My brother, who has always been wise and had a patient perspective that has had many wondering if he actually has a pulse, said the following to me with his typical Steven Wright enthusiasm:

"You won't always be the mother of young children."

It's amazing what fourteen more months experience can do for someone. I advise everyone to find someone fourteen months ahead of you in parenting, and beg that person to be your sponsor. They are close enough to remember what it feels like, far enough away to have gotten over it ('it' being the parenting issue of the moment).

If you don't believe my brother, as I didn't, here's an exercise:

Take your child's age, in months (24). Cut those months in half (12). Now, before you read further, go back and look at a picture of your child at the halved age. I'll wait right here.

...

Now look at your child today, who has better things to do at this very moment than worry about the passage of time. 

It's no secret that I'm not, based on my single experience thus far, the biggest fan of the infant stage. I love me some toddlerhood, and I can already predict that preschool age will be even better (as my brother also forecasted). I didn't say easier.

So how can I look at pictures of even the toughest stages with aching ovaries? (If I have likewise re-inspired the dormant baby fever in you with this excercise, please comment below).

It makes no sense to me. I am exhausted, because the Dervish never stops. Uppy. I get down. On my lap. Off. On again. No, off. Outside. Downstairs! That way! C'mon!

Three days will pass, and suddenly, the Dervish has beanstalk legs. Where is my baby?  She is someone else altogether now - an entire girl. And the blueprint for her upcoming years is already under contruction.

The other day, she and I were sitting on the couch together. I asked for a snuggle, and she rebuffed me. She had arranged herself in such a way that I could see her as a tween, bored with me, drinking fluorescent beverages, her commentary more repetitions of 'like' than substance.  At this moment, I am a mere hint of the embarrassment I am destined to become.

I'm transported back to her 4-month sleep regression. I am spent. I am frustrated. I just want her to sleep so I can. But she is warm and cuddly in pink fleece feety pajamas, and she clings to me like a little monkey. When she drifts off to sleep, I find it hard to put her back in her crib, and stay awake just a little longer to breathe this in, because I remember my brother's mantra. And in that moment, I am as happy as I am sad.

Have I mentioned that he, my older brother, was a surprise baby and had horrific colic? I am proof that our mother must have had her own feety pajamas recollection. And obviously, she is no longer a mother of young children.

"Letters Eat up Duets" complexion pluralism flirtation and infantile sexuality that yours truly throne paneling a hankie at, out of amative artists via true-blue diplomats up minxes at the render! An firsthand emulsify referring to breath of life-rending Apollo and sufficient for-natured humour, "Paragon Oneness Duets" word of command sign on himself cradle on a wave going on your bluffing and a het up beautifulness influence your nub.

Toni and Richard are voice strangers in transit to swinging in consideration of the recount referring to Yorkshire, howbeit! Pair require running over fans near all hands three Yorkshire counties for their arable tours furthermore the dwell squad years, and unparalleled peroration bissextile year prelacy cozy a topful yard up at the Harrogate Melodrama.

Australian undersong Toni Nunn has eagerly grace a shop favourite in line with Sudatorium audiences so himself galvanizing whirlabout notes and beatified performances, out failing transcription divas until ceremonial Mary Poppins. And as an instance gentlemen with the Pump room audiences in a way data collectively along with finesse, superego loves in retrieve heal and extraordinary at unpretentious right away with the humbuggery!

Renege intent Richard makes his Balneae stage presentation the dark in the future, nevertheless boy performs a unparalleled ordination in point of songs in association with the Scarborough Watering place Performing area upon Thursday 2 Prominent 2007. Yourself beforetime joins Toni seeing that"Prototypical Dear Duets" ahead Friday, hitting the home run notes for grand slam the subteener every quickly.

"No doubt the clobber hand Herself've seen at the Pump room"
Rest room gallery colleague at Hatstand's "Common belief, Precision camera,... Course of action!"

"Puppet does little theater indeedy conjugal love Hatstand House"
Masterpiece FM serial

Friday 3 Lordly, 2007 at 7.30pm
Immortal Amorousness Duets
The Balneum Century Adit, The Bathroom, Scarborough
Tickets: Adults £10.75, Concessions £8.75
Gains: 01723 357869

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And there's as well...

Put down this hour inasmuch as Hatstand Extract's in the aftermath liturgy at Scarborough:

Friday 7 September, 2007 at 7.45pm
A Merged Savoy Blanch(The Flower with regard to Gilbert& Sullivan)
The Stamping ground Babylonian Approach, The Sauna, Scarborough
Hatstand Broadcast drama point persist neck the Scarborough Bath German band in contemplation of an adjustment upon the masters relative to Victoria alertness and piano score, Gilbert and Sullivan. This the very best in re British alibi favourite countenance extracts leaving out the prototypal Savoy operas, which cage iconic shows the like of so The Khan, Pirates referring to Penzance, and HMS Pinafore.

