Demitri Martin is a swell guy

Let me start with this. I am a smart guy, but I'm more gullible than I care to admit. I'll get back to that in a minute.

A year or so before I got married, I was planning to go see a Demitri Martin show in Atlanta with my brother in law Will and my friend Michael. At the last minute I had to cancel, which was a bummer because I am a big fan of his comedy and was excited to see him.

Will and Michael, the ungrateful schmucks, went to the show without me. So much for solidarity. They must have felt bad about it though, because to cheer me up they brought home a poster from the concert, signed by Martin himself. I thought this was pretty cool.

MVP (Most Valuable Possession)

Time has faded the writing, but Martin wrote simply: "Thanks for not coming to my show, you dick" and signed his name.

I wish I'd seen that show, but honestly that poster was an excellent consolation prize. I liked it so much that I put it up in my cubicle at work, dirty word be damned.

Fast forward to our wedding weekend. The night before the big day, Will and Michael spilled the beans. That poster that I enjoyed so much, that I made sure to point out to visitors to my workspace, was nothing but a sham. A falsehood. A SHANDA.

Michael, who to be clear is not a professional comedian known for clever one-liners, was actually the author of the note. Come to think of it, I'm beginning to wonder if he and Will made up the poster as well. Like I said, I'm gullible.

A good chuckle was had by all, and that was the end of that. Except it wasn't. I wanted something. It wasn't exactly revenge I was after, but maybe a comeuppance? Yeah, a comeuppance would do nicely.

A few years passed, and Michael met a nice young lady foolish enough to marry him. Once they announced their engagement, I knew exactly what I wanted to give them for their wedding present. I was going to get Demitri Martin to autograph a picture of them and frame it, for realsies this time.

I figured Demitri was (is) a comic, would appreciate the amusing nature of the situation, and help a brother out. Unfortunately, I didn't know Demetri or anyone else who did, and his website did not make his contact information readily available except to book him for a show. Frankly, I don't like Michael enough to take the joke that far. I was stumped, and so their wedding came and went. Oh well. They'd have to settle for napkins rings or Bengals coozies.

Then a few months later, literally within a few hours of each other, I learned of two facts:

Fact 1. Michael and Bree were coming to visit Atlanta that upcoming weekend.

Fact 2. Demitri Martin was doing a surprise show in Atlanta THAT VERY NIGHT.

It was fate. This time, I made sure to be in attendance, and I brought a few things with me.

The show was great, and afterwards Will (who tagged along) and I waited patiently while Demitri signed autographs, waiting to find our chance to approach. When it got to our turn, I went for it.

"Excuse me, Demitri. I know you have a line formed here, but do you have time for a quick story?"

He was kind enough to hear me out, so I launched into the specifics. I explained the missed concert, the poster with his alleged signature, how I proudly displayed it at work like an asshole, and the reveal of the hoax at my wedding. I like to think he was amused, but maybe people forge his signature on posters all the time. He is famous after all.

In the end he heard me out and was kind enough to acquiesce to my requests. First, he corrected the much-maligned poster:

The fake signature on the left, Demitri's real signature on the right.

Then he added the coup de grace, the one thing I'd sought after for over a year:

"Great going plagiarizing me. My lawyers will be in touch - Demitri"

Amazing. I thanked Demitri for his time, snapped a quick photo to prove some legitimacy (let's just say I expected some skepticism), and that weekend presented my friends their wedding present.

Not photoshopped. 

Is there a moral to this story? Probably not. But I did learn that Demitri Martin is a pretty swell guy (though perhaps a little hard to get ahold of), and I learned to never take any famous person's signature at face value unless I witness it firsthand. You can never be too careful. And you can be too gullible.

Emmett Berman, of House Hart, First of his name

Jamie's Playlist

As parents, we strive to remember all of the funny individual moments that our children create. Alas, it's impossible. In the moment something may seem so visceral as to leave a permanent imprint on the brain, but we have no shot. There are too many of them. It's one of the great things about photos, blogs, tumblrs, etc, they at least provide some triggers for recollection.

