’s my lp collection was north of 600 and my CD collection had blossomed to a little over 150.  There was some duplicity there but, hey, you can’t buy the brand new CD technology and NOT buy The Wall.  Sure, I had it on LP, but on CD it made me even more Comfortably Numb.  I had a nearly photographic grasp of all music released from 1972 to about 1994.  Albums, bands, who was in each band, what they played, what side a song was on, which number it was on that side, the year it was released, who wrote which song, on and on.  My friends used to call me “Shrevie” after the character from “Diner“.   I don’t think I was as fanatical as he was, but, then again….I could get lost for hours inside my favorite record store.  I’d look for deals and bands that I could “discover” in the cut-out section.  I’d scoff at those who only bought cassettes.  Fools.  I’d buy my own blank tapes and mix tape myself into a coma. 

Nukeboy1 doesn’t have that same opportunity.  The music he had been listening to before his “Rockband Epiphany” was the manufactured artists that all seem to sing on each others songs: T-Pain, Chris Brown, Rihanna, Timbaland, Flo Rida and many others.  I’m not dissing these artists, and I’m not turning into an old fuddy-duddy; it’s just not my cup of tea.  It pisses me off because kids today don’t have near the selection or choice that I had.  Sure, you could say that I’m no different; that I’m a “victim” of what was being forced down my throat when I was a kid, but the difference is; I had more avenues to explore than American Idol and itunes.  Record stores, bootleg tapes of up and coming bands, independent radio stations instead of “Clear Channel listen to what we tell you to listen to” stations.  I had a choice.

Music has been, and always will be, subjective.  Abortion, politics and music are three subjects that can garner the most emotion and fanaticism when debated.  Of the three, music is the only one where you can at least find some common ground with someone who doesn’t share your point of view.   You may think their Slim Whitman fetish is asinine, but they may scoff at your Black Sabbath affliction.  If you both can share a beer over side 2 of Back In Black; then it’s all good.  Sorry, I forgot we don’t have “sides” anymore.

Nukeboy1 has inundated me with questions the last week and a half on all things “Classic Rock”.  I’ve shared as much as I know with him.  His curiosity and quest for knowledge is mind numbing.  Why can’t he tackle fractions like this?  I already know the answer; for the same reasons I couldn’t.  He’s got the fever.  I did what any responsible parent should do; I dug out all of the CD’s and went through them with him.  He picked out a starter stack of about 25 CD’s that he is presently working his way through.  Little does he know that my list for him grows exponentially each day.  I encourage each of you to do the same.  Dig out the old albums, dust off the turntable, dig the cassettes out of the attic (if they haven’t melted) and let your kids discover the same way you discovered.  Make suggestions, let them know that there are plenty of choices out there.  The dialogue that it opens up may surprise you; and place you back on common ground.

I’ll never forget the first time NukeMom caught me loading the washing machine “my way”.   My thoughts on the subject were; if it fits in there, it oughta come out clean.  I mean, if I can cram it in there, then why not?  Right?  Wrong.  Obviously now I know better. 

In the old days laundry to me was like doing the yard; sometimes you have to pick the kids up by their pits and have them stomp on top to get it all in.  It doesn’t matter if it’s Bermuda Tiff, or 300 thread count sheets.  Even if the top layer never got “totally wet” during the wash cycle, I knew that we had spin, rinse and spin coming up!  When the water kicked back on, there would be no way the top layer could stay dry.  After further review, and a lesson in laundry etiquette from NukeMom, I’ve come to the realization that size really does matter.

Smaller is better.  There, I said it.  Just because I can fit 37 pounds of laundry in the machine doesn’t mean I should.  Sure, I could knock out a week’s worth of laundry in 3 loads, but I know now that it is wrong.  Wrong on so many levels.  I have come full circle, and each morning I can be found in the laundry room gently and lovingly “placing” a load of laundry in the machine.  I don’t throw, cram, pack or smash anymore.  I can already see the benefits.  Today when I put towels away, I could only fit 4 towels where I could normally fit 6.  Fluffiness!  Who knew?  I knew that using 4 times the recommended amount of Downy would pay off.

