van*gloria are proud to announce the birth of their second album, Bluebird, born December 1st, 2008 at 10:30 AM weighing 15 grams and measuring 5.5 inches wide by 5.75 inches long after an interminable two year pregnancy.

When I was five years old, I was convinced that an accountant lived beneath my bed. I could not see him, but could hear him, the moment the lights went out: “Mathilde,” he whispered. “Two copies of the income statement for the third fiscal quarter.”

Who is Mathilde?  I thought, trembling. And: What is a fiscal quarter?

My parents were of no help. They peeked beneath my bed, announced, “No accountant,” and flicked off the light, leaving me alone with the sounds of his typing, faxing, invoicing. I was on my own. I slept with a knife beneath my pillow. I taught myself the rudiments of Tae Kwon Do. I tossed leftover baked beans onto the carpet to dissuade the accountant from hungering for my blood, flesh, and bones.

“Mathilde,” he said. My fingers gripped the hilt of the blade.

In time, my parents discovered the baked beans. They discovered the Tae Kwon Do manuals, and the knife. They were not pleased.

“Stop being ridiculous,” they said. “There is no accountant beneath your bed. And even if there were, accountants are not dangerous. They take care of our money. They are our friends.”

But they did not hear his whispers. They did not hear his rasps. They did not hear him call out, “Mathilde,” again and again in the night, demanding bank statements, expenditure reports, subsidiary ledgers, balance sheets, accounts receivable, his voice dripping with wantonness and lust.

The accountant was no friend of mine.

The whole parenting thing wasn’t working out, so Darlene and I decided to outsource. Best decision we’ve ever made. Haven’t looked back since.

Pre-outsourcing, Little Johnny would ask us uncomfortable questions every breakfast: Why does Grandpa talk so funny? What does ‘sodomy’ mean? How come the kids at school say that Jews don’t go to heaven? Darlene and I would stare at each other, horrified. How do you explain these things to a 6-year-old? Well, I still don’t know, but the folks at the Call Center in the Philippines do, so now Little Johnny just dials the 1-800 number magneted to the fridge and everyone wins.

Darlene and I were never too good with administering moral guidance, the discernment of right or wrong, basic sex ed, which is probably why our teenage Jenny got knocked up by that sportscaster. Too late to turn the clock back now, but the Call Center’s been great with answering her questions and providing emotional support in her time of crisis. Early on, she’d burst into tears every dinner, clutching her silverware with a death-grip and looking to us hungrily for comfort and consolation, but we’d just ignore her: carve our steaks, sip our drinks, pass the butter, and the salt. Now, we hand her the telephone, and the Filipinos take care of everything.

This is how we show her we love her.

Some people say American children should be parented by Americans. Some people say folks like us are contributing to the slide of our once-proud country into economic and cultural oblivion. I say,  nonsense. Darlene and I are not equipped for these children—their mercurial moods, their insatiable requests, their predispositions for disaster and tragedy. Left in our hands, they are time bombs, land mines. If it weren’t for that 1-800 number, that pleasantly modulated voice—para español, oprima uno—I shudder to think of the inevitable savagery, destruction, despair.

Outsourcing doesn’t just make us better parents. It makes me a better husband, Darlene a better wife. When I can’t show Darlene the attention and affection she deserves, I outsource. When I can’t satisfy her sexually, she makes sweet love, over the phone, with a sensually voiced representative based out of Manila. Was I once too proud to delegate these marital responsibilities? Yes. Am I still too proud? No. In these trying times, I am no longer too proud to ask for help. I am no longer too proud to beg. I am no longer too proud to hear that pleasantly modulated voice say, “Would you like to speak to a representative?” and answer, “Yes,” cleanly and clearly, so there can be no mistake as to what it is that I want.

Shot in the stomach, I dialed 911. The pain was incredible. There was a spectacular amount of blood.

The 911 dispatcher put me on hold, and there was Muzak. I didn’t know that 911 could put you on hold, but they did. The Muzak was a smooth jazz version of “Rock and Roll All Nite” by KISS. There was a fretless bass, a guitar playing the melody in octaves, and a clarinet.

I tried to make a tourniquet with my shirt, but it didn’t work very well.

At first I thought that “Rock and Roll All Nite” was a poor choice for Muzak. But then I realized that it was actually pure genius. In its original form, it is a party anthem, a crowd pleaser. But in Muzak form, it is an existential meditation on dissatisfaction and yearning. The musicians want to rock and roll all night, they want to party every day, but they can’t. They have to play smooth jazz. The guitarist wants to set fire to his guitar and wear garish make-up and have sex with groupies, but he can’t. He has to make do with melodies in octaves and Lydian chords.

It was the saddest song I have ever heard.

Despite the tourniquet the blood kept flowing, and I felt very faint. I thought about hanging up and trying 911 again, but I was curious to hear how the song would end, and so I waited. There was a clarinet solo. I hoped that it wouldn’t be very long.

Once, when I was still a cub, not more than four months old, my father took me to the edge of our pride’s territory, marked by his rank, generously administered urine, and said, “One day, son, you will be King of the Jungle.”

Even then, in my impressionable infancy, I could sense that my father was not well.

Now Wednesdays @ 9PM on 90.5 WVUM

1. Even if I averaged, per night, 7.2 dreams, and dreamed for a thousand years, I would never dream up someone as magical and wonderful as you.    

2. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

3. Sorry about last night with Heather.

4. You are the reason I weld ultrafine-grained steel.

5. How do you configure the universal remote to our television?

6. You make me happy when skies are gray.

7. Sorry about last night with Heather (different night, different Heather).

8. The green tupperware contains pasta with clam sauce.

9. You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.

10. The yellow tupperware contains pasta with strychnine (technically, this was said, but admittedly far, far too late).

11. Please don’t take my sunshine away.