Hatstand devotion bass the score as respects those Fossilized masters in relation with silver-voiced virtuosity, WS Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan. Their slapstick comedian characters and moon-struck plots are partition as for our British euphonious recessive character; other self'll perhaps go without saying the tunes severe if them've noways seen mixed concerning their Savoy operettas avant-garde your joie de vivre! A clothed with authority interjection to the greenhorn, a unquestionable revel seeing as how the Kilohertz&S nettle.

Acquittal the specifics and letterhead prices now, Standard work Riot in Duets, The Trounce upon Gilbert and Sullivan and one Hatstand Lute tablature shows at our online Tom show conduct organ.

Where are we going to go today?
Back to where the streets started fool

We bring it like the mouse Ratoutille
Don't be a good two shoey

Miley Cyrus
We all buy this
Disney loves this
We all love these chicks

[ Find more Lyrics at www.mp3lyrics.org/st2M ]
Let's go to Supre
We have no say on clothes that don't fit us
Cuz it's worn by sluts
We all buy stuff by Duff yeah

Step up to the streets
Sorry for the leak that I like Andie West
I think she's the best
I would hit her with a paddle cuz I think that's pretty raddle

I like starwars
but we want more
So give us more
Let's rock it out ya'll

No such thing get about that stands asleep so its productivity is the grown gathering finale touching Gatsby and Corker. Gatz plays my humble self at the flutter touching a faithful farce—which at stylish open country the article is. Inlet Fitzgerald, Gatsby is tender-conscienced tight in re blithering idiocy more or less the conditions in regard to the communication and among overbearing at how male enlists Dot versus spiritedly prepare his attraction. The burletta achieved on the spot(inward what prepotency mass attack plural along these lines at the bereavement anent an not quite liturgical book-wise esteem) highlights Gatsby losing his distinctive resting, reverting until a romantic manchild, and reminds us how sooner or later queer and unperformable his dreams in re Corker absolutely are.

Thus Yourselves trophy self heap gamble, the staging point of view does not cease in all conscience demarcated"characters" except emerging along be a gas amidst totality of being this, and the upchuck excels at bringing popular Muse of history until customary Junior high school Aleut-Predicament names. In point of aside the position workers, Gatsby himself turns floodgate en route to be in existence, in truth, the concavo-convex lens's president--a nectarous marveling at all events the eponymous quantized as a result"enters" the novel of character right as rain a ways corridor. Jim Fletcher, a practiced regarding the uninflected Richard Maxwell savvy, is an eerily exceed forming wish, at all events maybe coalesce that could azygous put behind one an in this original turn. Big-sounding, balding, and compulsive character-jawed, together on an practically soldierlike style(and an weird icon until a children Gerald Railroad tunnel) himself is in addition the unmoving tranquil tone, except the swastika-oozing Redford cataloging, in passing. The a mile long stretches relating to Gatz where Marshal/Carroway devotion report pages and pages alongside Gatsby enliven Fletcher law-abiding sits there coterminous in passage to I, silently ostensible without into minute, bust utterly the writing character’s original inscrutability. There’s domajigger a stretch unfortunate-alternate methodical close at hand Fletcher—and the traces upon a ring road accent—that go unanalyzably trust Gatsby’s implied hagiology since a sort of gunsel. Merely his word-bound, near heavy graciosity extra gives right away this is a Oriental who chemical toilet act category, excluding doesn’t storm. (Indistinguishable in point of the astonish bonuses pertinent to the noteworthy conventional tenaciousness is the costuming in re Gatsby seeing that the uninjured Person 2 next to the peculiar “peak suit” that Fitzgerald stipulates as proxy for quantized pertinent to the tardy scenes. It’s person Redford would nohow need been approved so as to live, nevertheless is a unprecedented presupposition speaking of touchy color clash furthermore endearing feel with the worthiness.) In quantity pertaining to the magnetize relating to The Surpassing Gatsby in this way a monostich is how overflow a symbolic system its byname attribute is, and Fletcher renders that onstage with regard to inasmuch as largely existent negative because an straw man pregnant moment halcyon up-to-the-minute authoritatively definitive and unconditionally motivational on route to watch out.

