Tag Archives: Aging

Year Five

agmeskatingAt some point during our shared birthday week last year, I realized I wasn’t going to write my annual post about where Abigail and I were in our lives. Let’s just say it was a tough week

This year has started with some uncertainty, but I’ve found myself fueled by activity and optimism.

And as I re-read the last post I wrote about our birthdays, I was struck by how much hasn’t changed for Abigail and I. She still loves Daniel Tiger, Doc McStuffins, Elmo and tag. I’m still trying to become a healthier, more productive me. So there’s some comfort in the familiar there. We have, however, left sleepovers on the stairs in the past. Amen.

Abigail’s new interests include Peppa Pig, music (specifically Puffy Ami Yumi), playing superheroes vs. bad guys and riding her bike. I’ve swapped Up for Fitbit and come to the realization that my vague attempts at running twice a week needed to be actual workouts four times a week if they’re going to make a difference. I’m reading more. Finding time to write is still a challenge.

Speaking of the familiar, Abigail’s also picked up more than a few phrases favored by Erin and me.

“Actually, the thing is…”
“You know, guys…”
“Can I tell you something?”

Part of me worries about this. Are we making sure she’s given enough space to figure out who she is without too much undue influence from us? On the other hand, when she caught a glimpse of the Oscars opening montage this week and yelled “Dad, that’s Thor!” I was more than a little pleased.

Moreso than in previous years, it’s easier to see how Abigail is our kid through both nature and nurture. She gets frustrated with things she’s not good at and likes staying busy. At various points this year, she’s taken acting, ballet, yoga, swimming, gymnastics and soccer. The latter activity was pretty much a disaster with me spending more time on the field as assistant coach (a.k.a. child wrangler) than she did.

It strikes me that I’m as influenced by having her as a kid as she is in having me as a dad. There’s no way I’d have volunteered to be an assistant coach of anything if not for her. She’s a big part of my motivation for getting on a treadmill. And on and on.

This year Abigail vacillated between becoming a big kid and staying a little kid. She pushed hard for a “big kid bed” only to find that growing up isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. She’s been telling us she wants her “little bed” back (because the big kid bed is “too tall”) even though I’ve told her many times that’s not possible because we used the pieces of the little bed to assemble the big bed. Due, in part, to this, bedtime’s been a bit of a struggle lately. On the night of her birthday, she was setting up chairs for a “roller skating show” and we made her stop and get ready for bed which led to a twenty-minute epic meltdown. It is the height of emotional conflict as a parent to be angry and exhausted by a child’s tantrum but still holding in a laugh while she screams “BUT THE SHOW MUST GO ON!!!!”

On a related note, her imagination is through the roof and through it she’s exploring more of her world. She loves building with Legos just as much as she loves acting out elaborate stories with her dolls – sometimes both at the same time. She’s not as cowed by new experiences as she used to be – “I know I can do it!” is something she tells herself to get psyched up. She has two very close friends at school this year who she talks about all the time so she’s figuring out who she is in relationships with humans other than the ones telling her to get dressed or line up for computers class.

As for me, this seems like the year that “life’s too short” becomes my mantra. Too much is uncertain and nothing’s ever perfect. Do the thing now instead of putting it off. Nothing to lose except for missed opportunities. Don’t settle.

Some of that’s a by-product of being on the other side of 40. But most of it is seeing myself through Abigail’s eyes. It’s easy for her to look up to me at 5. Doing the work to make sure she’s still doing it at 25 takes a bit more effort.

Year Three

Abigail and I find ourselves at interesting turning points during this year’s shared birthday week. She finds herself turning from a toddler into a little kid. I find myself trying to become…well, an adult for lack of a better word.

At three, Abigail is full of agenda and opinions, just like her parents. (“I need to…” and “I have to…” are frequently deployed counter-arguments to explain why her actions run counter to our instructions.) Last year she evolved her speech to form sentences so this is now the year of the paragraph: mini-discussions on how she’s feeling, how you’re feeling and what’s happening in the lives of her favorite stuffed animals and TV shows. Speaking of, where last year was Abigail’s Daniel Tiger phase, this year it’s all about Doc McStuffins. Thanks to a gift of a doctor bag just like Doc’s there is not a day that goes by without me, Erin, her grandparents, her aunt or anyone else in her vicinity getting a check-up. (“Breathe in, please! Now breathe out. Sounds good!”)

