Up the Tree

My father is not of the _web generation._ He is a 65 year-old architect turned graphic designer who couldn’t give a flying flock about weblogs, but now has a “corporate journal”:http://www.wandco.com/ thanks to my pushing. Part of having a journal is commenting on weblogs which you find interesting, but that can bring up problems you may not have anticipated.

“It’s SO SMALL! How can you read that? That’s ridiculous!”

*(6 Comments)*

“Dad it’s a comment box, just write a comment.”

“I can’t just write a comment in that small little space,” he pleads to me “I can’t see it! I’ll copy and paste it into an Indesign document and paste it back when I’m done.”

“It’s just a comment dad, just write something… anything!”

40 minutes passes a he studiously refines what is to be the comment to end all comments. A profound, engaging recourse with the weblog community in which he shall connect with the _webloggers._

*(16 Comments)*

“Okay, hows this look?” He asks.

“Fine.” I say not really paying any attention.

“is it too negative?”

“Maybe the ‘vomit out type’ bit’s a little strong, but it’s fine.”

“Yeah, that seemed a little much to me too.”

Tom Whitehouse, my sweet and eggplant shaped grandfather peacefully passed away in hospital today in Petersfield, one day before his 93rd birthday.

He was a sweet little man with more wrinkles than a bloodhound, long sleve shirts buttoned to the top, glasses thinker than the bottom of milk bottles, and a voice smaller than a shout - yet louder than a whisper. My granddad was a rockstar of an old man.

Whenever people would ask about my granddad I would tell them that my Tom had two identical black Casio watches, one on each wrist. They would stare at me for a moment - wondering why. Thinking up long explanations, balancing delicate psychoanalytical diagnoses, or making connections between my granddad and I. Ultimately asking “Why?” as I had when I noticed the two watches 10 years ago. Tom had turned to me beaming.

bq. “You see, I have these two programs that I like to watch on the tele. The left one’s alarm goes off for the first show and the right for the second. That way when I’m sleeping I’ll be sure to watch my programs. Would you like one? I’ve got another 6.

I wish him the best of luck, wherever he next calls home… I hope they have black Casio watches.

Bye Tom.

Some people think my dad and I look alike, but although my dad may be a cute little English dork it is still not cool to look like your dad. _I mean he’s my dad dude!_ Then my father was sent this picture by his first wife of their wedding 30 years ago. Everyone at the office is all giggly “You look like your dad.”

They were married for a few years, but it was apparently evident that it was not quite right. They are still friends if you’re concerned.

Now, I know it’s not cool to look like your dad and everything, but I do admit there is a resemblance.

Anyone who knows me well enough, knows I don’t have a drivers license. This often comes as a shock to most people, likening it to being illiterate. The truth of the matter is I know how to drive, but it’s the test I don’t know how to take. I have procrastinated so long in getting a drivers license, my learners permit has finally expired after 6 years.

So now I have to get a new one and trust me the bureaucratic implications of this are astounding in the metropolitan area, but it’s just something I have to do… mainly to stave off strange glances at me at parties.

“Oh, this is Ben. He doesn’t know how to drive, so don’t use any big words in front of him.”

I love music. Not only listening, but from 6 months old playing with sounds that I could make by fluttering my lips. I am by no means a professional, but more a lover of audio. I’m not sure where this love came from. My father is probably the cause, being a man who implored in me a love of all things.

*Including the Beatles.*

I can remember the day I heard them. My parents were visiting their friends who lived somewhere near the bear mountain bridge. They were nice people and all, but I remember that their children were complete animals. After an hour of these children, I escaped out the front door and into my parents’ silver Volvo. I knew the tape player worked without the key in the ignition, so I grabbed one of the tapes my father kept in the car and sat in the drivers seat. It was at this point that I heard a jet plane about to land on my father’s car. I can remember, quite vividly, looking up through the windshield at the sky as Back in the U.S.S.R. began to play. I knew from then on that this was the band for me.

*This was it.*

Since then it’s happened a few more times (in date order); Paul Simon’s _Graceland,_ Talking Heads’ _Stop Making Sense,_ Nirvana’s _Nevermind,_ Counting Crows’ _August and Everything After,_ Jeff Buckley’s _Grace,_ DJ Shadow’s _Entroducing,_ Bob Dylan’s _Blond on Blond,_ Jellyfish’s _Spilt Milk,_ and Wilco’s _Yankee Hotel Foxtrot._ Looking at them as a whole, they all represent very distinct sounds-capes. Each one has an amazing “transparent” production, where you feel like you’re sitting in the midst band not listening to a recording.

*These are my influences.*