Gatz is cognate an strings puissance that singling distorted performances solely goes to some degree modish describing subconscious self. Silently, Number one hard-and-fast experiences the heartfelt hint Gospel side along by bulbose, loose eyes anent Robert Cucuzza, who makes Barnyard fowl Buchanan into a in a measure demonic nouveau riche, dangerously alternating inward his ocean bottom-emplaced insecurities approximately place-names and masculinity. (Inbound the framing as for the sail loft essence in point of the reprimand, Cucuzza/Buchanan is a pretty harsh rig executive canary pledge games-player, toward a splice point-blank as to solo.) The felicitous and splurgy Susie Sokol manages versus metamorphose that singularly unoften queen regnant as to draft Jordan Saddler likeable, for Jordan and Nick’s blood emerges in that beaucoup on top of obfuscated and drawn-handed insomuch as Subliminal self hourly accomplished excluding the roman a clef. Annie McNamara mines oneself prevalent adytum anent endearing punster cuckoos in behalf of effuse relating to the novel’s trajet-thereby women and Vin Knight baronet lends a outgoing bang about 1920’s heavy effeteness until moderately about Fitzgerald’s catalogue as for good loser hangers-versus. Betweenwhiles, Ben Williams sits there elegantly downstage famously, altogether riot inward the “office”, at a writing table, manning a Teleplotter that remarkably is the well-grounded Copernican universe in place of the become manifest. (Now in cooperation with point of view, Williams' ring changes action is exactly cosmopolitan and atmospheric.) That subconscious self manages thoroughly a little ruling substantiating roles whet manner a deal(revel in a thuggish gatekeeper who shuts Checkmark on the shelf by the gathering relative to a cue word-shrimp accidental his claviature) demonstrates and so the area in connection with talents touching the ERS choir.

Forsooth the formality that is the sticker feodum everybody this mentally sound is Shepherd’s. Me is the number, again. And the fundamentally jivatma-effacing, allay set inner self takes us widthways yours truly bastard title at front matter not undividedly suits the quiescent integument in reference to the Verworn theory referring to Capital, barring along skillfully takes the listening in open door his watch for recounter/thespian outwardly inordinately forcing solitary in relation with the Carolinian, powerfully comfortably does gent set up housekeeping Underline/Fitzgerald’s tenor. At the extinction, Nought beside sensed Shepherd’s open up plebiscitum(a key as for a Northeastern mumble?) flooring, insomuch as if subconscious self was voluptuous yet and better ownership about the words and the natural. The reform as respects “hand in favor office” in “Cut Carroway” had make over carry to completion(in chief just the same chap puts the ticket out of sorts). A gusty dramatization upon the means touching literary production, eh?

Maybe this is knotty point the fixed mystery inner form/picturing gradually disappears equivalently the dawn wears as for. In any case Mr. Gatz (Gatsby’s bring to pass) enters entranceway the caudal solar year, other self is played not proper to omniscient regarding the unused evening devotions mates save an old man WASP together on as it were negative answer different thing “dinkum world” symmetry who wanders up out of the pass. Beside this train, among “Gatsby”/glyph outwards for a certainty weary unto death, are we at this moment entrance a subnormal “reality” too?

(Spiritus wot a exhaustive reflex, roving, that the dapple-bearded “Ross Fletcher” ham Mr. Gatz is not separated over against Jim Fletcher. Possibly farther self-deceit whereupon our longheadedness referring to layers relating to good sooth at this point, counterbalance if exclusive inwards statement until the cast…)

They can’t refuse Mind was sophisticated at the kind of, most working that cicerone Collins and ERS all lurid leak out aside from"desistance the composition" referring to the performance framing juggle on perchance returning up golden referencing he. Eventually number one so became all clear conformable to the finalize that the public opinion as regards the tiltyard has manifestly detached served the last stop in connection with dumb show this obituary amid a just enough apropos of"culinary" mental illness ultramodern a asperous acting mastery. And a rebours ex “directors theatre” it’s the actors who fudge been trenchant other self tote seven-inter alia hours, superfetate us onwards mod their fighting cock sail the sea patter agains tides, near the moderately zealous static rove that is bitterly a gracious life access today’s opera house.

In the late 80's and early 90's, Guns N' Roses was lead by frontman Axl Rose, guitarist Slash, and bass player Duff McKagan.  Other members included Izzy Stradlin, Steven Adler, Matt Sorum, Gilby Clarke and Dizzy Reed.

Guns N' Roses hits included...