At thirty-nine – dear God – check-ups have become more a part of my daily life. Not just the fictional variety but the medical, mental and chronological versions, too. I’m worried about things like high blood pressure and getting enough sleep. And I’m trying to make time for things that make me a more informed, well-rounded and thoughtful person so Abigail sees she has a dad who reads and listens to interesting things and doesn’t spend all his time checking his phone.

To that end, I’m wearing an Up bracelet now and obsessively documenting what I eat (who knew there was so much sodium in everything?) and how much time I spend sleeping and exercising. I’m putting things on my Google Calendar like “reading” and “running” so I’m reminded to do more of that and less listicle consumption. Digital tools are once again making my life worth living, and hopefully longer.

Of course, Abigail does not have any of these concerns. Her life is filled with books and discovery and new words and dispensing freelance medical advice. While not the omnivore she used to be, she’s settled into some favorite foods – cheese sandwiches, blueberries, black beans and couscous. When she’s not read to by me or Erin, she’s trying to sound out words in her books or learning vowel sounds with her reading apps. She got a new ukulele for her birthday from her saint of a nanny. She still loves dancing and music and runs around at every opportunity (“Chase me!“) when we’re not making caves out of pillows.

Her favorite thing to do right now is have “sleepovers” on the stairs. Blankets are retrieved, stuffed animals are acquired and everyone gets “cozy.” Everyone except the adults she’s wrangled into this situation as no grown human being is able to contort his or herself into a sleeping position on a set of bungalow stairs.

This was also the year Abigail started to figure out the world’s subtle differences. When she was very young, Erin and I thought ourselves geniuses because we purchased several of the small Pooh Bear security blankets Abigail sleeps with and carries around with her. If anything happened to one of them, another would be quickly pressed into service. Somewhere along the line, Abigail developed a preference for one over the others – he has a tag that’s worn through in a particular way. This one became known as Real Pooh. There is also Special Pooh which is the very first one she owned and looks a little different than the others. And then there’s Bathtub Pooh who is any Pooh who is not Real Pooh or Special Pooh and is OK for her to play with during bathtime so it’s not soaking wet during bedtime. So now we have the stuffed animal equivalent of the Ben Folds Five: a main guy you can’t do without and a bunch of other guys who fill out the ensemble.

Last year Abigail and I went to the toy store to get her a birthday present. This year we went to the comic book store after a pizza lunch at Pizano’s with Erin. I’ve been slowly introducing Superman into Abigail’s life and she’s been conscious of superheroes for a while. My boss bought her a kids’ book version of Superman’s origin story and we’ve been reading it at bedtime. She can identify most of the members of the Justice League. But when we couldn’t find a comic book with Elmo in it like the first one I got her, she lost interest in the rest of the store. She had an agenda and this wasn’t on it.

I’m glad we’re raising a daughter who has her own sense of what works for her and what doesn’t. Her dad’s still trying to figure it out.

Year Two

Today is Abigail’s 2nd birthday. In re-reading the post I wrote last year about the intersection of my birthday and hers, I’m struck by what a difference a year makes.

I’m sure next year I’ll re-read this and think about how we spent that morning playing with her ukulele, listening to James Brown during breakfast and entering Day 3 of No More Bottle. A day full of things worth remembering.

It can’t possibly be a year ago that she was just getting off the bottle considering she now consumes everything from Cheerios to curry to granola bars but there it is. The uke is busted and sits behind a chair though she’s now obsessed with bongo drums. Still likes James Brown but is more into dance-pop lately (Robyn is a big favorite). She’s also got this weirdly awesome dance: moving back and forth while rhythmically bending her arms and hands. Vogue meets the Funky Chicken.