Still, I do have one memory that has stayed with me since Jamie's birth, and I promised myself I'd write this post before our second child is born. Seeing as we are likely within 24 hours of that occurrence, I figure my time has run out to get this on the (web)page.

Jamie was in the hospital for 8 days when he was born. I say this not to be melodramatic. Though we were certainly shook up by this early curveball, we know that many have experienced much worse. Still, the delayed gratification of taking him home led to immense anticipation.

And that is why I know our drive home from Piedmont Hospital took roughly 17 minutes and 25 seconds. I know this because we heard four songs on the radio during that drive, and they've remained with me to this day.

Now I'm not a religious man, and I don't necessarily believe that everything happens for a reason. Still, I've always thought it would be fun to go back and revisit those songs, and see if there are any metaphorical meanings I can extrapolate.

Song 1: Paradise, Coldplay

How cliched, right? Like right out of some holiday chick flick (presumably starring Riggins from Friday Night Lights and one of the Jessicas, Biel or Alba -- or both!), it figures a sappy Coldplay song would be the first one out of the gate.  'Tis no lie though. Right as I keyed the ignition to begin our trek home, the first violin strings of "Paradise" began. It seems too overt to try for some sort of metaphorical angle here -- the surface meaning will do.

This will always be Jamie's song to me. Any time I hear it it transports me back to Thanksgiving Day 2011. It is a fitting song, as Coldplay's music has had a running thread throughout Hilary's and my relationship. Their song "Yellow" was very nearly our choice for our first dance at our wedding*, and "Swallowed In the Sea" was on the mix CD** I made to play in the car when we moved Hilary to Atlanta from DC.

*As if to prove how our memories fade, Hilary and I have been trying to remember if we used Yellow for some other purpose during our wedding, and neither of us can remember. Maybe it was when we were walking down the aisle? Or father-daughter dance? No idea now. 

** Hey, remember those?

Like most Coldplay songs, "Paradise" is fairly uncomplicated and seemingly superficial, yet it still has a way to affect me emotionally. Sue me, I like Coldplay.

Song 2: The Man Who Sold The World, Nirvana

This song comes from one of my favorite albums of all time, Nirvana's MTV Unplugged (for my money, the best performance of that entire program's history), and it's a cover of a David Bowie song. The song itself is somewhat inscrutable to me (a quick google search suggests it deals with multiple personalities), but if I could take any lesson away from this to pass along to Jamie, it'd be that talent can be both a blessing and a curse. I wasn't that huge a Nirvana fan when they were around, but even still Kurt Cobain is probably the defining musician of my childhood. He was a genius, but a tortured one. I certainly hope that Jamie (and his baby brother) find things they are good at, things they can share with the world. But sometimes those things can consume us, and ultimately, I believe it's better to be happy than to be famous. 

Song 3: Eminence Front, The Who

I love The Who the way most people I know love them, which is to say I think they rock, but I really only know the songs off their Greatest Hits album or from Tommy. And even though I almost exclusively listen to rock radio***, until this drive home I had never heard of this song, from their 1982 album It's Hard.

*** Well, not entirely true. Nowadays I almost exclusively listen to podcasts, and in high school I almost exclusively listened to the Jackson rap stations. Damn I was hip.

Why 97.1 The River chose to play this song that day (ever?) is a mystery to me, but the darndest thing about it is ever since I've heard this song abundantly, and not just on the radio -- in intro music to televised sporting events, at restaurants; it's crazy.

The takeaway with this song is that it's never too late to learn something new, and by that I mean I just learned that the term for this sort of pattern (where once you see a new word or concept you see it repeatedly) is the Baader-Meinhof Phenomenon, which sounds like the most bad-ass name for something I've ever heard. I wonder if it's too late to convince Hilary of a name change? Baader-Meinhof Hart has a nice ring to it.

Song 4: Closer To Fine, Indigo Girls

I'll be damned if this isn't just the most apt song for this playlist. I have a long, long history with this song. Every girl at summer camp knew this song backwards and forwards and would lean into it like they were on stage in a goddamn Broadway musical. In fact, arguably the most famous camp alum**** once sang this in the camp talent show.