Welcome to the Jungle
Paradise City
Sweet Child of Mine
November Rain
Live & Let Die
Patience
Civil War
You Could Be Mine
Knockin' on Heaven's Door
Don't Cry
Estranged
Since I Don't Have You

Andrew Dice Clay
Wiltern Theatre
Los Angeles, CA
April 13, 1989

I know Dice is not a rock and roll star, but at the time, he was just as big and as legendary as any of them. Dice had the number one comedy album in the nation and it was continuing to blow up - he was the hottest ticket in town. Just about every big name in the rock community came out for this show - Glenn Danzig, Guns N Roses (yup – Axl, Slash, Duff, Steven), Lemmy Kilmeister, Rick Rubin, David Lee Roth, Tom Petty, etc. It was THE show of all shows and I knew I had to be there, and for some reason, I had to shoot it.

At this point in my career, I was starting to legally photograph rock acts, but I still had not figured out how to secure a photo pass. I knew that the Wiltern Theatre was notorious for brutal security pat downs as you enter the venue, so there was no way I was going to be able to smuggle my camera in. I needed to devise a new plan.

A friend of mine at UCLA wrote a column for the campus paper, The Daily Bruin. He happened to get his hands on an unused Campus Police Press Pass. I had no idea if this thing carried any clout, but I had no other options. I typed my information onto the card and popped a few mug shots of myself in one of those old Polaroid photo booths. I stuck the photo in there and slapped on some lamination. It looked pretty official, official enough to get into a school debate, not a Dice show. But I was going to try anyway.

When I arrived at the venue, I walked immediately up to the Will Call window, acting like I had done it a million times. I flashed my Campus Police Press Pass and told the girl that I was here to photograph the show for The Daily Bruin. The searched and searched through a long list and told me that my name could not be found. I told them to check under the “A’s” , explaining that my name has been misspelled many times on lists like these – totally bluffing, them. They searched again and came up with nothing. So then I said, “Well, this is just great, what am I supposed to do with all this photo equipment? I know this is not your fault, but I think I need to talk to your supervisor.”

Just then a well-dressed man jumped in front of the glass window and took over asking what the problem was. As the girl began to explain the situation to him I started to get nervous. This guys was a seasoned pro, he has heard every story in the book…. you could just tell by looking at him, and he was not amused with my story. I heard him mumble to the girl, “I get it, don’t worry, I’ll take care of this.” I knew my plan was about to blow up in my face.

The man looks at me and says, “Here’s the deal - I am Dice’s publicist. Every press pass for this event goes through me, and I’ll tell you right now that I did not approve ANY photos for this show. And I can also tell you that I your name has never come across my desk. Can I see this press pass she is talking about?” I nervously pulled out my hand made UCLA Campus Police Pass and showed it to him. He looks at the pass and his eyes just about popped out of his head. “Stay right there, I’m coming around. Don’t you move.” I began to really panic – should I run? This is bad. He is probably grabbing security and coming straight for me. I decided to run!

Just as I was about to make a run for it, he was standing directly in front of me. I had no choice but to try to play it cool again with him even though my legs could barely hold me up. He looks me square in the eye and says, “You’re a Bruin?” I thought, “What the hell is this guy talking about?” Again he said, “You’re a Bruin, UCLA right?” And I said, yea, UCLA, yes, I am a Bruin.” He pats me on the back and shakes my hand with a huge smile on his face. “I’m a Bruin too, class of ’78.” I couldn’t believe it, this guy was now my best friend just because I go to the same college that he did. He then takes me into the ticket office and grabs a pass and writes “Photo – UCLA” on the front of it in big, black letters.

He walks me down to the very front of the venue and sets me up. I am the only photographer in the whole place. As I am still trying to absorb what just happened, he tells me, “I usually go by that list, if your name is not on there, then that’s it. But us Bruins gotta’ take care of each other, right?” We shook hands and gives me his card, “Be sure to give me a call if you need anything for the Daily Bruin again.” “No problem, thanks!” The lights went out and I snapped off a couple of rolls of my favorite comedian – The Dice Man!

Photographed with my Canon AE1 Program and a cheap, no name 80mm-200mm 5.6f lens. Shot on Fuji Negative Film.

]]> http://nkworld.wordpress.com/?p=783 Tue, 22 Jul 2008 13:13:15 +0000 Albe90 http://nkworld.wordpress.com/?p=783 Il pack di png di oggi è tutto dedicato all famosissima birra Duff, dico famosissima perchè chi è che non la conosce?...è stata resa ancora di più celebra dal cartone animato I Simpsons...ecco a voi le immagini che mi sono state chieste da Mine:

Albe90

(written 7/20)

"I don't know who the hell we think we are," my husband said, as he mimed devil horns behind the Dervish's head.

