Rapping Rhapsodic on Bohemian Rhapsody with my Bonne Homme

Roon switched schools this week, moving from a parochial school to public, thereby losing his uniform, meaning I had to buy him new clothes.

I thought it was telling that when we went to the store, he didn't care about what pants we bought as long as they were jeans. But he took a long time to pick out three t-shirts. See if you can detect a theme here. The shirts displayed the following pop memes: The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, and Pink Floyd. He topped them off with an AC/DC cap.

I have to say he's starting off well in his musical snobbery. Those are all good bands and he really does listen to them. He recently started paying attention to my iTunes and put together a playlist labeled "Good Music" (to distinguish it from the baffling crap I usually listen to). I pulled some songs off of it to make him a morning mix tape. Check it out:

1. "Mr. Blue Sky," by Electric Light Orchestra


2. "Park & Beans," by Weezer


3. "Bohemian Rhapsody," by Queen


4. "Dracula from Houston," by the Butthole Surfers


5. "Storm in a Teacup," by the Red Hot Chili Peppers


6. "Science Fiction Double Feature," punked out by Me First and the Gimme Gimmes


7. "Death of a Martian," by Red Hot Chili Peppers


8. "Black Times Bad Times," by Led Zeppelin


9. "More Than a Feeling," by Boston

At first I thought this was a further extension of his newfound rock snobbery but I realized it wasn't really about the music so much as it was about self definition. Roon wanted to define himself to his new school as a rocker, and he wanted to establish his musical taste right off the bat not to lord his 1970s playlist cred over anyone else, but to let them know where his head is at.

This may seem like over intellectualizing t-shirts but it's a completely valid effort on his part to adopt a new uniform: the cobbled-together non-uniform of the Boheme. I don't know how much of that need to define himself played into his decision to switch schools, but it mattered a lot that on his first day in the cradle of public knowledge he was representing Pink Floyd, a band he equates with stellar musicianship, individuality, and intellectualism.

Pink Floyd is his second choice, however, after Queen. If he'd had a Queen shirt, he'd probably never take it off, hoping that their operatic falsetto rock cred would somehow seep into his skin along with dirt, taco sauce, and diet coke stains.

His transition to public school marks a loss for me in one regard--quality time.

I get to spend a lot of time with my spawn because I work at home. But driving them to school has always been important to me because for the eight minutes we had together in the car, remarkable conversations would occur.

The other day we rocked to school under the auspicious and noble refrains of Bohemian Rhapsody, singing at top volume, until Roon killed the song to ask questions about it, to talk about complex rock & roll, Freddy Mercury, gay rock stars, and the song itself.

It's easy to think that the tent-pole conversations are what matters--the sex talk, the dope talk, the Bischon Frieze talk. But I don't buy it. I think it's the sum total of all these little seemingly inconsequential talks--the argument about what 'scaramouch' actually means--that ultimately make up a longer, broader, and permanent body of discussion in the mind of our children that transmits the concepts we truly believe. It teaches them our real philosophy and assists them in building their own.

Now that my daughter is gone so much, I hardly ever get to talk to her except to ask her to please stop singing in the shower at midnight. We quip in passing and she's obviously witty as hell and, like her mom, [My Attorney], a brain on legs. But I don't get much conversation time.

Now that Roon will be walking to school I'm losing face time with him as well. Of course, he'll be walking in the door every day at 3:30 demanding food. It's not like I won't see him. But there's something about the drive time. All you have is driving and talking. At home there's laundry, living room, lunch, dishes, dog walking, laundry, homework, house cleaning, laundry and sometimes laundry. I won't have that brief break where I have nothing to do but drive, that time when we talk about those things that matter. Like gay rock stars.

Monday is Manday!

Ah, Manday. Nothing like it. Prop up your feet, grab a beer, and weld some stuff. What compliments a man better than high powered argon slag generators? A nice welding mask and some kick ass gloves. Just what I need for my very first Manday Feature:

THE BEER REPORT: Ah, beer. Here's to the genius that looked at a wheat field and thought, "I could drink that."

This weekend I was forced to consume the noble beverage for the sake of research for this blog (I do it for you, gentle reader), and in my concentrated efforts to secure the best possible hop for my dollar, I came across Chimay premium trappist monk beer. Beer made by monks. Men of God, doing God's work--what better indication could there be that beer is a gift from the Divine?

This beer cost $12.99 a bottle. I had seen it lurking there in the cooler next to the Porter and the Rasberry Beer and I'd looked at it and thought 'What a crappy label.'  Yeah, well, I'm a snob on many levels and graphic presentation is a sticker for me. But I'd read an article about Belgian beer and I'd had a nice Tremulens Nocturne once and a hacklebock in New Orleans that actually made hair grow on my fingernails--and I'd been writing all frikkin week (which is a lot like working, I swear) so I was in the mood for a really, really great beer. Chimay delivered.

If I were so inclined as to release them from their basement cages, you could ask my kids about my first sip of Chimay. They actually paused the DVR to watch me fade outinto beerphoia. I'm sitting down getting ready to watch the game (no, not the incredible Cubs victory, I missed that because I am stupid and I don't pay attention and I forgot they were playing St. Louis and I only found out



they'd won the division when I went to the carwash and they were playing the victory drunk at Wrigley on the courtesy TV. I am idiot. No, not that game. I'm talking about Sid Meire's Civilization Revolution on Xbox 360. Yes, I am that juvenile.) Wherein I lead Rome to reconquer the world and while my first city was generating warriors at a decent clip, I knocked back my first gulp of Chimay and lost touch with reality.

For what seemed like an endless moment, the perfect golden, dark brown, guilded flavor of this beer swirled around in my mouth and I swar to you, I am not making this up, I heard the voice of God as he leaned in close and said "Yeah, that's right, I made that beer."