**** And girlfriend of mine for a full twen-tee four ho-urs.

At my older sister's rehearsal dinner, my younger sister and I sang a song set to this tune about how we always thought she was a lesbian.*****

***** Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The late, great Mitch Hedberg had a hilarious joke about how songs have different meanings to people depending on the circumstances surrounding when they heard it. For most of my life, I have hated this song. But now, because it was playing as we turned onto our street to begin our journey into parenthood, literally becoming closer to fine with every tire rotation, I can't help but have a positive association with it. And Jamie, though I love you, I'll always blame you for that.

Due Date vs. Snowpocalyse Two: Who Wins?

Harts, in happier cold-weather climes

Today is February 12th. Hilary's due date with Baby Boy #2 is the 15th. Currently we are at home due to an ice storm that overnight is supposed to transition seamlessly into a snowstorm. The roads are impassable. These are the facts of the case, and they are undisputed.

It's a very strange world we occupy.* Life begins and ends on this planet at every waking moment, which means that no matter what is happening, good or bad, someone is being brought into the world in the midst of it. But you never think it's going to happen to you, right?

* I mean this in a micro sense, but certainly the same could be said on a macro scale as well.

We are coming to the end of Day 2 of "Snowpocalypse Two: The Snowpocalypsing" in Atlanta, and tomorrow looks to be more of the same, which is to say we'll be home another day with no reasonable thought of leaving house. And Hilary could go at any minute.

Which means, we are really, really hoping we hit that due date.

In the immediate lead up to Jamie's birth, I remember the overwhelming anxiety of knowing that my world could be turned upside down at any minute. Minutes felt like hours, hours like days, and days like longer-seeming days.

I wasn't ready, and therefore I didn't want it to happen. But that was all existential. This time? This is legit. This is an actual crisis, or at least a potential crisis if the wheels get put in motion.

Hilary has developed some sciatica-like symptoms in the late stages of her pregnancy. Every time she moves, she winces in pain. To the untrained eye, these bear a striking resemblance to the onset of contractions. Each time it happens, I nearly need a change of underwear.

An aside.

Often times in sports, a player will make a mistake in a game of huge magnitude that in a losing effort ends up being the thing they are remembered for the rest of their lives. Chris Webber's phantom timeout. Buckner's booted grounder. For the old timers, Merkle's Boner. But sometimes that mistake doesn't preclude victory, and it becomes just another footnote of history.**

** The best example I can come up with from recent vintage? Ahmad Bradshaw's excuse-me touchdown from the Giants-Patriots Super Bowl a couple years back. 

That's kind of the situation we find ourselves in right now. Our cousins, who live a mile or so from the hospital we are scheduled to deliver at, offered to host us for the duration of the storm. We declined, mostly because this entire weather situation seems like a gross overreaction to what happened here a couple weeks ago, but also because Jamie was born 5 days late (and even that was after an induction), and I've convinced myself it'll go down the same way this time as well. Or because we are morons.

This will either make for a charming anecdote we can share making small talk at parties, or it will be a truly life-altering experience. What will we do if Hilary goes into labor and we can't drive our car on the road? This could legitimately happen. Even as I sit here typing this thought, thinking there is no way this could happen, THIS COULD SERIOUSLY HAPPEN. For fuck's sake, I could be writing this very sentence and Hilary could scream out in agony and I'll have no choice but to start furiously googling how to deliver a baby at home.***

***Though I am sure someone has made a fairly easy to follow DIY video on YouTube.

I've mentioned before on this blog that my friends have a saying that everything always works out for Micah, and I am sure that line of thinking led to us bypassing the safe play of staying closer to the hospital just in case. And again, even though it would be PERFECTLY FUCKING RATIONAL for this baby to be born in the next 24 hours, I still pretty much believe that everything will turn out just fine. Which grand scheme it will, no matter if the baby arrives via the careful hands of an obstetrician or via catcher's mitt.

I guess the most important thing out of all of this is that Hilary and I made the choice to stay home together. Because if this was just my idea that I talked her into, then tomorrow we'd be introducing Itoldyouso Hart to the world.