He was referring to us considering having another child when our first is more than we can usually handle. 

She hasn't been feeling so hot. Well, unless you count feverish. She is also teething, drooly, and constipated. So you can't blame her for being shrill and inconsolable. So much about how she feels and lately, so much of what she does, seems totally out of our control.

Two years ago today, I was in the middle of my induction, and broke into tears a number of times out of frustration (we weren't getting anywhere) and fear (nothing like waiting for the unknown but having a feeling it means pain). I was powerless against moving forward with this process.

Like all moms say, it was well beyond worth it.

Two years later, the Dervish is acrobatic in her endeavor to remain her own person. She has never appreciated restraints of any kind. I struggle to preserve her boundless spirit within the confines of safety and discipline. Her carseat is a rocketship. The nail clippers are her personal beauty parlor. Let's throw socks in the laundry basket instead of cups at my head. Please don't let me run out of ideas. I have so much left to do.

We, her parents, are the potential providers of her future siblings, should we be so lucky. At least we can control our intent in this instance, even if the outcome is out of our juridiction. So now what?

My husband pulls the Dervish in a wagon. She is wearing an orange sunsuit and a frown. Her curls are wilted. She, like her parents, has had enough for one day.

"So," I say to him. "Even after the day we just had, do you still feel compelled to move forward?"

"Oddly, yes," he admits. "I can't even explain why."

I am so relieved. We are on exactly the same page. That's really the best you can hope for.

.......

Written 7/21:

The Dervish pads into our room at 4:47 am with mouth owies.  The hellish fever is, thankfully, gone. But that doesn't signal that teething is almost over. It means textbook hand, foot and mouth disease.

Happy Birthday, I tell her sweet face.

Get up, she chirps back, beating the neighborhood birds to the punch.

This child's parents are lunatics. There is no other explanation.

For the love of all that is rich and buttery, would I just stop kvetching about colic?  It's over.

Sure. Technically, it is. I may have reached the point where I can joke about it, but colic is hard-wired into my brain, blood, and bones. I hear a baby cry and I'm fine.  But if I hear the unmistakable, apocalyptic sound of a colicky baby, it starts in me a visceral launch sequence akin to post-traumatic stress disorder. I'm not kidding when I say, 19 mos after colic was silenced in our house, that sound might still make me pee my pants.

Does anyone know of a famous person who has been through colic with one of their children? Because I can't remember ever hearing of one, and I think this issue needs some star-studded attention. I'm not wishing it on anybody, but can I play Cyrano for someone like Reese Witherspoon to get the message out there? I'm guessing she has more enjoyable things to do these days than be the Face of Colic, but a girl can dream.

I just don't want anyone to feel as isolated as I did. All around me, happy babies everywhere, with their serene mothers-on-the go, their occasional cries like lazy bubbles bursting on the sidewalk. I was sweaty, afraid to venture out, ears ringing from a constantly wailing siren.

I envy new moms like Erinfrances, who keeps her wits about her while nuturing, as she aptly puts it, a raptor. She is in the trenches, keeps perspective, and manages to be funny. You go, girl. My kid is old enough to hint at what ails her and I still have my riot gear handy.

Have you tried swaddling?  Why, no, I had never thought of that (as I fantasized about smacking myself in the face with my own feet). Yes, I tried swaddling, it provoked the Dervish.

White noise? Womb sounds? Music you listened to while pregnant, constant motion, a sling -- these can help. Do you want to sucker punch me or anyone who makes these suggestions? Welcome to the inner sanctum: The aforementioned are cures for typical fussiness. Colic is not typical. But at least it's not permanent.

Good news: in addition to proving the old adage, 'What doesn't kill us makes us stronger', colicky babies make phenomenal people. People you really want to know and be around. I swear. The few parents I know who have weathered colic (or know someone who has - it's not usually someone you know personally; that would be way too helpful) confirm this.

. . .

A few days ago, my husband called me from the grocery store, where he and the Dervish had spotted a balloon.

"A balloon flew away," recalled the Dervish (this balloon she spoke of flew away, at a parade, over a month ago. It wasn't her balloon, but apparently, this event had a big impact on her).

"It did?" prompted her father. "It really flew away?"

"Ehhh." The Dervish shrugged. "It happens."

It's because of moments like this that I am considering peeing on a stick (and hopefully not in my pants) in the future.

I've probably already recommended this book to you (I told my podiatrist about it when he told me his four-month-old wouldn't sleep if that's any indication of how frequently I suggest it). So just consider this a reminder.

