Hey Jakey,

You sweat when you fall asleep. You don't sweat when you're awake. But as soon as you fall asleep, you and everything you're touching becomes drenched in sweat, as if you've been holding it in all day. I say this, because you fell asleep on my lap as I was checking my email. It doesn't seem like that long ago when the whole of your body would fit on my forearm, your toes tucked into my armpit, your head in the palm of my hand, and I would wiggle you to sleep as I tapped out blog entries with my other hand.

Speaking of hands: you're left-handed, y'know. I suspected this as much as a year ago, I think. Damn, this means that you'll be the goofy guy in the band with his guitar pointing the wrong direction. Like Paul McCartney. Or Jimi.



Speaking of music: I guess I should tell you now--your daddy and I are not sonically compatible. I don't know how we've stayed together as long as we have. It's not only that we like different kinds of music, it's that we like music itself for entirely different reasons.

His reasons are stupid.

No, I didn't say that. Your daddy likes heavy metal music. He doesn't like particular bands, he likes particular guitarists. He studies them. He aspires to be them. He'll cue up Zakk Wylde and try to play along with his Fender American Standard and his crappy little amp. His all-time favorite guitarist is Yngwie Malmsteen. All his idols are crazy-hot in Japan and the Netherlands. Here, not so much, except to guitar geeks like your daddy.

But then he's got this other side of him; he likes Top 40. Not the "adult contemporary" type of Top 40. He likes Britney Spears, Mandy Moore, Shakira, Justin Timberlake, Eminem, Black Eyed Peas, etc. Very weird, and kind of scary.

Jakey, you and I have discussed at length what kind of music I like. Very very different from your daddy. Well, you were there when we were driving home from San Jose this weekend, you witnessed the CD wars.

Daddy drove this time, and generally, the rule is whoever drives is DJ. Decorum dictates that the passenger might get a little bit of airtime, but -- ultimately -- the driver is the DJ. He was kind, and let me play a couple of CD's: the UT Anthology and Leftover Salmon, but then he grew weary of my music and proceeded to assault us with Kings X and Alice Cooper.

Jakey, almost all long-distance drives degenerate into these farting contests. We each thoroughly believe that the other is trying to gross the other out with the stinkiest music we can find in our respective 300-plus CD cases. He proceeds to tell me that all my music is just John Denver pablum, I tell him that all his music is brainless doodle-doodle guitar wanking.

Our interests do intersect at times. For instance, your daddy loves Cracker. I love Metallica. He can't get enough of Steve Forbert. We both like Primus, Green Day, John Fogerty, Tenacious D. (There was a really strange year where neither of us could get enough of arena country acts: in one year alone back in '93 or so, we saw Garth, Reba, Alan Jackson, Travis Tritt, JoDee Messina, Patty Loveless, Trisha Yearwood. I don't know what the *hell* we were smoking back then. Nowadays that kind of music makes us want to retch...)

So my point, dear heart... I'm always reading interviews with famous musicians where they say their parents listened to all sorts of crazy music, eclectic music. I want you to grow up to tell the music press that you grew up listening to Yngwie and Johnny Cash. Ozzy and Iris DeMent. Camper Van Beethoven and Nickelback. You'll invent a genre of music all on your own, baby, influenced by your wacky childhood.

Seeing my two favorite bands in less than a week, after such a long period of no live music whatsoever, has made me wax philosophical about music in general. Despite our differences, your daddy and I have found much joy in music together. I wish you many a day filled with music and light. Love you, baby. Sleep well.