I did it!  As mentioned previously, I have been working on my repertoire (and working up my courage) to prepare for a thirty minute open mic night performance.  Not wanting to blow my debut, I practiced my songs early in the day, had a set list prepared, and even outlined some banter to cut down on awkward silences and spiraling tangents while on stage.

To say I made a few rookie mistakes would be an understatement.  It turns out that performing on stage is quite a bit different than belting out a tune in the comfort of one’s own living room.  The number one lesson learned is that the more eye contact I make with the crowd, the sloppier my playing becomes.  I occasionally found my mind wandering, thinking ahead in the song or wondering how I was coming across to the audience and lo and behold I would forget the lyrics!

When you are onstage singing and playing by yourself, there is no one else to blame for miscues; no drummer to pin random tempo changes on, no lead singer coming in too early or too late with the lyrics, no drunken guitarist slurring the chord changes while striking guitar hero poses.  They say it helps to picture your audience naked, but while the crowd was good-looking enough this visualization technique can be distracting, so I merely pictured them in their underwear and felt much more comfortable.

The crowd at the Red Raven Espresso Parlor was very welcoming, I got a little bit of a sing-along going on a classic Pink Floyd tune and words of encouragement from some of the other musicians.  Yes, I made a lot of mistakes, but I also rocked.  My set consisted of cover songs and a short contact juggling story, thirty minutes of mostly entertaining music and banter with only occasionally awkward moments.

I used some of my time to comment on the crackdown underway against small venues allowing cover songs to be played.  The music publishers have been bullying the smallest of fish into paying fees to have copyrighted music played in their establishments.  My solution was to declare  that all of the mistakes made were my own original mistakes, and were satirical in nature and so are covered under the fair use provisions of copyright law.

This was on Wednesday, August 5, 2009, from 10:30pm to 11:00pm.  The High Plains Reader chose the same topic as the subject of their editorial and picked the Red Raven’s open mic as a Best Bet for the week.  Raul Gomez (co-owner and multiple hat-wearer of the High Plains Reader) proposed a different solution to the licensing brouhaha, but were we truly thinking along the same lines at the same time?  This is after all a story that has been playing itself out across the country.  Was this a kind of cultural synergy, an issue that both Raul and I were attuned to in approximately the same way?  Or was something more mundane at work?

Perhaps someone took in my performance, left the coffee shop and walked the three or four blocks to the offices above a.k.a. where by many accounts the HPR staff routinely scrambles to throw together a weekly alternative publication in time for their Thursday printing.  I’m just saying is all.

Note- This is the “pilot” Daddy Dispatch that was presented to the High Plains Reader just a month after I took on parenting as a full-time job.

Although there was snow on the ground it was a beautiful sunny day, and we encountered several smiling faces on our walk toward downtown Fargo (where all the action is, don’cha know).  All of a sudden, we saw a face that was definitely not smiling.  A man was hunched over in the gazebo in Davy Park, groaning and swaying.

My first thought was that he was drunk, and that we should hurry past.  Then he fell.  Now I was facing a serious moral dilemma…do we get involved?  On the one hand, the man may be angry or violent, and there’s no sense exposing a fourteen month old child to that kind of nonsense.  On the other hand, what if the man is hurt and needs medical attention?  And on my third hand, my gut instinct is to help, so we cautiously approached the supine form to see what we could do.

I parked Baby Boots a few feet away, just in case things got ugly, but it turned out that the man was not capable of speech, much less violence.  “What’s your name?” I asked, hoping to start a conversation that would go somewhere, but not at all sure of where it might go.  “Do you need help?  Do you have someone you can call to give you a ride?”

There was no response, but he did extend his hand, so I pulled him to a sitting position and told him to hold on to the nearby post for support.  He promptly fell back over.  I was starting to think police were the answer when the man strung together his first full sentence.  “Please, help me.”

I dialed 911, then the man said, “Please, don’t do that.”  Is it my place to get the police involved when the man has asked me not to?  My phone rang, ending all internal debate.  The 911 operator had called back, the call went through after all, so I did my best to explain the situation to the official voice on the other side of the line.  The questions I was asked in return surprised me.  “Is he intoxicated?  Did he ask for help?”  I had to admit that he did not ask me to call, but stated that I was not comfortable just leaving him lying on the sidewalk.  The operator said they would send someone to check on him, and Baby Boots and I retreated to a safe distance to see what would happen next.