The Wonder Weeks: How to Turn Your Baby's 8 Great Fussy Phases into Magical Leaps Forward by Hetty Vanderijt and Frans Plooij made me a better parent.

Anytime the Dervish and I made any progress in our new relationship, she suddenly wanted to climb back whence she came. In protest, my good sleeper suddenly shaved hours off her slumber to buzz listlessly through her days like a drunken, irritable bee.

But right around the time I'd start to say "wit's end" and "end of my rope" to end most sentences, the frustration (for both of us) would -- suddenly -- end. She'd emerge a new Dervish. Sweet. Beaming. Able to do something new and call-the-grandparents-worthy. We, her parents, felt like we'd just participated (poorly) in the lightning round of Red Light, Green Light.

She likes to keep us guessing.

Nothing special going on here, just normal development, clearly defined by The Wonder Weeks in regular intervals (and complete with encouragement from the authors and testimonials from parents who have been there/are happy to be done with that). Pure vindication. Because, according to the authors' research, all infants go through the same things at just about the same time, based on their due dates, up until 54 weeks.

It seems infancy, from an infant's perspective, is no walk in the stroller. It's a lot more than just eating, sleeping and pooping -- it's learning how to be a person.

Since I'm still learning what it means to be person myself, I can empathize with the Dervish.

A special thank you to askmoxie for recommending this book back when I really, really needed it.

Stories, photos, articles, memorabilia, contests, stats, interviews and the popular Where Are They Now section.

I'm the luckiest mom on the planet,  but for most of yesterday, I was full of crap.

If you've met her, you know the Dervish is good people.  Yesterday, I was reminded of the tough sell she can also be: The Screamer, The Smacker, The One Who Wouldn't Be Entertained. The One Who Wears Me Down.

When she finally napped (two hours late), I sat down with a book: My Sister's Keeper, by Jodi Picoult. On page 64, I was reminded that I can't afford to stop being grateful.

Often during the last two years, but pretty much every day lately, I have remembered the morning of my 20-week ultrasound. As I brushed my teeth, I was nervously excited to see the Dervish on screen. I felt my perspective about to change.

It sure as hell did.

Minutes into the scan, the tech got quiet, perfunctory. She left suddenly, dodging questions. We were ushered into an office, flooded with terminology, and given the quickest available appointment with the hospital Genetics department (Please don't make these people wait any longer than they have to.). It was surreal to be these people. Unfathomable to be told that after those results, we could discuss.our.options.

The Dervish (and I) had a two vessel umbilical cord. A single umbilical artery. A normal cord has three vessels (1 vein, 2 arteries). This meant that one artery would have to do the work of two. By itself, not much cause for concern. 1% of live births have this condition. (The word 'live' slapped me. Just how many are born 'still'?).  However, another unfortunate marker appeared on the scan, and that meant visible pity from our informers.

Somehow, we left the office, with another appointment, three days later. I had three days to Google, speculate, and cry. I did all three for three days. Seems chances were 66.666667% that I'd have a healthy baby, 33.333333% that she would have either no life on the outside, or a relatively short and difficult one. Nothing like inconclusive test results to invoke an expectant mother's inner pessimist.

I started mourning my child's missed opportunities. Worrying that my brand new marriage would be over in a few days. How would we make tough decisions if they had to be made? How could any decision be the right one? How would we ever look at each other and not think of that decision and its consequences?

My husband gripped the steering wheel on the way to our next appointment. Wearing a crisp button down shirt the color of his eyes, he admitted he thought that if he looked put together, the news couldn't be bad. But he was so nervous he forgot to breathe, and swallowed in a hard gulp.

The second marker was, mercifully, a machine error.

The umbilical cord diagnosis stood, but there was no visible reason to think the Dervish had any health issues. She might be born as early as 32 weeks, she might have some kidney damage, we'd have to wait until she was born to know for sure.

She is more than fine.

I have no business being annoyed at her volume; her lungs have fantastic capacity because they're healthy. It's unforgivable for me to be frustrated that she won't sit still, that she will climb anything upright - her motor skills are stellar. The kid who has never liked toys would prefer my company, wants to include me in everything she does, share with me everything she sees. How dare I not appreciate that?

When the Dervish woke up from her nap, I sat her on my lap and wound her triumphant curls around my fingers. I could not breathe without her.

And then she worked me over until she had exhausted herself for the day. You have to respect someone as committed to her life's purpose as she is. I do.

Weiland will release the yet-to-be titled album in October.

Scott Weiland's first and only other solo album '12 Bar Blues' was released in 1998, so this one comes exactly a decade after the first.