I kid of course, Hilary is not that mean-spirited or vindictive, two traits we hope to avoid passing along to our soon-to-be child. Instead we want him to be honest, to be selfless, and to be compassionate.

But more than anything, right now, we want him to be patient.

This Again? Thoughts on having a second child

Everything changes when you have a kid. This is not news - everyone we knew with children told us this before Jamie was born, and it doesn't take a quantum physicist to understand why. New priorities, new hours, new sacrifices, all the stereotypical stuff.

However, as we charge into the final weeks before Baby #2's supposed due date, I am struck by how, much like before Jamie was born, everything in our lives seems at peace, in equilibrium. We have our routines -- we know who is doing what and when, and there is comfort in knowing that everything is taken care of.

Right now there is normalcy, which puts my frame of mind right back where we were P.J. (pre-Jamie) -- clinging desperately to the present and wondering how in the world we'll survive the coming changes. 

One was hard? Fuck you - two looks hard. All the effort required by a newborn, with the added bonus of a two-year old who is going to lose his shit for 15 minutes if you don't play Cat Stevens' "Moonshadow" on the Apple TV IMMEDIATELY. 

Plus, there's no mystery anymore. We know what's coming, and I'm convinced it's worse knowing our fate than not knowing before Jamie arrived.

In no particular order, the things I'm least looking forward to:

1 - Irregular sleep. No one likes the lack of sleep early parenthood requires, but it's not so much the tiredness or irritability that bothers me. It's that very, very specific sensation of closing your eyes, blinking, and being told that 2-3 hours have passed and it's time to feed the baby again. There is nothing quite like it, like the world is playing a practical joke on you.

My dad has often told the story of the time early in my parents' marriage when my mom came home from school in the afternoon and laid down to take a nap.  While she slept, my dad proceeded to change the times on all the clocks, then woke her up to say it was time for her to get up and make dinner, which she proceeded to do, even though it was like 2:30 in the afternoon. Pretty solid prank to be honest, and one I imagine would be way more difficult to pull off today. Yet that's what I think back to every time this happened with Jamie -- that only a minute or two had passed, and my dad was somewhere in the house controlling blackout shades and with some app that allows him to remotely control all the digital clocks on the premises. 

I kid of course about this scenario. I know it's not the reality, plus my father is roughly as handy with his phone as the fetus in Hilary's womb. He's one of America's leaders in Jewish culture, education, and pocket dials.

2 - Cleaning bottles. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck cleaning bottles. It's not just that they have to be cleaned every night (though again - fuuuuuuuuuuuuck), it's that my definition of clean is diametrically opposite Hilary's. Palestinians and Israelis are closer to defining the terms of a viable two-state solution than Hilary and I are to agreeing at which point a used bottle becomes clean. 

My definition: Rinse with soap and water. Finis.

Her definition: Purchase all-new cleaning supplies. Sterilize entire kitchen. Purify self in the waters of Lake Minnetonka. Put on full-body hazmat suit. Shrink self Innerspace-style to fit within interior of bottles. Rigorously cover every square millimeter with NASA-grade disinfectant. Repeat process thricely.

Oh, do I exaggerate? Whose side are you on anyway?

I do not look forward to cleaning bottles.

3 - Jamie. As if to prove how myopic every parent is in regards to their family, I'm quite certain that no set of parents has ever so lavishly heaped attention on a child as we have Jamie. He already hates it when I wake him up in the morning instead of Hilary, so he is in for a rude awakening when his brother gets here. 

I am hopeful he will adjust well to a new sibling, and in truth our friends' eldest children all seem to be adjusting pretty well. But, as I say, surely they all did a better job avoiding spoiling them.

We spend a lot of time talking about whether or not Jamie understands what is happening. He's super verbal (like his old man), so he talks about baby brother, but as far as I know, baby brother makes as much sense to him as a concept as a sensible 401K plan.

Yes, change is in store for us, and no matter how often we've dealt with change in the past and survived, it still feels like this time will be different. I guess we'll find out one way or the other soon enough.