Monolith

Everyone I know needs to see this at some point in their life just so they can understand why I am the way I am.

Because I like show tunes, and SPG, and all kinds of rock.

Because I like being classy, but I also have a little bit of a wild side.

Because I can sit down and knit a blanket one day while the next help my dad replace a toilet.

All because of this band.

I know that sounds really, really strange.

But Monolith raised me.

Which sounds even stranger.

Until you realize the bassist, with the awesome red bass with the skull sticker, and the black mullet and mountain man scruff, looks awfully familiar.

Because his picture is all over the walls downstairs in my parents’ house.

No, they’re not weird groupies or anything.

That bassist wearing the “Field of Stone” t-shirt and playing the bass that’s currently hanging out in my closet?

Yeah. That’s my Daddy.

You read that right. My dad, who is a fantastic example of being a good dad, a caring dad, a regular, religious, wonderful dad, was in a rock band when I was little. Like, really little. I may have been four or five or six when they decided to go their separate ways.

I remember hanging out in the garage while they rehearsed.

I remember Eric, the pianist, showing me the new stuff he had written.

I remember when they tried to get back together to play for my eighteenth birthday. Circumstances didn’t let them, but they tried, they wanted to.

Every once in a while, Darren or Todd will stop by my parents’ place and talk to dad for hours. And every once and a while when they do, sometimes I overhear them say how awesome it’d be to get the band back together for this event or another. But Eric lives in Arizona now (I think; they move a lot), and I’m not sure where the other two have gone off to.

But just think about this for a minute:

My dad was the bassist for a band. A really, kind of awesome band. They toured and had fans and everything. They weren’t hugely successful. But they were living the dream (while still holding their day jobs).

And he gave that up. For me. For my brother. For my mom.

So, I just want you to know that I get my urge to perform and make music from my dad (and my mom), that I get my drive to go for my dreams from my dad, that I get the urge to write songs about Jack the Ripper from my dad, that I get my pure awesome from my dad.

We may not look alike or have the same DNA, but he’s my dad. He’s the man who raised me. And I’m so proud of him.

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About alicegracey

Writer, Actor, Advice Nerd. At least, that's what it says on my business card these days. Mostly, I just write in order to try to get my brain to shut up. I like to share what I write, but be warned, I don't do happy.
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