Wait Dad Begins

Wait . . . Dad?


Yes?


Do most people play songs, or do most people play music?


What do you mean?


Well . . . there are songs, and then there is just music. Sooo . . . do most people play songs or do most people play music?


Songs, I guess.


Oh . . . but why do most people play songs?


Well, songs are familiar. Most people play songs over and over. Songs tell a story. Songs describe things.


Oh . . . so songs are like adjectives?


Um, Yeah.

I said "yeah", but what I really meant to say was "That's one hell of a logical literary leap there little guy, I'm very proud of you."

But for one reason or another I just said "yeah" and let it drop.

Once again I am rendered speechless with both horror and fascination by the evolution of my darling progeny. One minute he's the frantic monkey creature that leaves a trail of candy wrappers and tiny socks strewn about my house and the next minute he's waxing poetic about the fundamental differences between song structure and randomly putting two notes together for the purpose of putting two notes together.

And he's evolving fast.

Castle Park has been hanging on the precipice of finality for four months now. I've got three recording sessions left before I let the mixing magicians do their magic.

On my first album this stage lasted almost three years. Recording wrapped up during the summer of 2005 and the album didn't hit the world wide web until the spring of 2008.

I guess I'm not very good at goodbyes.

Castle Park started off as an experiment.

Traditionally I was taught as an artist that I would have to shut everything out and focus on the art. And there is a truth to that. Tough to embrace the creative ether when you have to start dinner in twenty minutes.

But I didn't want to make that sacrifice.

I wanted to be a good dad. I wanted to be a good husband. I wanted to be a good guy. I wanted to be a good songwriter. And I wanted to bring it all together and make this life some grand cerebral adventure. My life would inform, and my work would flow at its own pace.

I was.

I am.

And I still want to be.

I think.

The jury will be in recess till my death.

So the verdict is none of my concern.

And like my son's desperate need to grow up, it is time that this adventure evolves too. Time to get serious. Time to grow up. Time to take these lilting ideas and start nailing them to the wall. Cause you can't have an exhibition without something nailed to the wall.

True fact.

And where we go from here is all about who we are now. Who I am now.

But, who am I?

That's a tough question.

A tough question that is easily answered by the six year old bouncing about the hardwood flooring with a sword in one hand and a pan flute in the other.

Who am I?

I am Wait Dad


Because that is what the boy calls me anytime he has something to say.

Wait Dad.

And why does he call me thus?

Because for anyone who knows him, or has at least been following along, Calvin needs to pause anytime he is processing something. You can see the Pin Wheel of Death spinning around in his multi faceted brain with each new piece of information, and there will be no distractions. His only recourse is to stop me from going the direction I want to go.

A common occurrence is as follows:

Did you finish your homework?


Wait . . . Dad?


Yes?


Do most people drive automatic, or do most people drive manual?


Automatic. Did you finish your homework?


Wait . . Dad?


Yes?


Which is easier?


Manual. Did you finish your homework?


Wait Dad?


Did you finish your homework?


How can manual be easier when you have to do so many things?


Automatic is easier to learn, but its easier to control the car with a manual. What's the status of your homework?


Wait Dad?


What!?


Does grandma drive an automatic or a manual?

And then there will be silence about the topic for a few days, when in a moment of quiet contemplation, Calvin will bound up onto the couch:

Wait . . . Dad?


Yes?


I think automatic is easier.


Kay.

So now that we've got the "Who", we need to go into the "What?"

I find that I am not just Wait Dad to my son. I am Wait Josh at work, Wait Honey at home, and Wait Dude in the studio.

And as furious as I get sometimes with the distraction and the constant repeating and the constant disruption and the needs of those around me, it is those needs that define who I am. Every interaction is needs based. You don't engage unless there's something you want. Nobody interrupts a twelve hour marathon of Band of Brothers just to say hi, just as I don't cuddle up to my wife just to tell her how beautiful she is, even though that's exactly what I say.

Because Wait Dad is more than just a name. Its a modus vivende. A modus operandi.

Way of Life. Way of Operation.

Wait Dad is all of us men. Men who are lovers and brothers, fathers and mechanics, chefs and maids, bosses and underlings. Men who are cornerstones for the people around us. Men who are shallow and weak when no one is looking.

Wait Dad is for the guy who loves his children, loves his cars, thinks his wife is hot and only wishes she would slut it up a bit. Wait Dad is for the new generation of men who like golf and nachos, are concerned about the environment, drives an SUV, drinks a bottle of wine per night and tries to limit his carbohydrate intake. Wait Dad wants to put the band back together, but is unwilling to clean out the garage during fantasy football season.

Wait Dad is the modern man/artist/husband/father/awesome.

Wait Dad is adjective.

and Wait Dad is not for the white wine spritzer crowd.

Unless of course you like that sort of drink.

Cheers.