Reluctantly the Mother of My Children

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we're learning what a circle's worth, and returning to the place of birth! Everything's round.


Look at this guy. Would you want to spend an evening in his company? You would? Then, okay! I'm attracting the young, smart, rock-snob set!

The gent in question is out-there rocker Les Claypool, here pictured with his Flying Frog Brigade.

My daughter The Heir, age 17, persuaded me to buy two tickets to Mr. Claypool's performance tonight.

To say I'm anticipating this event with every breath would be to indulge in Bushian mendacity. My idea of a concert is a blanket spread on a shady green lawn, a cooler of iced beer, and some guy with white mutton chops and a mandolin singin' "Man of Constant Sorrow."

Doubt if any of that is on the agenda tonight.

In fact, someone warned Mr. Johnson that Les Claypool often attracts a particularly virulent mosh pit. Whatever that is.

But Dr. Laura and Senator Rick urge us to be the parents of our children. And The Heir is a particularly gifted child. In order to warm me to The Frog Brigade, she sent me to YouTube, where Mr. Claypool has a song called "Buzzards of Green Hill." The video is liberally laced with footage of turkey vultures, and the song is an indictment of drunk driving.

Say no more, darling. I'm calling Ticketmaster promptly!

So wish me luck as I venture to Mars (or beyond), where few geezers dare tread, for a night of music (or something purported there to be) and bonding with the dear old child.

He'd better play "Buzzards of Green Hill."

FROM ANNE
THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS