Dear Ace

Dear Ace,

I spent a lot of time preparing for your brother's arrival just fifteen months ago. I wrote and recorded five original songs, composed a poem in honor of his birth, and began working on an extended fairy tale to explain to him his origins, which has now grown to over 50,000 words. I purchased clothes and toys, I cleaned the house and car, I bought baby seats and worked on making sure they were properly installed. I made playlists for him. I read books and listened to CDs about being a father.

And now here we are, on the eve of your birth. What, you may ask, have I done to prepare for you?

Hmmm.

Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but basically nothing.

Now I know what you're thinking: "Daddy loves Griffin more than me." That's not true. I promise you it isn't. It's just that things are different now.

How?

Well, for starters, before your brother was born, I was a recently-divorced bachelor living by myself. And let me tell you something, little man, my place was happening. I had musicians and girls crashing there, crazy parties, and the place all to myself any time I wanted. I also had a lot of free time, partly because I spent about three months unemployed during Griff's gestation. Your mom didn't live with me and I came and went as I pleased.

Now I come home to the Crackerbox Palace, and spend my nights with your mom, your two brothers, and your sister. I bought this old house right after your brother was born, and I love it here. I don't know if you'll ever have the chance to go from being a bachelor to a father of three in the space of a couple of weeks, but it's a trip. I got home from work tonight at about 5:45, then we ate dinner, I played with Jackson and Griffin while your mom took your sister out, then I cleaned the kitchen, emptied the litter box and diaper pail, took out the garbage, and helped your mom carry in groceries.

I don't mean to sound like I have a square life. I really don't. Several times a month I put on funny clothes and make-up and play songs about werewolves and zombies for people. I gig somewhat regularly with three bands. I've got a groovy little music studio set up in the basement and your mom doesn't mind if I spend a couple of hours down here every night. I'm even having a couple of short stories published in an anthology soon.

My life is pretty hip.

But it is a full life. There is never a moment that it stops. It's an interesting life, too.

Take this evening for instance. Your oldest brother began telling us about how he and a bunch of girls formed a Pickle Club at school. They learn facts about pickles every day. Yesterday, they learned about pickle juice. We dressed Griffin up in a Spider Man costume and had him dancing to the Spider Man theme from the 60s show. Your sister was going around singing, "I see butts! I see butts!"

I'm not making this shit up. It's like this every damn night. I really dig it.

Things are different in other ways, too.

Well, the past year has been kind of a roller coaster ride. Both your grandfather and your grandmother died this past year. Heavy, right? Your grandfather's death had been long coming in many ways and while it saddened us all, it came as no shock. Your grandmother's, just two months ago, hit us like a ton of bricks. The pain from it is still very real and I would be lying if I told you that I'm not glad my life is crazy busy so that I don't have time to stop and think about how much I miss her. Miss them both, really.

I really had hoped that your grandmother would make it to see you. She knew you were coming and my goodness would she have loved you. If anything could have made her live another two months it would have been seeing you, but life isn't fair and things don't work out like they do in the good stories.

Your grandfather would have loved you, too. He would have looked at you toddling around his house and said in his fake gruff voice, "Hey, Ace!" And he would've called you that, too, because he called all the boys "Ace," which is why we're calling you that.

Your other grandfather, your mom's dad, has been gone for a few years now. I never met him, but he sounds like a mighty fine fellow in my book — a musician and writer who loved New Orleans. (Yeah, I know. Your mom has lots to talk about with her therapist.)

You mom's mother is very much with us, however, and for this I am very thankful. Susie is as cool of a granny as anyone could hope for. She's an art teacher who once saw Muddy Waters in concert and made me a vampire hunting kit for Halloween. She makes costumes for all of us and has everyone over for visits where they play with chickens.

Maybe another reason that I haven't spent as much time planning for you is that we weren't expecting you so soon. I mean, you weren't an "accident" in the sense that we didn't want you. We just thought we might be seeing you six months from now instead. The Fates had other plans, however, and your mom is a buxom and healthy woman, so our evolutionary programming kicked in and I sought to further my line of DNA.

So what am I giving you, since I didn't have much time to plan?

Well, I'm giving you a name for starters. That may not seem like much. Everyone has a name, after all. But you have my name, which makes me proud. I told you about "Ace" already. As for your Christian names, those take a little explaining. "Harrison" is the name of one of your maternal ancestors. It's also the name of my current favorite Beatle and the guy who plays Han Solo (and there is a new Star Wars movie coming out this year with him in it and how unbelievably cool is that?). "Parker" is the name of one of my favorite saxophonists of all time: Bird. (Daddy has a tattoo tribute to him on his left arm.) He was as hip as they come and you could do a lot worse than to sit and listen to "Relaxin' at Camarillo" ten times in a row. You will also have the initials "H.P." to use if you should so choose, which are the same as Mr. Lovecraft, one of your dear pa's favorite horror writers.

