Timmy RL Fake and Chairman of the Bored's blog: "Real Life"

This is a photo I snapped of my dad at his Memorial Day Weekend Party last Saturday night. Over 200 people were there at his camp before I left at midnight which makes me laugh because these days he doesn’t make a bunch of phone calls or schedule a lot of bands. People just show up. In 1987 he had a birthday party that people still talk about today. Ten kegs were empty by the time I got there at 4 PM from shooting a wedding, along with most of the food which he had bought from Rax – several cases of burgers, buns, and fries. The remaining 12 hours people survived on beer runs that cleaned up every grocery store and gas station in the for miles. After that, mom told him no more; it was just too much for her, not to mention their bank account. The reason I laugh is there’s nothing mom can do to stop it now, and so she sits and tries to enjoy it. People just know Mouse will have a party every summer holiday, and the big one around his birthday. These days everyone comes in vans and pick-ups filled with coolers of beer and food. One guy has a karaoke outfit and his friends pay bands to come and play, although an organized band is rarely needed because there are so many musicians there that just like to jam. Families pitch tents, and some bring in campers days before to fish, swim, get in the horseshoe tournaments, or just hang a hammock and enjoy quiet days and music at night. For me, one of my favorite times of the year is getting out of my car at the camp, yelling “Shortliners!” and hearing hundreds answer in unison, “Eat your honey!” Mark Twain once said, “When I was 18 I thought my old man was the most ignorant man ever born. By the time I was 28 I was amazed at how much he had learned in 10 years.” Nothing could sum it up better for me. He can do math in his head faster and with fewer mistakes than I can do on a calculator and can still kick my ass in anything but golf. When I was 18 it was embarrassing to me when my friends would tell me how cool it was that dad had a kick-ass system in his Van, always blaring Nazareth, The Who, or Charlie Daniels. I was jealous when the guys in my band talked about what he could do with his Stratocaster. I remember taking shots at him, criticizing him about his shortcomings and vices, which drove a wedge between us well into my adult years. I think of 1993 as being the year reborn. I divorced a woman who was jealous of my family and started following my dad’s band around again. I didn’t much care for the music but loved to hear him play. Back then I never, ever bought myself a drink because his friends would come up to me, tell me they we proud to meet Mouse’s son and buy me more beer than I could handle. Those times were the most important lesson to me I would ever learn, not just because at age 32 I learned what are really about, but because in the coming years dad would undergo several surgeries for carpel tunnel which would take away much of his ability to work a guitar, while leaving the love to do so intact. And so Saturday night I listened for hours as guys would say, “When’s your dad gonna play? I came here to jam with Mouse!” When he finally decided to break out his Strat I grabbed my camera, knowing I’d have to take candid shots. I listened as he played, not nearly as well as a few years ago, but still better than most of the guys who had showed up. I could pick out times when he was struggling, which was killing me, and yet the other musicians smiled like they had been jamming with Les Paul himself. After ever song there was a roar from hundreds of people that echoed out the Shortline. Now at age 46 I realize, that’s what it’s all about.