Five minutes later, three squad cars pulled up and it was now out of our hands. I explained to Baby Boots that we sometimes have to make tough choices, even if we don’t know what the end result will be, but that we had made the right decision.

Despite my assuring simplifications, I am left with many questions.  Should I have called 911, or is there another resource I could have tapped for assistance?  Will the man be charged with a crime, or is being incapacitatingly drunk before noon punishment enough?  Did the police see the man as someone who needed help, or did they see him as a waste of their time?  More than anything, I wonder what brought the man to this fork in our path, what stories and experiences left him alone and falling down in a city park on a beautiful spring day, and what responsibility we all have for a world in which this story is not unique.

I first picked up the acoustic guitar when I was still in high school.  Two and a half chords later the swift winds of adolescence had borne me on to the next thing, but the seed had been planted.

Janelley became the proud owner of a nice guitar well before we were married, and there it sat through a series of living rooms in northeast Minneapolis.  The elephant in the room, the meat in my molars, the languishing item at the bottom of my lifetime to-do list.

“Dude, do you play?” first time visitors would often ask, “What songs do you know?”  No, and none.  Until last fall.

The seed was watered on a lakeside summer evening when my father-in-law showed me a few chords and encouraged me to start playing.  Nobody warned me about the pain involved in learning the guitar.  My left hand and fingers protested, but I played through the pain and before a month had passed I was able to sing and play at the same time without setting off neighborhood dogs.

Now, nine months later, my gestating talent is about to be born on stage in the form of an open mic night performance at the Red Raven Espresso Parlor.

Despite my experience with public speaking as a wedding officiant and a small town childhood including numerous performances as a singer, I am nervous.  My act of calculated bravery has involved attending several open mic nights as a spectator, and I have found the performers to be a group of talented if inexperienced musicians.  Wish me luck!

To the editor:

My mother-in-law lent me a magazine and it is blowing my mind.  Now normally it takes more than a magazine to accomplish this feat, so allow me to explain.  It is the May 1974 issue of Ms. featuring a section on fathers.  A new father holding his daughter is pictured on the cover, actor Donald Sutherland argues that fathers have a place in the delivery room, and a piece on working fathers showcases the variety and flexibility that can be achieved in modern family life.  It is hard for me to reconcile the promise and fighting optimism of the mid-70’s feminist with the reality on the ground as we approach the early twenty-teens.

Despite the questionable fashion choices and the overwhelming number of cigarette ads, it would appear that 1974 has it all over on us when it comes to equality of the sexes.  There are several parenting themed media outlets here in Fargo-Moorhead that are unabashedly for and about women, with the token “Dads” area thrown in to make it inclusive.  The Forum’s “Moms” section is a case in point.  It is a well designed website and I believe it to be a great resource for caregivers such as myself, but why in the world does the title exclude half of all parents?

Political correctness has earned a reputation for torturing phrases until they become ridiculous in order to appease minority groups, yet sometimes a discriminatory phrase can do real damage in the marketplace of ideas.  Could you imagine if the jobs section of the online newspaper was titled “Working Men”?

Lukas Brandon

Full-time father, part-time professional caregiver, juggler, writer
www.daddydispatch.com

Supporting our troops by using less oil

It was the kind of day that makes some folks pine for January: hot and humid.  The air was heavy, the skies mostly cloudy, yet I was loving it!  Once one becomes accustomed to perspiring in public, high humidity can be embraced as an accessible form of exercise.  Just grab an iced tea, kick back, and let the water weight pour off of you.

We loaded up the bicycle trailer for a brief trip to the grocery store with playtime soon to follow, but Fate intervened with her own ideas, which always seem to trump my illusions of self-determination.  I took a right turn onto a busy street for a one block dash to the relative safety of a residential road when the rear tire began rubbing against the frame, causing us to slow dramatically at the most dangerous moment.

Pulling into a parking lot, I discovered that the wheel could be adjusted easily enough, but would not hold its position without being tightened by a wrench.  My face was the Red River of the North, flooding its banks with torrents of sweat as I struggled to both hand tighten the nuts and keep a grip on my sanity.  Dylan kept his cool, sitting patiently as I explained that we would have to walk the bike home first to fix it, then we would go shopping and play.

