Cool design. Cheap construction. The Ikea formula.
I just bought some shelving units from Ikea for my kid’s bedroom. He has a bunch of toys and we need to get them organized. As neatly laid out and aesthetically pleasing Ikea is, there are some things I’ve realized after building these things:
Although they look all cool and modern and euro, Ikea’s shelves are simply just compressed wood shavings cleverly wrapped in nice veneer. While unpacking and lifting the shelves, I got reminded of stage props. Wow, they look real…but they’re not!
After realizing this, my better half and I both agreed that we should be paying less than half of what we really spent on these things.
Nevertheless, we, like many others, flock and feed from a company who’s managed to market themselves in such a way that one can nearly overlook or forgive the cheap construction in favor of the artsy, minimal-modern euro styling and exotic euro brand names that add to the illusion of quality, durable goods.
Ikea should really include a hammer or rubber mallet (to avoid damaging the cleverly wrapped wood chips) in their instruction manual when listing tools needed to build.
A hammer really comes in handy to tap in the wooden dowels to even lengths, and even more so to force feed the frequently stubborn allen bolts used to finish the shelves.
One should use caution when building these units, as the clever clumps of composite material appear to be solid, but actually get easily chipped and dented—the protective veneer is paper thin.
I’ve always wanted my kid to see me play. Then one night, I saw him play, right on stage during our closing number. Watch for him next to Deston (keyboard player on left) about midway through the song. What a kid.
I wanna put this on a black hoodie but they don’t make ‘em. Rats.
Meanwhile, I did put in an order for this shirt and the other ones I’ve made on Zazzle, including my What Would ZOD Do? shirt, which had been banned from the site due to legal matters. Actually they should be getting here tomorrow, so I’ll be sure to snap some shots.
It feels good in my hand
Soft and squishy
but firm
The pill says Dquil
In neat, modern letters
I think of the factory where they made them
and picture the machines
and people on breaks
having coffee
or vending machine cookies
I hold it up to the light
and see it shine through
the blazing red orange
technology is beautiful
multimillions
made on our well-being
somewhere someone
can say “I did that.”
Motherfucker.
I think of the future
this could be food
a complete meal
a baconburger combo
kung pao chicken
with brown rice
dinuguan
filet mignon
toast with butter
For now it is hope
hope that it works
cures me of this
crazy, annoying thing
called sickness
Why?
Not coz I feel feverish
not coz I hate coughing
not coz I hate blowing
my nose of sticky
yellow snot
It’s ‘coz I have a kid
who can say
“I want to play with you, Daddy”
so freakin’ clearly
that it shatters my heart
into a million pieces
each and every millisecond
that I hesitate because
of my weakened condition
This morning I woke up and was like, “I want to celebrate today with some good food.”
I remembered that in my cupboard I had one of those new “half-can” Spams, which yielded just enough slices for a hearty breakfast. So out on the stove it went. Sizzle sizzle. Mmm mm. Hot, fried Spam on a bed of fresh steamy white rice is definitely something I’m thankful for…on any day. 10-12 hour turkey? Whatever.
Speaking of this holiday, by far the most memorable quote I associate with Thanksgiving would be Wednesday’s ad-lib in the Thanksgiving Day Play on Addams Family Values:
You have taken the land which is rightfully ours. Years from now my people will be forced to live in mobile homes on reservations. Your people will wear cardigans, and drink highballs. We will sell our bracelets by the road sides, you will play golf, and enjoy hot hors d’oeuvres. My people will have pain and degradation. Your people will have stick shifts.
Kind of strange that I didn’t realize the irony in Thanksgiving Day celebration until I saw that movie. Yet since then, Thanksgiving has taken a whole new meaning to me. I see it simply now as a day of giving thanks for the health, love and happiness I have in my life.
In that context, I believe I should be thankful every day for those things. Perhaps Thanksgiving Day is just an “official” day to count my blessings.
Fall continues falling, and I find myself in search of sweaters. This is my favorite time of year; when the cold bites like an icy dog at my neck and ankles when I take out the late trash. One day soon I will be able to see my breath at night.
My son finds bubbles. Lots of bubbles, in his small gun which resides patiently on the porch. The sun shines, reminding me of the summer. Warmer months, when the dashboard simmered and his igloo ice block sweated as it kept his milk cold.
He didn’t know what a camera was, not too long ago. Had no idea what it did, nor what it was for. But now, he takes every opportunity to delight in the attention it pays. Greg grows so fast, his innocence lost to learning, his oblivion fading to knowledge. I dwell on this as I hold my iPhone steady, hoping to capture another moment.
Greg, in turn, points his bubble gun directly at the miniature lens and smothers it in suds.
One of the welcome aspects of Fall and Winter, aside from the autumn leaves and dewdrop-covered lawn and car windows in the morning, is the onset of frequent Asahi Ramen dinner dates. Yes, hot ramen, tofu and gyoza simply hit the spot in the chill of the night.
It was something Angela and I used to do when we were dating, and we’ve continued the tradition with our son in tow—in fact, we were winding oodles of noodles on our forks (yes, forks as we’re still non-adept at chopsticks) in front of lil Greg when he was barely two months old.
Now with him walking and talking and doing nearly everything else under the smoggy sun, family excursions to this noodle nook really do become a family affair, as he’s able to tackle his own piping hot portion of goodness with almost no help from the grown-ups. And boy does he love this place. Angela and I constantly joke that his affinity for noodles, spam, rice and other Asian commodities stem from his Flip side. Does it?
As a preschooler Pop, I’m always concerned about keeping a schedule with my kid. He’s gotta go to sleep at a certain time so that he can wake up at a certain time and get to school with no problems.
As a professional musician, I’m also concerned with keeping my kid in tune with music, musical instruments and dancing. And sometimes, in order to do that, I have to break the schedule that I fight so hard to keep. But it’s totally worth it.
Perfect example was this past weekend at the Anaheim House of Blues. This was the second time he’d seen me play, but the first time he actively participated. He’s normally drawn to a good beat and colorful lights, which openers Ron Silva and The Monarchs were chock full of. They had him dancing up a storm on the sidelines; so much so that at one point he strayed onto the stage and I had to run and get him.
This kid danced so much that I used up the remaining gigs on my card filming him on video. Kinda weird that this card is four times bigger than my previous card (4GB as opposed to 1GB), yet I seem to fill it up in a fraction of the time. Yet you know what they say—and I quote my buddy Rudy (also a pop)—take a lot of video when they’re young. A lot. ‘Coz pictures are one thing, but video captures everything. So I’m gonna need a bigger boat.
Yup, the bigger boat would’ve especially come in handy for priceless moments such as when my lil skanking spawn finally went full throttle during our closing number “No Worries” and danced beside Greg Lee in wild abandon. Greg even introduced him to the roaring crowd as “Greg Narvas Jr.” and history unfolded before my very eyes. Only thing is, I can’t for the life of me find a picture that was taken at that moment in time, although I saw several cell phones and cameras go up in the air snapping away.
I watched him as we chugged along. Our window was open and the refreshing Fillmore breeze blew in and played with his hair. I felt like we were so far away from home. In a way we were, being surrounded by fields, mountains and nurtured orchards, so unlike the concrete, tar and detours of the city under constant construction.
The train’s wheels resounded with the repetitive pattern of steel on steel, and I got sentimental for a time and era that was never mine. But he’s mine, I thought to myself. He was ours, and I cherished moments like this, knowing they were as fleeting as the lush landscape that passed us by.
