Thursday, December 12, 2013

My Wife and Daughters: A Date With Macklemore.

I have to admit, I was fairly skeptical when my wife told me her plan. In fact, had I actually verbalized my feelings, I may have said something like...
"Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt." 
Even twenty years later, I've not found a human being capable of turning a phrase with the raw candor of Wayne Campbell from Aurora, Illinois. Party on, Wayne.

Yeah, so anyway, a little backstory—every female in my house is enamored with a man named Macklemore. Who is this Macklemore guy, you ask? This Rasputin who drives the mother ship like Han freaking Solo?

If you guessed it's the gritty utility infielder from that brief era of major league baseball in Seattle, that's a solid stab, but you're thinking of Mark McLemore:

This is the guy I'm talking about.

His real name is Ben Haggerty, but he's decided to adopt that hip single-name moniker, like Madonna, Pelé or Fil, the shop teacher at our local alternative middle school.

The dude is talented and I like his stuff, too, don't get me wrong. Just not to the stratospheric level it sends my wife and daughters.

Which, thanks to my long-windedness, returns me to my original point. I'm the only family member not currently at his right now.

And here's the kicker—they're together. Yes, my wife orchestrated the whole deal, so right now, those monkeys flying out of my butt feel more like winged orangutans with sandpaper capes.

I actually think it's fantastic, especially since we're experiencing an era of palpable friction between my bride and our thirteen-year-old. Anything that bonds them during this season of malice and confusion is an emotional Vicks Vaporub.

It's just a little strange that three people so unalike can find this common ground. My parents hated my music like Fox News hates black Santa Claus. The only tune we could agree on was maybe the happy birthday song, but it couldn't include any drums.

Sure, if I put an album on the top of my wish list, they'd relent and buy it, but their scowls of bewilderment as I peeled back the wrapping paper to expose Angus Young's snarling mug on Highway to Hell is carved into the thickest bark of my brain stem.

My mom's arched eyebrows and deep frown lines seemed to silently yelp, "He was such a nice boy, Lionel. He just hasn't been the same since his brother hit him in the head with the pet rock."

And then, to raise things a notch, can you imagine back in the day, actually going to a rock show with your mom? Holy shit, talk about awk to the ward. Bless her Charlie Pride-loving heart, I can just hear her now, freshly frisked and entering the smoggy arena. "Honey, I think something's burning. I'm not sure we can stay, you know, with your asthma and all. Frozen malt? My treat.

"And why do you kids only like groups named after places, like Kansas and Boston, and why would Mrs. Tull have wanted to name her son Jethro?"

I love you, Mom. Glad we acknowledged our creative differences and moved on.

But the three most important people in my life are in one spot as we speak, and although I'm sure they'll have a great time, I can guarantee my wife has probably embarrassed our younger kid at least three times.

They may not even be out of the car yet.

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