Plenty more changed in a year. We long ago lost count of Abigail’s words as mimicry gave way to sentences and context and intent. “Get UP!” she will say. Or “Take a walk” as she grabs your hand. “OK!” was a stand-in for “yes” until this week when it became “I did!” “Nay” became “Nooooo!” in a month. She now knows all her letters and can tell you her name (which has evolved from “Abby” to “Abigail” finally).

And Lord, our child is a daredevil. She wants to climb on everything. Yesterday she ran full-on through our upstairs (“I’m fast!”) and plowed straight into an Elmo-shaped plush seat which obviously couldn’t support 27 pounds of kid hurtling at 10-12 MPH and sent her head-first into the glass door of our entertainment center with a thunk. (No breakage. Thank you, Ikea. You’re tougher than you look.) I swore and scooped her up while she complained then shook it off and demanded to be set down so she could run around some more.

This year we were a little schedule-challenged – because Abigail’s parents just can’t not be busy – so we had a party for her two weeks before her actual birthday. Erin was in New Orleans for the half-marathon last week and our change in plans for the trip may have inadvertently led to a new tradition for me and AG: a father-daughter birthday trip to pick out her present. We’ll see if that holds up next year.

As for this weekend, I’m headed out of town for my traditional March guys’ weekend with friends. This year, our schedules just happened to align so my birthday weekend was the one that worked best. I’ll be home early in the afternoon on my actual birthday so I can spend it with Erin and Abigail but it’s kind of great that AG ends up spending a weekend around her birthday with one parent and the following with another. Each of us gets to be a little selfish with her.

But this morning, we played with hand stamps and dinosaurs. And tonight we had a Daniel Tiger cake together. She knew it was her birthday.

If you’ve read this far, I apologize. This post has no real agenda and nothing particular to say about where we are at two years into this whole child-rearing thing. More than anything I just wanted to make a few notes for Future Scott of 2014 who sits down to write a post then about co-celebrating his birthday and thinks “Oh man, that’s when she was in her Daniel Tiger phase.”

Tonight Erin asked me if there was anything I wanted to do on Sunday for my birthday. As I said last year, I felt like I already had my celebration.

“You’re only old once” – Tuesday Funk 8.7.2012

Here’s an essay I read at Tuesday Funk, my friend (and acclaimed sci-fi author) Bill Shunn‘s reading series at the Hopleaf. You can see me deliver it in this YouTube clip (warning: language).

Here are three things I said to my wife last night:

“Do you have idea what’s going on with those weird bare patches in the lawn?”

“The nice thing about having these shoes for working in the backyard is there’s almost no tread on them so when I step in dog shit it wipes right off.”

And the third thing is honestly not worth quoting in its entirety but it involved the phrase “Well, when we were in our 20s…”

And then I took a fish oil pill.

I fucking love being old.

Last night, my wife and I were talking about this piece and I told her I’d been trying to work up some ideas around the notion that I’d grown old before my time and she said to me “No. No, I think it is your time.”

And she’s right. First, I am 37 years old. I am seven years past the age when the youth of America are supposed to stop trusting people my age. Second, my other idea for this piece was an explanation of why I don’t like going to public pools which is just about the most old man thought one can express other than “Alright, who touched the thermostat?”

It’s become clear to me that I am living the life of a man twice my age. Note the following:

1. Yesterday morning I got up at 545am so I would have enough time to put some fertilizer on our lawn before going to work.

2. I listen to the AM all-news channel quite a bit. I used to turn it on strictly for “traffic and weather on the 8s”…and then started listening for the headlines…and pretty soon I had memorized the commercials for services that prevent identity theft.

3. I got a hammock for Father’s Day. It was something I asked for and it made me deliriously happy. To put it another way, I was given a gift that facilitates me lying down for an extended period of time.

4. A couple weeks ago, I sat in my driveway in one of those folding lawn chairs and drank. Now, granted, my wife was with me. And we talked about our life together with our daughter, our work, our hopes and our dreams. But mostly we sat in our driveway in a couple of cheap-ass lawn chairs and drank until it got dark. The only thing missing were black socks that came up to my knees but who wants to wear that in this heat, I ask you?