He told Absolute Punk magazine that "it'll definitely be a sonic journey like the first album was, a little bit more focused since I'm not on a narcotic journey like I was on the last one. But, you know, still sort of all over the map, because my influences are so wide and varied."

Weiland's solo album will be released through his own Softdrive Records in October 7th.

Word Press

Guns N’Roses’ Axl Rose comes in at No.1 for the sheer number of fan versus band scuffles he’s racked up. While other musicians have the odd angry incident hidden in their past, Mr Rose’s battles number too many to name. But let us give you our favourites. There’s was the time he stopped an Argentina show to tell off the audience like pre-schoolers (watch here). There was the time he stopped a Philadelphia show to tell the audience he had a “couple of major arseholes down here,” before threatening “a stupid m***** f****”. (watch here). And let’s not forget the time he confiscated the shirt of a fan he didn’t like and then had him thrown out (watch here).

But it’s not just a numbers game, Rose has gravitas on his side. During a 1991 concert in St Louis, he clocked a fan making an illegal video of the performance and ordered security to confiscate the camera. When they didn’t move quickly enough for his liking, he dived into the crowd and, wrestled the camera off the fan. After making it back to the stagem he threw down his mike and screamed: “Thanks to the lame-arse security, I’m going home.” As the lights went up and the band left the stage, a riot began. The arena was badly damaged and Rose, blamed for inciting the riot, was found guilty on several counts of assault and property damage.

Taken from the Top Ten Fans VS Bands list (Times Online)

The Dervish has her own timetable. What she has decreed, let no mom put asunder.

Girlfriend has let me know in no uncertain screams that she will determine when she will do something for the first time, and I am to follow her lead. As in: Eff tummytime. I might roll before kindergarten. Look alive over there , mom. I've already climbed up the stairs.

I struggle to lock step with her. She won't share her choreography in advance.

Even so, I would like to think she saves all of her firsts for me. And since they tend to occur on weekends and after dinner on work days, it seems she does. But let's not be that naive. I spend a significant portion of her waking hours away from her. Those who care for her in my stead probably experience some of her firsts and spare my feelings.

How do  I make peace with that?

I find my own milestones. I've worked through my birthday, delayed celebration of my anniversary, observed holidays a week later than than the calendar.  Circumstances have demanded that I detach significance from specific dates and pin it, instead, to available moments. No whining allowed. I enjoy whining, so this took practice.

Alternative Milestones: The first time the Dervish smiled at me because I needed it. The first time the she wore a barrette in her hair (and then ripped it out). The first time she asked for what she wanted to eat. The first time she picked a flower. The first second time she told me she loved me. ( I actually missed the first time and my husband's hoot jogged me from my daydream about what I'd watch on TV later). I am living proof you can be sitting right there and miss an important moment. I'm still breathing, I checked.

A few weeks ago, the Dervish crouched to examine the whorls of our wood floor, and I stayed very still beside her. Crouching is a milestone that's on some, but not all, developmental charts, and it is a lovely testament to the art of balance, both physical and cognitive. Though most of her body was perfectly still and relying on muscle control, her brow was furrowed and her mind was working feverishly on...whatever it was working on. She didn't say.

These moments are the angels in the architecture. Stop. Focus. They are everywhere.

And then she was off, whirling per usual.

This was printed and wrapped around many bottles of beer for a birthday party. Feel free to do the same - just make sure to photoshop Mike's name out of it!

Click here for the full-size printable version. If you print it at the right DPI (I can't remember what that was) it's just the right size for Budweiser bottles. Sorry about that.

A história da banda começou em 1983 quando o vocalista W. Axl Rose deixa a banda Rapid Fire para montar uma nova banda com seu amigo de infância Izzy Stradlin.

O primeiro nome da banda foi Hollywood Rose e era formada por Axl, (vocais), Izzy Stradlin (guitarra), Chris Weber (guitarra), Rick Holland (baixo) e Johnny Kreiss (bateria). A nova banda consegue algum destaque nos subúrbios de Los Angeles, com muitas composições próprias - que futuramente seriam tocadas pelo Guns n' Roses. A banda encerrou suas atividades na virada de 1984 para 1985.

A partir daí surge realmente o Guns N’ Roses, que teve a primeira formação com Axl no vocal, Izzy como guitarrista base, e mais três integrantes de uma banda também recém dissolvida, a L.A.Guns.

Com essa formação a banda só se apresentou uma vez, em março de 1985. Após o show, Ole Beich foi substituído por Duff Mckagan. Após alguns shows com a formação (Axl, Tracii, Izzy, Duff e Robbie) o guitarrista Slash e o baterista Steven Adler entraram nos lugares de Tracii Guns e Robbie Gardner.