I'm giving you a home, too. A year ago, I couldn't say that to your brother. He spent a few days in my bachelor apartment and then off with your mom and I didn't see him for days on end. Then after we bought the Crackerbox Palace, there was a period of adjustment while we all got used to how the other ones smelled and all that. I won't say we're completely through that period yet, but I will say that it feels like a family. It's not a "traditional" family, as they say, but I think we're okay with that.

(I should mention here that you are a bastard. So is your brother. I bring it up now because some square ass-hat will probably try to make a big deal out of this some time in your life, but it's not. I love your mom and we're making our life together and we love you and your siblings and that's all that matters. Besides that, bastards are really sexy. We have a whole television program called Game of Thrones that is dedicated to this premise.)

We're giving you faery godparents. Your faery godmother is a burlesque dancer who is recently divorced from her wife. Your faery godfather is an Englishman who is an illegal alien and my former bartender, a relationship that is sacred among our people. They are both smart-asses and make-believe misanthropes, but they will give you love and you should talk to them a lot when you are older. They both like books and music and dance and all the things that make this old world bearable.

I also will give the advantage of being an older father. I'm happy that I'm having you in my middle age rather than my youth. It's not that I'm less rock-and-roll or anything like that, it's just that I think I know a little more about how things work. I know enough to know that the old gods are not as powerful as I once thought they were, but still wise enough to know that fairy tales are true — if you know how to read them.

I can also tell you what it's like to be the youngest in the family and the third boy. That's the spot your old man had in his family. It's kinda charmed, to be honest. I got all the advantages of my parents' experience with none of their overbearing concern. Everyone thought I set the moon and loved on me all the time. I hope that's your experience, too.

I can give you a love for music and the arts, for books, for learning, and for this world — because it is the only world we have, in spite of what the old stories say. We may dream of Paradise or Valhalla, but we better get busy sweeping our front step. A bunch of Englishmen in feathered hats used to go around saying, "Carpe diem!" I am told, and you could do worse than to follow their advice. Gather ye rosebuds, Ace.

I hope I can give you a sense of wonder about it all.

Here's something I know now that I didn't used to: you are made from the very same stuff that was present when the cosmos began in a giant explosion. Not only that, but all the atoms in you — the carbon and oxygen and whatever — were forged in stars in far-away galaxies. The atoms in your left hand may have been forged in Andromeda while those in your right may have formed in the Cartwheel Galaxy.

Our distant ancestors were single-celled organisms and fish and rodent-like creatures. There is no living thing on this planet that is not related to you.

In the span of a single lifetime, our species went from our first flight to landing on the moon.

We now carry around in our pockets more information than all of the libraries of ancient Babylon and Greece and Persia and Egypt combined.

We have billions — maybe trillions — of micro-organisms living in and on our bodies, living creatures too small to see with the naked eye.

There are untold billions of galaxies in our cosmos, filled with untold trillions of stars, surrounded by innumerable planets that may host life that we cannot begin to imagine.

My imagination is staggered when I think about these things and when I think about the role you (and your siblings) play in all of it, our star children. Life is the most incredible drama, and we each have our hour on stage. Make the most of yours.

I hope you will understand my negligence in preparation for your arrival. Speaking of which, I need to go now. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.

Welcome to your world, Ace. We love you and hope you have a good time.

Demand More Science

I've been on a bit of a mini-crusade recently.

It centers on the manufactured controversy around childhood vaccination and vaccines in general.

I say "centers on" because it encompasses a lot more: climate change, evolution, GMOs, the teaching of science in schools, fracking, mining, etc.

The crusade is for science literacy.

I'm not the poster boy for this topic. Let me tell you a true story.

When I was in 10th grade, I had a great biology teacher named Karen Emery. She was a very hands-on teacher and I had a great time. The thing was, I wasn't a "science kid." I was a "music kid," which, you know, is supposed to be the opposite. Anyway, I was dicking around in class one day and got called out to answer a question regarding eurkaryotes and prokaryotes. I hadn't really been paying attention, but instead of just admitting that, I did what any 15-year-old dickhead does to save face in class. I said, "Why do I need to learn this? I will never use this information for the rest of my life."

But I took it a step further.

That night, I found two poems — Walt Whitman's "When I Heard the Learned Astronomer" and Poe's "Ode to Science" — and typed them out. Both are Romantic reactions to reason and the Enlightenment, decrying the lack of poetry in science and the loss of wonder. Then the next morning, I placed the poems on Ms. Emery's desk. She came and found them. I watched with glee while she read them. Then I saw her eyes getting wet.

She regained her composure then and tacked the poems on her bulletin board. She carried on with class and said nothing more about them.

Yeah. I know. I was a major asshole.

Fast forward about ten years.

I'm teaching music at a middle school and this student asks me if she can go to the library. She has a report she must complete for science class. I allow her to go and am shocked when she returns in five minutes.