Oh and speaking of drinking, I drink scotch. I’d rather drink scotch than almost anything else. Walking around with a glass of brown liquor into which you have put nothing else except maybe ice is a pretty good signifier that you have stopped trying to impress anyone with your knowledge of fine wines or cocktails infused with something.

5. I love mowing my lawn. I find it calming in a way that yoga, massages or sunsets do not offer. (Also, I’m not too keen on massages because of all the touching.) Mowing the lawn offers me both a sense of accomplishment and the restoration of order amongst chaos. When my neighbor has occasionally mowed our front lawn – in a gesture of pure goodwill and admittedly he does a really nice job of it – it’s completely freaked me out and made me nervous. He might as well be doing it while wearing a pair of my pants. It makes my blood pressure go up a little.

Oh also, I have high blood pressure. When you find out you have high blood pressure, you learn the proper phrase is not “My blood pressure is kinda high right now” the way you might say “Yeah, I’m feeling a little bloated today” or “I’m a little out of shape, gotta get back in the gym.” You just have it for the rest of my life. Like how you’re never not an alcoholic. I’m like an alcoholic but for heart disease. Although the main difference here is although I have high blood pressure, I can control it with diet and exercise but there are few things that make one feel old like a physical condition that needs to be controlled with diet and exercise.

So…I’m old. But rather than find it confining or condemning, I find it liberating.

Before I go on, I want to note something here: This is not a screed against youth. The world needs youth. Without youth and folly, the world does not dream the impossible. You can draw a short, straight line from the same lack of impulse control that makes kegstands seem like a good idea to thinking you can take something the size of a Mini Cooper, strap 76 pyrotechnic devices onto it, launch it into space, know you will lose contact with it for a full seven minutes during which it heats up to 1600 degrees with only a parachute able to withstand 65000 pounds of force to slow it down and then LAND IT ON MARS in a space roughly the width of Vermont.

(I only had room for about ⅓ of the amazing aspects of that Mars landing so do yourself a favor and Google “Seven Minutes of Terror” and watch the video about it.)

Anyway, what I’m saying is youth and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration is awesome.

And that same spirit of adventure you have in youth should carry you throughout your life. But the one thing about youth that you should not carry with you forever is the notion that all options need to be on the table. This doesn’t mean that you never try new things or stop learning. In fact, trying new things may be what makes you happy. But that usually falls under the headings of “I like books and reading” or “I like staying physically active” because when you stop doing those things you get all moody and feel like something’s missing in your life and then when you finally pick up a book on the Spanish Civil War or learn how to throw a javelin you remember “Oh right, I like me when I do this stuff.”

Still, at some point, you have to know yourself. You have to know what you’re good at, what you love, and what makes you happy and you have to do those things provided they don’t visit harm on you or the people you love. And some of those things are cool or make you seem smart. But a bunch of them probably aren’t.

I would love to read and understand A Brief History of Time enough to be able to explain significant portions of it to someone. But I was never particularly good at science. I love what science produces and the awe it inspires but grappling with the larger concepts like black holes and the uncertainty principle make my head ache. Eventually, I’m going to get through A Brief History of Time but now it’s because it’s an obstacle I’d like to overcome not because I think it will mean I understand particle physics. I’m never going to understand particle physics. Probably best to move on from that.

As Michael Keaton showed us in Multiplicity, the more you keep trying to segment yourself, the less like you you become. It seems really obvious that doing what makes you happy means you should just do those things. But it isn’t. It’s hard to know that when the world is constantly telling you what it thinks will make you happy. The world is usually wrong, but it’s kind of a loudmouth about it so it can be hard to tune it out.

There is nothing cool about enjoying the mowing of one’s lawn. Or sitting in cheap patio chairs in your driveway. Or listening to AM 780. Or going to the gym purely to stave off a heart attack.

