Friday, May 19, 2006
praise bob
Last night, The Wife and I went to see The Violent Femmes. I love the Violent Femmes. Did you know, you can't fuck with the Violent Femmes? You can not fuck with this band. It's true. I heard someone say it once on a recording.
The Violent Femmes: midwestern minimalist music for socially awkward serial killers. I love it.
Tonight, I was gonna write a hopefully charming and witty review. Not so much one of the musical perfomance, I'll leave that for the clamour of the critics. I was gonna write more about the entire show. I wanted to write about being first beside, and then surrounded by a gaggle of Tecate sucking coeds who jabbered incessantly. I wanted to convey with humor my annoyance at the way they stood on either side of us and gestured wildly, thumb tapping on their cell phones and actually text messaging each other about the state of their real and imagined social relationships. Only once did they pause briefly to sing, with neither sense nor understanding of the irony of their actions:
Situations evolve, events spiral.
Instead I myself sitting here, self-medicating myself with a Sprite laced with a double shot of medium grade tequila into a more relaxed mind state. Again and again I listen while Bob Marley repeatedly tells me
It's been a bad day.
No, it's nothing really new, no roads untravelled here. All this week The Boy has been putting us all through the paces of his various respiratory issues and ailments. He is quite sick. It happens every once and awhile. It's part of the nature of The Boy.
Today was the exception. The Boy went a little farther down that road than we have been before. It's not a pretty place.
Tonight The Boy and The Wife rest uncomfortably at the local Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.
They are in a small room, cramped with the cold sterility of monitors and machines. The wall shared with the corridor is made entirely of windows.
It is an odd place and disconcerting place.
While there, you will sometimes find that you can no longer look at the frail plugged-in and tuned-out body of The Boy because you will invevitably explode into tears. You need to look briefly away.
You will stare either at the nothingness or obsessively watch the numbers on the monitors, silently cursing and praying they move in the right directions. You can't help but to peer out at the doctors and nurses who parade by, looking at you and your child as though you are the new attraction while making notes on their clipboards.
When I left The Boy was receiving 7 plus liters of oxygen per whatever the fuck unit they use. I may not know the unit but I know it's a whole fucking lot. He's connected to all the machines, up to and including the one that goes "ping". It is sometimes a struggle, but he is breathing on his own. His heart is racing, his respirations are shallow and way to fucking fast. The doctors and nurses repeatedly mentioned the option of something called "intubation" in tones that vary from serious and concerned to sometimes almost patronizing.
I get the general idea, but I am still somewhat blissfully ignorant of exactly what that means, involves, and entails. The Recent Nursing School Graduate Wife recoils in fear at the sound of the word.
I just hope your right, Bob. I hope and pray you are right.
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The Violent Femmes: midwestern minimalist music for socially awkward serial killers. I love it.
Tonight, I was gonna write a hopefully charming and witty review. Not so much one of the musical perfomance, I'll leave that for the clamour of the critics. I was gonna write more about the entire show. I wanted to write about being first beside, and then surrounded by a gaggle of Tecate sucking coeds who jabbered incessantly. I wanted to convey with humor my annoyance at the way they stood on either side of us and gestured wildly, thumb tapping on their cell phones and actually text messaging each other about the state of their real and imagined social relationships. Only once did they pause briefly to sing, with neither sense nor understanding of the irony of their actions:
When I'm out walking I strut my stuff yeah I'm so strung outI was gonna write about all that. But now I'm not. Now, none of it matters. Hell, none of it ever did. It never does. We delude ourselves into giving meaning to the trivial, falsely secure in the the thin comfort of our daily affairs.
I'm high as a kite I just might stop to check you out
let me go on
like I blister in the sun
let me go on
big hands I know your the one
body and beats I stain my sheets I don't even know why
my girlfriend she's at the end she is starting to cry
let me go on
like I blister in the sun
let me go on
big hands I know your the one
Situations evolve, events spiral.
Instead I myself sitting here, self-medicating myself with a Sprite laced with a double shot of medium grade tequila into a more relaxed mind state. Again and again I listen while Bob Marley repeatedly tells me
Don't worry about a thing, 'cause every little thing's gonna be all rightI have just returned home. I have just left The Boy snuggled in the arms of The Wife a few miles from here.
It's been a bad day.
No, it's nothing really new, no roads untravelled here. All this week The Boy has been putting us all through the paces of his various respiratory issues and ailments. He is quite sick. It happens every once and awhile. It's part of the nature of The Boy.
Today was the exception. The Boy went a little farther down that road than we have been before. It's not a pretty place.
Tonight The Boy and The Wife rest uncomfortably at the local Pediatric Intensive Care Unit.
They are in a small room, cramped with the cold sterility of monitors and machines. The wall shared with the corridor is made entirely of windows.
It is an odd place and disconcerting place.
While there, you will sometimes find that you can no longer look at the frail plugged-in and tuned-out body of The Boy because you will invevitably explode into tears. You need to look briefly away.
You will stare either at the nothingness or obsessively watch the numbers on the monitors, silently cursing and praying they move in the right directions. You can't help but to peer out at the doctors and nurses who parade by, looking at you and your child as though you are the new attraction while making notes on their clipboards.
When I left The Boy was receiving 7 plus liters of oxygen per whatever the fuck unit they use. I may not know the unit but I know it's a whole fucking lot. He's connected to all the machines, up to and including the one that goes "ping". It is sometimes a struggle, but he is breathing on his own. His heart is racing, his respirations are shallow and way to fucking fast. The doctors and nurses repeatedly mentioned the option of something called "intubation" in tones that vary from serious and concerned to sometimes almost patronizing.
I get the general idea, but I am still somewhat blissfully ignorant of exactly what that means, involves, and entails. The Recent Nursing School Graduate Wife recoils in fear at the sound of the word.
I just hope your right, Bob. I hope and pray you are right.
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