"You're finished?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Let me see."

I looked to see that her "report" is simply copied and pasted web pages.

"There's no way you know what any of this means! You haven't even read it! Like this word here — what does that mean?"

She read. "Eukaryotic." Then, "I dunno. What's it mean?"

Boom.

I wrote a letter of apology to Ms. Emery that night.

But I grew up thinking that science wasn't important. At least, not to me. I was artsy, you know, not concerned about all those facts and rational thinking. That stuff was for other people.

Besides, I was an evangelical Christian in an evangelical Christian community in an evangelical Christian state. We knew that scientists were liars.

I remember the "Chick tracts" we got at church. There was one about evolution that I loved. It was like a little mini-comic featuring a college student who calls out his godless college professor on evolution and convinces everyone that the Bible is right — the heavens and the earth were created in seven days.

I memorized those talking points and had them ready any time evolution was discussed.

The thing was, it wasn't really discussed all that much. I had science teachers in junior high and high school that went to my church or other churches like it, and they didn't believe in evolution either. They certainly didn't think the universe was billions of years old. Well, maybe Ms. Emery did, but she was probably bullied into going light on the topic.

The only time I ever heard these things — the age of the universe, human evolution, all of these wondrous discoveries — was from my friend Rebecca. And she was a Unitarian, so I wasn't about to trust her.

And this is the way I grew up.

As I got older, I mostly just ignored science. It wasn't my field, so I wasn't interested. And I was still an evangelical Christian, so I knew that science was wrong on many, many things. I had the Bible and the Bible was God's word — inspired, infallible, and profitable for doctrine, reproof, correction, and instruction in righteousness.

And then I lost my faith.

That's a subject for another time, but I lost it hard. All of it. It was gone, leaving a big God-shaped hole in me.

I'm not sure when, but I decided to re-visit the whole "Science Isn't Important to Me" thing. Because, you know, I had a lot of free time on Sunday mornings.

I "discovered" Neil Degrasse Tyson. And Bill Nye. And Stephen Hawking. And Lawrence Krauss. And Brian Greene. And Richard Dawkins.

You know what else I discovered? I discovered that Whitman and Poe were wrong: science is full of wonder.

Consider this: all matter that exists in our universe was once contained within a dense ball about the size of a softball.

Or this: scientists may be on the verge of discovering why anything exists at all. It takes math. Lots of it.

Or this: all the elements in your body — the oxygen, the carbon, the nitrogen — were forged in stars. AND the elements in your right hand were probably forged in a different star than the ones in your left, perhaps separated by billions of light years. We are made of star dust.

How's that for inspiring wonder?

Beyond that though, I live in a world made possible by science.

We wouldn't have DVDs and CDs if it weren't for quantum mechanics. We would have no understanding of DNA — which has led to breakthroughs in medicine, criminal science, and history — without understanding human evolution. And my children and I enjoy a life relatively free from diseases that two generations ago crippled and killed thousands of people a year in this country.

Science matters. So does science literacy.

Here in this state and others like it, we are battling against regulation of the fossil fuel industry. This is because those interests own our state government. Luckily for them, they have a ready audience of climate-change deniers in people who are like I once was: scientifically illiterate or otherwise indifferent.

Our state and federal government actively fight against student learning standards that require critical thinking, partly, I am convinced, because students who are able to evaluate claims and evidence will begin to make better-informed decisions about global warming and other hot topics. Those decisions may result in a shift of power in this country.

The current of anti-intellectualism in this country is profound and disturbing. The chairman of the Senate Environment and Public Works Committee said that global warming has to be a hoax, because the Bible promises seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, as long as the earth continues. Fox News host Bill O'Reilly has said repeatedly that no one knows what causes the tides. Georgia Republican Paul Broun, a member of the House Science Committee, said, "All that stuff I was taught about evolution and embryology and the Big Bang Theory, all that is lies straight from the pit of Hell." California Congressman Dana Rohrabacher opined that dinosaur flatulence is what most likely contributed to past changes in global temperatures.

That's right: dinosaur farts.

The thing is, we need science desperately if we are to survive as a species. This world was not created for us and in fact, 99% of the species who have ever lived on this planet have gone extinct. We have an advantage, though. We have an advanced brain, one that has given us survival skills and tool-making abilities and the ability to reason. One that has given us science.

Those who have known me for a while know that my mantra for many years was "Demand More Art." I've not abandoned that cause, to be sure. I regularly advocate for the importance of the arts in the lives of people young and old, and I make my living in the arts. But we need to demand more science, too, and more scientific thinking among every day people.

If we do not, we may be beating the drum for a return to the dark forests of an age long past, back to the gloom of superstition and a time when we lived in ignorance and fear, praying and offering sacrifice to mute gods against the perils of the elements and disease. This is a future I do not wish for your children or mine.