..Scotch is pretty cool…

But all of these things – among many others – make me happy. So I’m free from thinking that on a Saturday in August I should be, say, in a mud pit at Lollapalooza when what I’d really like to do is mow my lawn, sit in my hammock and drink a glass of…well, honestly, every summer I make an official Summer Back Porch cocktail. This year it’s the Kentucky Buck, the base of which is brown liquor, specifically bourbon. But to make it you have to muddle a strawberry in lemon juice, add Angostura bitters and simple sugar, shake it thoroughly and pour it over ice before topping it off with ginger beer. When it’s finally made, it’s a pinkish color and garnished with a lemon.

Ah, what the hell. You’re only old once.

Celebrating a birthday

Today is my birthday.

When I woke up this morning, I walked downstairs and saw balloons stretching up to the ceiling and streamers hanging from the chandeliers and door jambs. The colored, helium-filled balloons said Happy birthday in white letters and fake confetti. At the end of the streamers were pink cardboard flowers and white cardboard circles with scalloped pink edges which read, in pink lettering…

Happy 1st Birthday

None of the decorations were for me. In fact, the streamers had been up for days and some of the balloons now drooped a bit from their once ceiling-level heights. The balloons and streamers were for Abigail, whose birthday had been four days prior.

Doesn’t matter. Her birthday has made me enjoy celebrating my own again.

***

Last year it was already clear to me that my birthday would now and forever be overshadowed by my daughter’s.

Abigail wasn’t even a week old yet so I know I hadn’t gone back to work but other than that I can’t remember much about my birthday last year. Whether that’s a result of the ongoing betrayal one’s body and mind commits with increasing frequency as the years go on or some stress-induced by-product of the first week of our daughter’s birth – maybe there wasn’t anything worth remembering other than how much parenting we did – I don’t know. I think it was the day before we came home from the hospital. If Erin were awake right now, I’d ask her and she might remember as she’s always been better about birthday-related matters than I am. But she’s asleep and so I turn to the electronic tools that I use as crutches in countless moments now.

Google Calendar says on the night of my birthday last year we were working on “paperwork [for] lactation consultant.” That, I remember: The struggles Erin went through trying to breastfeed and all the stops we pulled out to try and make it the primary means of feeding our child before realizing a good while later we weren’t going to be able to no matter how hard we tried. Rude Parenting Awakening #7 by that point.

Gmail and Facebook don’t reveal much else aside from a pregnancy-related to-do list I emailed myself on my birthday that read:

To Get:
Ibuprofen
Lunch
Guinness
[REDACTED ITEM THAT RELATES TO WHAT HAPPENS TO A LADY AFTER GIVING BIRTH THAT ERIN PROBABLY DOESN’T WANT ME TO REVEAL TO THE WORLD]

But a big parenting high-five to 2011 Erin and 2011 Scott for March 4th because the Calendar also says that day we A) Had a 9am pediatrician’s appointment B) met with a lactation consultant at 11am and C) went to a midwives’ appointment at 2pm. How insane is that? There’s no way we’d attempt that kind of schedule now, for crying out loud.  Although our subconscious rationale at the time was probably “Let’s surround ourselves with as many people as possible who know that the fuck they’re doing.” Come to think of it, I think we might have gone right from the hospital to the pediatrician which means I probably spent that day in the hospital.

So whatever else was going on that day – aside from finishing up this cathartic post – I did not trust myself to remember a four-item list that was crucial to the happiness of my still-recovering-from-daylong-labor wife. I certainly wasn’t celebrating my birthday. My mind was on other things. (On the plus side, I had beer.)

***

It’s a little later in the morning now. Erin’s now up and off to Derby Lite and Abigail’s down for her nap. We spent the first part of the morning as we always do on Saturdays, giving Abigail her breakfast and enjoying some extended playtime that our jobs don’t allow for during the week. The house is quiet aside from the occasional rustles from the baby monitor as AG kicks and moves in her sleep.

I generally don’t like making a big deal about my birthday. I think Ron Swanson has it right:

Well-wishes from friends, a nice dinner out with Erin and time to read and relax is my idea of a perfect day and that’s how today’s shaping up.

