You know, we're aging. I get that.

The drummer looks like they just rolled him out of his cardboard box, decided his shirt was too dirty to salvage, and had him take it off.

He looks like a suspect on CSI (vegas or ny, Miami is never anything but neon colored and/or freshly waxed skin glistening with a slight sheen of sweat).

I've written before about how badly tattoos age when they become covered with old man fur. I really think a cut up tee shirt was in order. Grandpa's nipple rings are flapping and he needs to pull his pants up. I realize that he is in a rock and roll band and cannot dress his age, but maybe they could give him the Dynasty treatment--not the beaded shoulder pads, more like the Linda Evans/Joan Collins soft filter.

I'm not a Doctor,

...But I play one on TV.

Okay, I don't play one on TV either. I don't even play Doctor with the Honey. He doesn't like them--But he's had a sharp pain off and on in his stomach for the last few days. Call a Dr.? Never!

He doesn't even want me to call my parents (nurses, both of 'em).

So I took it upon myself to help him the best I could last night, by singing him to sleep with every "Doctor" song I could think of. If you are going to whine and complain about how you feel but won't do anything about it, I have free reign to annoy the ever living shit out of you until you grow up and do something about it--preferably the pain, not my singing, that is.

So we sang Robert Palmer's "Doctor Doctor", along with the "Witch Dr" song by the Chipmunks, and I thought I was going to sing the doctor line from "Life in the Fast Lane" by the Eagles, but what came out was the line from Hotel California. I ended my serenade of purposeful stupidity and callous indifference with that old Harry Nilsson favorite, "Lime in the Coconut"--Little O, again having spent too much time with her Brother and Guitar Hero, turned that last Doc-tor! into something that would not have been out of place in an Iron Maiden song, complete with air microphone and one hand thrown straight up into the air when she took that note to the canine range. I had to stop at that point because I could in no way top her.

Rock On, Little O. Right in your father's ear.