The equanimity of a toddler in the face of disappointment is rare and inspiring, so I lifted the bicycle by the seat and began the arduous trek home.  Eventually we would go shopping, we did in fact play at a few parks, but in that moment of adversity my little boy reminded me that although plans may go awry, it is up to us to make the best of the situation.  I also learned to carry a wrench.

What a wonderful day!  Dylan and I had a great morning, a really fun trip through north Fargo via bicycle and trailer, and now an opportunity to play guitar and write while Nappy McGee catches a few zzz’s.

The key to today’s peaceful morning was Dylan’s growing ability to understand “later”. This is a major breakthrough as it allows me to say the word “swimming” before we arrive at a pool and not cause a major disturbance.  The concept of delayed gratification seems to be another one of the major problems of toddlerhood that most adults I know are still working on (myself included).

Manyways, we loaded up our swim gear and put our three part plan into motion: first the bank, next the elephant park, then swimming in the big outside pool with the waterfalls (Fargo North High School).  Dylan won the candy battle at the bank, eating two pieces right away and grabbing one more on the way out the door for “later”.  Sure enough, Dylan did not forget, calmly stating “Now I eat the red candy,” as soon as we stopped at the park.

After going through all of the playground equipment, Crackerface wanted to run.   We ran and played in the grass for a bit when an idea hit me – we could run the bases!  We started  at home plate by pretending to hit a pitch, running to first base, standing for a moment, then running to the next until we reached home and scored.  Several other kids joined us and I observed some other parents laughing as they watched me trying to pass on the mechanics of baserunning to the next generation.

The pool was open when we arrived and I had just enough spare change for admission, which came to $4.65 for the two of us.  Dylan remained calm and continued to accurately predict the near future as we changed into our swimwear.  He told me that first we would shower then go play in the waterfall, reminding me that much of the frustration in my own world can be avoided if I have an idea of what is going to happen next.  It was a very busy pool with lots of kids, vigilant lifeguards, and a high ratio of bikini babes to shirtless dudes (not that I noticed), precisely the kind of mayhem that will wear a boy out.

Helmethead fell asleep in the trailer on the way home and remained sleeping as I carried him upstairs and laid him down still wearing his wraparound sunglasses.  My wife and I will be away from Dylan for a few days on a camping trip and it strikes me that although I will miss him, knowing that we will be able to play “later” makes all the difference in the world.

Happy Fourth of July!

Items found around a tree near the Hjemkomst center last week:

one patch of unmowed grass

two small fleece blankets

four-pack plastic ring (empty)

one potato chip can (empty)

two pair of gloves

one fleece pullover

one can of pork and beans (empty)

one plastic grocery bag

one granola bar wrapper

Whew!  Dylan and I just got home from our longest run ever, roughly thirteen and a half miles. We were out for one hundred and fifty-three minutes, which means we averaged nearly five and a half miles per hour.  It also means my legs hurt and it is time for us to eat the orange Jello we mixed up this morning.

The trails are now open and mostly clear on both sides of the river.   It is just tranquil enough along the banks that I might forgive it for the record flooding this year.  There are so many more opportunities to see wildlife near the river!  Yesterday we saw a young deer while playing with some new friends in Bridgeview park.  Today we saw a duck skimming the water for a hundred yards or so and a ridiculously brave yellow and black bird that looked like it might challenge us for the right of way before casually hopping to the other side of the road.

We also saw a person in a white car with a pair of binoculars who may or may not have been birdwatching.  As I rounded the cul-de-sac in question, I hailed two men and asked directions in order to establish a short term relationship.  I then informed them that a man in a parked car a hundred yards away was binocularing in their general direction.  Was it a police detective conducting surveillance?  A jealous husband waiting to pounce on an afternoon cuckold?  Perhaps the man was extremely nearsighted and they were prescription binoculars.

The human wildlife is at least as interesting to observe as the non-human due to our complex social behavior.  What possessed me to tip off the watchees to the existence of the watcher?  Why do I smile and say hello to some strangers and not to others?  What could possibly be soulful and refreshing about running to the point that blisters form on one’s feet?  The long thoughts circle back on themselves as we arrive home tired and hungry and elated.  Longest.  Run.  Ever.

Such beauteous expanse
of greenest leaves and grass
lots of room to play and
run around.

Playgrounds that amaze and
campers that unfazed
ignore the interstate and all its sounds.

The bridge to Goosenberry
reminds that we are married
we F’nM’r folk to our
shared ground.