But now that Abigail’s birthday is days before mine I have a whole new reason to celebrate. At 37 – jeez – I get more joy out of buying presents for Abigail than I do getting them myself. We had a party last week for her and I don’t know about you but I enjoy making a fuss over someone else on their birthday way more than I enjoy having a fuss made over me. Especially when they look like this.

I’ve never been big on reflecting on the past but I’ve spent the morning revisiting Abigail’s birth, looking at pictures of how tiny she was and thinking about how far she’s come in just a year. I’m sure next year I’ll re-read this and think about how we spent that morning playing with her ukulele, listening to James Brown during breakfast and entering Day 3 of No More Bottle. A day full of things worth remembering.

Best birthdays ever.

Same as it ever was?

If Jim DeRogatis at the Chicago Sun-Times is saying Pearl Jam is anchoring Lollapalooza, I’m inclined to believe him. He was the first to break the story, but when I heard the news this morning, it was credited to Billboard.com, which made me initially skeptical. Last year, Billboard said “Chicago media reports” indicated that a reunited Smashing Pumpkins (as opposed to the barely-there version Corgan’s working with now) were being eyed as a headliner. It was picked up all over the place, but after a little research, I discovered it turned out to be nothing more than a third-hand rumor passed on by an editor…the same editor who wrote up that Pearl Jam piece. Hence my skepticism.

But like I said, if DeRogatis is the original source for it, it’s probably true. But this leads to another question: why would the organizers of Lollapalooza want to continue booking headliners that only harken back to Lolla’s glory days, rather than acts that help the fest stake out a new identity as the barometer for the best in music?

Let’s get a couple givens out of the way first. Pearl Jam is a more interesting, challenging, and focused band now than they were when they first played Lolla back in 1992. You could easily argue that they’re as much in their prime now as they were back then. And in some instances, I have (which is funny, since I’m not a huge fan, and the only PJ album I have is the “bootleg” live album they recorded in Hamburg).

Also, Lolla’s identity now is different than it was during PJ’s first appearance there, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Looking back at the lineups of the old Lollapalooza is like reading notes from the underground of American rock music. I’m not here to eulogize that time, or suggest that the new Lolla should try and re-capture it. They’re clearly trying to establish themselves as the place where both the casual and hardcore music fan can find a reason to justify dropping $200 on tickets, and not have to spend days in the desert to hear lots of good music. I think that’s a good thing.

So why, if I’m not the same person I was when Lolla came to the World Music Theatre in the early 90s, does Lolla seem like it’s often content to book acts who were the soundtrack to my teenage fumblings? Maybe it’s because the arena concert industry makes the most money off of the artists who were most influential during the teenage years of those who are now in their 30s.

Look at the top 5 concert draws for 2006: The Stones, Madonna, Bon Jovi, U2, and Tim McGraw and Faith Hill. With the exception of Tim and Faith, those are all artists whose audiences are now well into adulthood, and had their most influential years in the 1980s (even the Stones were still a viable creative entity during that time).

Pitchfork and Intonation illustrate how music listening and buying patterns have become increasingly niche-oriented. They are for people who buy and listen to music regularly, and in some cases, religiously. Even Bonnaroo still operates as one really long, large-scale club show, as evidenced by the extensive camping opportunities (which is the festival version of going back to your friend’s house, drinking a few beers and passing out on his couch after a show).

But Lolla in the mid-aughts is the ultimate example of the arena concert as an adult theme park, where everyone plays Ultimate Music Fan for a weekend. You’re overcharged for everything, have to walk a lot, and stand in long lines. There’s more artifice than reality, but in the end, if you’re patient, there are still plenty of thrills to be had. Most arena tours are constructed that way, and Lolla is the 800 pound gorilla version of it. (Coachella splits the difference between Bonnaroo and Lolla, with tents available and Palm Springs a short drive away, and if you look at their lineup, that’s a pretty good description of it right there.)