The kids and I differ on these two definitions.  To clarify, lets recall the oft-told tale of the chicken, the pig and breakfast:  If you’re having  bacon, eggs and sausage for Breakfast, who made the contribution and who made the commitment?  Well, they both contributed, but I think the pig is definitely committed. 

This subject comes up during clean up time.  The picture above is of a “pillow house”.  They randomly appear in the den from time to time; sometimes with the knowledge and blessing of NukeDad and NukeMom, but usually not.  Their construction requires the use of pillows (obviously) of all sizes and shapes, and depending on their size and scope, may require a trip upstairs.  They need structure and support, so the use of “the little table” is often employed, as are end tables, rocking chairs, TV floor chairs and V-rockers.

Construction of these domiciles is generally fast and furious, much like Donald Trump’s development of the lower west side of Manhattan.  Once the structure is complete and the “roof” (whichever blanket is left) has been installed, the habitation begins.  There are secret doors, mailboxes, peek-a-boo floor level windows; you name it, it’s in there.  The euphoria of living in a self built abode lasts all the way till dinner time, or whenever Spongebob is over, whichever comes first.

After dinner, when it comes time to clean-up, the conflict begins.  They become squatters.  We’d have better luck clearing the Gaza Strip of rocket launchers than getting our pillows returned to their beds.  “Nukegirl!  I told you that after dinner you and Nukeboy2 would have to clean this up!”  “I know Daddy, but my legs hurt.”  She did it.  She played the ouchie card.   I’d seen this tactic before, and if I survived the Great Disco Scare Of The Late 70’s, then I could make it through this.  “Well, you can soak in the tub when you get done.”  “But Daddy”, she said “they hurt right now!  In real life!”  She wrongly assumed that my line between reality and fantasy was as blurred as hers was.  It wasn’t working.  “Just do it, Nukegirl.”  With a pouty lip and a feigned limp she hopped over to the couch and put one of the pillows back in it’s place.  That was her contribution.

Nukeboy2 was committed.  By the time Nukegirl and I had finished our verbal volley, he already had bed pillows returned upstairs, and most of the downstairs pillows and blankets in their proper places.  The only thing left was 1 couch pillow.  Nukegirl sauntered over, picked it up and with a look of disgust said to her brother: “How come I always have to do EVERYTHING?  You NEVER help.”  Nukeboy2 thought better of retaliation.  He’d rather be a pig than be called chicken any day.

Dad-isms have been around since the beginning of time.  Ever since Adam told Seth: “Just because  your brother killed your brother doesn’t mean you have to.”, the art of the Dad-ism has been elusive for some, and standard practice for others.  This started me thinking on how I would have answered differently if I had the knowledge then that I have now. 

For instance, I believe I would have asked a lot more questions.  How tall is the building?  Is there a pool at the bottom?  Will ESPN be there?  Who owns the building, and are they insured?  Actually, that probably would have been one of my Dad’s questions, but either way, we would’ve both benefited from the exercise.  Did my friend have a good reason for doing it?  Did he survive?  Did it get him a date?  Was it a screaming plunge, a graceful swan-dive or a double gainer with a 1/2 twist?  Suffice it to say that if my friends’ leap of faith had been off of his sisters playhouse into a pile of 100 dollar bills, I would have been there quicker than an asthmatic to his inhaler.  Save the hate mail, I’m sucking on mine as we speak.  I love the spring.  If, however, my friend went headlong off of the Sears Tower into a grove of honeylocust trees, then I believe I’ll pass.

The point is, when Dad was asking these hypotheticals, he already knew the answer, he was just looking for validation.  Answer wrong and he may be looking for the nearest bar, but I knew the answer as well.  And I still do.   I use a lot of my Father’s Dad-ism’s today, and if I do it correctly, then my kids will use them as well. 

I’m trying to modernize though.  “If your friend ran up an extra 30 dollars in text messages, would you?”, “That computer isn’t going to re-boot itself!”, “Get your i-pod’s off the table.”, “Credit cards don’t grow on trees, you know.”  I do have in my arsenal, though, the one Dad-ism that will always get you out of a jam.  The one that no child can refute, and no Dad should be without.  Use it sparingly and use it with caution. “Go ask your Mother.”