Rock and roll!

I dropped my daughter off at the University of Georgia Wednesday, as we moved her into her dorm. I’ll give them credit at UGA – they’ve made the process of doing this so incredibly hot and difficult that you wind up being too tired to break into tears when you say your goodbyes.

Instead of going home and moping, my wife and I went to a concert at Philips Arena that night. Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were the headliners and, let me tell you, they flat-out rocked the house. You can tell I’m old because I use phrases like “rocked the house.”

I had scored some last minute seats that became available for only $20 apiece. They were on the side of the stage, but very close, so we had a great view and didn’t need a second mortgage to buy the tickets, like the people right in front of the stage had to do.

The opening act was Crosby, Stills and Nash, as part of their “Can you believe we’re still alive?” tour. I’ve always said there were only three things I didn’t like about Crosby, Stills and Nash – Crosby, Stills and Nash. But, I reasoned, how bad can it be? At the worst, they’ll just come out and bore us to death with acoustic guitars.

Man, was I wrong about that one. They came out and bored me to death with electric guitars. At 7:30 sharp, David Crosby’s liver crawled out on stage, and the boys kicked into their version of “Woodstock.” The guy sitting next to me in a Woodstock 1969 t-shirt seemed to enjoy it, but that was probably just the acid flashbacks talking.

The sidestage view allowed me to notice some things I normally wouldn’t have seen. For instance, Stephen Stills has a bald spot the size of a manhole cover. David Crosby at one point turned his back to the audience, walked over near the drummer and very subtly, um, adjusted himself. As for Graham Nash – he was barefoot, and walked around with a glass of wine, and, well, I’m not entirely sure why he was even there.

I also noticed they had a monitor in front of the stage that was scrolling the lyrics to the songs. Really, guys, you don’t know “Teach Your Children” by now? Of course, I guess at their age, they probably can’t even remember if they put their teeth in that morning. I also saw a few young ladies on the front row throwing some fetching glances at CS&N, and dancing a little suggestively, though I’m not sure how you dance to those songs. Now, come on, girls. You’re going to need a case of Viagra and a defibrillator if you plan to hook up with these boys after the show.

All right, all right, I’m just kidding about the age thing. I sort of admire that men of advanced age can still get on stage and perform. It’s just that nobody ever thought rock and roll, and rock and roll musicians, would last this long. I remember seeing an old interview where a very young Paul McCartney said he’d feel silly, standing on stage at 30 years old singing “All My Loving.” He’s about 70 now and still doing it.

However, some of the concert attendees – well, they perhaps should make a concession or two to their age. Some of these women apparently have a magic mirror in their house, so when they look at themselves in their mini-dress and halter-top, they see how they looked in 1985. The rest of us, however, are subjected to how they look NOW, and it’s often not a pretty sight.

I used to think it was pathetic for old (over 30) people to go see old (over 30) rock stars play music, but now, what the heck? I’ll probably keep going even after the bands come onstage with a walker, and I’m hooked up to an oxygen tank. Long live rock and roll.

All grown up

It was the early morning hours of Jan. 2, 1992 in a small rental house in Milledgeville, Ga. I had just crawled into bed after watching the New Year’s Day football games. Miami had defeated Nebraska in the Orange Bowl, and I was tired after a hard day of eating Doritos and manning the remote control from the couch.

Not long after I got under the covers, my wife Susan said, “Mark, I think something is happening.” I muttered something along the lines of “arrgehhhummfff” and went back to sleep.

Then she stood up and she said, “I’m serious. My water just broke.”

“It’s ok,” I mumbled, half-asleep. “I’ll get you another one.”

Then recognition crept in, and I realized what she meant. I jumped out of bed and ran around the house like Ricky Ricardo, getting everything ready to drive 40 miles to a Macon hospital for my wife to give birth to our first child.

We got to the hospital and, a mere 18 hours later, our new baby came into the world, a daughter we named Alice Susan and decided to call Allie. She came in screaming her head off, which was a sign of things to come.

I was accused by other members of the family, specifically my mother-in-law, of monopolizing my little girl in her first few days of life, not letting anybody else hold her. Most photographic evidence from the time supports this, as she seems to be in my arms in every picture. Fine, guilty as charged. My message to the world was clear – she’s mine. You can’t have her.

We brought her home and her first night, a miracle happened, as snow fell softly outside during the night, something that almost never happened in Milledgeville. Little did we know, this would be our last peaceful moment for the next six months.

This child did not like to sleep. Well, not at night, anyway. Being a modern dad, I alternated with my wife getting up with the baby, to feed her or change or just listen to her scream for half an hour. We both began to dread the words, “It’s your turn.”
But we survived, and the beautiful little baby turned into a beautiful little girl, with an angelic face, and a healthy dose of attitude. One of my most vivid memories came when she was not even two years old, and was sitting in the living room watching “Barney”. She was very close to the TV set, so I said “Allie, honey, back up from the TV. You’re too close.” She ignored me, so I said “If you don’t move back, I’m going to turn the TV off.” So she scooted back a little, and I heard her say, under her breath, “Whatever.” I swear I’m not making this up.

Being a parent makes you go a little crazy. It makes you want to walk down the street and slap a 6-year-old girl who made your daughter cry. It makes you want to call for a federal investigation into the basketball coach who didn’t put her on the team. It makes you cry at kindergarten graduations and it makes you tremble in fear every time you hear a siren and your child is not at home.

There’s a line in a John Prine song, “Time don’t fly, it bounds and leaps.” That is so true. Because 18 years have leapt by me, and next week I am going to take my baby up to The University of Georgia – which, just last week, was declared the top “party school” in the United States. Well, that’s just great.

I know a lot of people who have had children go off to college, and when I talk to them about it, they give me this look of pity that says, “You don’t know what you’re in for.” Well, I know it’s not going to be easy. I can imagine that drive back from Athens is going to be a pretty quiet one.

But I also know that, at some point, you have to let them go. You have to let them become adults, even though they give you reasons daily to wonder how they’re going to survive in the world. But she’s a smart girl, and she’ll make her own mistakes, and she’ll figure it out.

I can only hope that all those times I’ve annoyed her by telling her what not to do, and all of those times I’ve treated her “like a baby”, and all of those words of advice that caused her to roll her eyes, are going to actually have a positive effect.

And even though she’s going to be on her own, my message is the same. She’s still mine. You still can’t have her.