So it makes sense that if Lolla wants to re-create the arena experience on a much larger scale, then they’re going to go with artists who speak to the teenager still living inside most adult music fans. A few newer, cutting-edge thrills are fine, but they have to deliver the goods, and that means tapping into what most of the attendees remember as their primo concert experience.

Or to put it another way, while people might ride Superman: Ultimate Flight when they go to Great America, they don’t leave without hitting either The Demon or The American Eagle.

Reunionize Yourself

Sorry for the lack of posts. Lots of life change, what with the new job and the new place. Won’t happen again. Promise.

In the interim, reunion tours for both The Police* and Van Halen were announced, and it’s not possible to find two bands that are more indicative of the Goofus and Gallant school of thought when it comes to rock reunion tours.

On the one hand, you have The Police, who – with the exception of the occasional one-off gigs here and there – haven’t worked together artistically in the past 20 years. They’ve been offered scads of money before, but never saw the need. But at this stage in their respective individual careers, a reunion tour is a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down. With Sting having recorded an album of music on the lute (!!!), it’s a chance for him to prove that old Onion editorial was correct. For Andy Summers and Stewart Copeland, it’s to remind those who’ve forgotten that the band’s artistic success was built on the creative tension that existed between the three of them, and that no matter how things looked on the outside, the entity known as The Police required the efforts of all three. This house, often divided against itself, did stand. Take away any part of the whole … and you have an album of music played on the lute.

And speaking of removing part of the whole, there’s Van Halen.

The day after my Senior Prom, I – along with my date and some friends – went to Great America. In conversation with the acknowledged Guitar God of our high school, I derisively referred to the band as “Van Hagar,” a slight for which Guitar God took me to task. “C’mon, it’s not like they were ‘Van Roth’ before.” I had no retort.

I thought of this moment when I heard that VH bassist Michael Anthony had been unceremoniously (and if there’s a more apropos adverb for it, I don’t know what it is) booted from the band. Michael Anthony’s crime seems to be having toured with Hagar recently, which is ironic, since Roth famously did the same on the “Sans Halen” tour a few years back.

I thought of that moment again when it was announced that the brothers Van Halen were reuniting with David Lee Roth, with Eddie’s son Wolfgang on bass.

Talk about being careful what you wish for. Even the most strident Sammy Hagar defenders would admit that a tour with Diamond Dave fronting the band would be worth seeing. Since the Roth years of VH, in particular, depended on the thump-thump-thump and “Oooh baby baby” that Anthony brought to the party, this tour’s going to end up like the end of “The Monkey’s Paw,” where the departed relative you wished back to life turns out to be some weird zombie knocking at the door in the middle of the night.

When I see Van Halen, I want some dude (I’m not picky about who so long as he was not at any point affiliated with Nuno Bettencourt) in brightly-colored pants singing about ladies in some fashion. I want two goofy-looking Dutch cats hammering away on the skins and blowing my damn mind on guitar, respectively. And lastly, I want a dude in a mullet, crooning background vocals, and playing something that resembles a bottle of Jack Daniels with strings.

It’s hard to fault Eddie for wanting to spend more time with his kid, but I was pretty sure the rock cognoscenti agreed that making family members a part of the band was a bad idea ever since Paul wanted Linda to join Wings. Recent public appearances by the man seem to confirm that the dude is back on the sauce. He’s acknowledged that when he was heavily hitting the bottle back in the day, Roth would talk him into things he might not have ordinarily thought were a good idea. It’s also pretty clear from Ed’s foray into the world of adult film soundtracks that he’s got a base need to be making music in some fashion, whether or not such ventures have any artistic merit. The last time all three of these elements combined, the band produced “Big Bad Bill Is Sweet William Now” off Diver Down. So I can’t see how this is anything but a bad idea.

There are plenty of people who argue that nostalgia is the enemy of rock and roll. When something like this Van Halen reunion tour happens, it’s hard to come up with an effective argument. I’m hoping The Police are able to provide one.

Otherwise, we’re going to end up with another album of music on the lute.

* Check that quote from the guy at Pollstar at the end of the AP story. Is that the most depressing thing you’ve ever read in your life?