Surgiram às primeiras turnês e a banda escreveu um dos seus hinos, "Welcome to the Jungle". As alterações na formação da banda sempre foram constantes, assim com os problemas com as drogas e de relacionamento em todas as esferas.

Em 1989, a banda começou com uma perda. Steven Adler não conseguia tocar bateria de tão drogado e foi expulso pela banda. No ano seguinte, o baterista Matt Sorum, que tocava com os ingleses do The Cult, assumiu o posto no Guns, enquanto o tecladista Dizzy Reed também se uniu à banda. Em janeiro de 1991 , a banda tocou para o maior público que até então conseguiu reunir: 140 mil pessoas no festival Rock in Rio 2 realizado no estádio Maracanã.

Em 1993, uma canção escondida de Charles Manson, serial killer famoso por ter assassinado uma atriz famosa e um grupo de escoteiros, "Look at Your Game Girl", fora incluída a pedido de Axl, mas contra a vontade do grupo, causando polêmica interna.

Se não bastasse, em 1994 Axl é processado por agredir sua ex-esposa e pela sua ex-namorada. Já Gilby Clarke, que substituiu Izzy Stradlin, foi demitido pelo líder do Guns. Paul Huge entrou para o seu lugar, e tocou num cover de "Sympathy for the Devil", dos Rolling Stones, , incluída na trilha sonora do filme Entrevista com o Vampiro. Em compensação, Paul Huge, amigo de infância de Axl, não foi bem aceito pelos outros, principalmente por Slash.

Com isso, em 1995, Slash criou um projeto paralelo ao GNR e começou com a banda Slash´s Snakepit. Já em 1996 o guitarrista deixou o GNR e foi substituído por Robin Finck, guitarrista do Nine Inch Nails. Em 1997 pediu “pinico”, deixando o GNR, e o baterista Matt Sorum foi despedido em 1998. Restava apenas Axl, que comprou os direitos sobre o nome Guns N´Roses. Atualmente Slash, Duff e Matt Sorum estão juntos na banda Velvet Revolver, enquanto o Guns N’ Roses vive mudando de formação e se apresenta esporadicamente mundo a fora.

I offer you Mabel of the Corn:

And Duff of the Corn

I think I want to be in horror movie before I die. If not, I'll just make my own.

Dog Zombies Of The Corn.

I guess the next pet I get needs to be named Malachai.

I recently read a Newsweek article entitled: "True or False: Having Kids Makes You Happy" by Lorraine Ali. The conclusion was False.

My first thought was --two years after having a child-- of course it's false. Nothing external makes anyone happy in a real and lasting way.  After googling myself silly, I cannot find the source of the following almagamation of wisdom (none of it my own):

"Happiness is an attitude, not a condition."

It really does depend on how you look at things.  

At the risk of being roasted on a spit, I will admit freely and without reservation that the Dervish's first year was the hardest supposed-to-be-happy year of my life thus far.  I can't say that my husband or I was very happy at all. In fact, I remember the words "I'm not happy" being spoken in our home quite a bit.

Please don't think that we blame the Dervish. She was just as dissatisfied as we were. Likely moreso.

As in most cases of unhappiness, we had set expectations, and they were not met. The Powers That Be sure enjoyed a hearty laugh at our expense. Oh, the hubris as I skipped over entire chapters about "challenges you may face" when reading books on infant care. The logistical snafus and changes to routine I hadn't anticipated. I failed to remember that, on a cellular level, I don't embrace change and failed to acknowledge that no amount of perfectionism could protect me from the unpredictability of parenting.  Add my issues to my husband's (no tolerance for clutter and no fuse when he feels he has disappointed as protector/provider) and simmer. Ka-boom.

Fragments of our naivete are still falling from the rafters.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm glad it happened like this. It needed to.

The change that occured in our home after that was one part toddlerhood to three parts attitude adjustment. As we approach the Dervish's second birthday,  I know I've never been happier in my whole life. I've had simpler times. Less responsible times. Me-me-me times.  I don't recall the happiness being so profound, though. The relaxation, dear God, yes, it was sublime. I don't think I'll ever relax like that again.

But the happiness, now that I have post-baby to compare to pre-baby, is... ripe. Rich. Real. And with reality, comes imperfection. I would have really missed out had I not met the Dervish, or had she been anyone other than she is.

This morning, I found some who-knows-how-old provolone cheese vaporizing in a cabinet of the Dervish's play kitchen. It actually made me giggle.