Remember those precious moments you've shared with your kids? Their first butterfly, the first time they pedal on their own, finding the little mouse together in Goodnight Moon?

Matty, Chooch and I shared just such a moment last night during a song by the Murder Junkies. Actually, the moment started with the song's introduction.

"This is for all the dudes who still go downtown on their woman. Not them limp-wristed metrosexuals. But dudes who like to clean it all up."

That's a somewhat admirable sentiment, right? So I turned around and the boys' faces were frozen with awe in the dim light near the sound board. We looked at each other. Then we looked down. And listened to a wonderful rendition of what's sure to become a timeless classic and family favorite.

"Cunt Sucking Cannibal."

Then the guitar player tried to spit, but it drooled on to his T-shirt. He tried to wipe it off, but a song started and he never
got back to it. It was a sort of figure 8 pattern right above his
gut. It stayed there for the whole night as they played other
family treasures like "Gonna Rape You" and "I'm Going To Give You
AIDS."

Chesnuts, all.

For my money, the best singer in the Twin Cities at the moment is Joy Divine. I've seen her three times in the last four days, and I still can't believe people aren't lining up (she told me she ain't in it for money or fame, bless her heart) outside the door of Jitters, where she and Henry Allen sing every Tuesday night, or at Nye's, where she flattened the place late tonight with a ridiculously healing version of "Blue Bayou."

Earlier at Jitters, she split open "Summertime" with great manners and class, not to mention the verve of the old-soul Georgia thrush she is; accentuating the line, "and the livin' is easy," like it was a command from a master geisha whispering to her battle-weary G.I.

Smitten? Damn straight. And I don't know a single music lover who wouldn't be, because the divine Miss Divine harkens back to a wartime when singers rallied the troops and comforted the afflicted -- and, in case you haven't been paying attention, that is what we are these days, whether we admit it or not: the afflicted.

And that is why we need singers like Joy Divine (she's working on a debut CD of original material as we gush), and similarly sexy, timeless, spirit-lifting entertainment like Le Cirque Rouge, with whom I saw Joy first sing, Friday night.

As far as I know, her next gig is at Jitters on the Fourth Of July. Independence Day. A day when all Americans celebrate their rich cultural history (including jazz and great bloodied singers), their rich future, and, lucky for us in this freaky-fecund arts prairie, get to hear their fireworks early this year.

So hush little baby, don't you cry.

Yes, kids. It's Likehell time.

I won't be here. I'll be on vacation. In the deep woods. Away from the computers and crazies. But you can all go to Likehell.

Yes, you lucky bastards and bastardettes of the city that rocks, you can all go to Likehell's CD release party Friday (with Epic Hero and Filling Avoid) at the Fine Line Music Cafe and celebrate the release of their new CD Famous Orgies, which sports the finest title and cover art of the year, not to mention the can't-miss emoporn hit "Polly Wanna Crack Rock?"

Now that's what I call a Best Cheap Thrill.

Which reminds me: Dude, can I get my copy of Likehell The Movie back when I get back? I'm on a mission to laugh a lot this summer.

Now I'm outta here. Adios. Rock on.

This helped change my mind.

Tonight: Go see Alicia Corbett, who met Springsteen last night, kick ass for Katrina victims at Grumpy's Northeast. Saturday: Remember Karl Mueller, who died one year ago today. Saturday: Go see my brothers Terry and Jay play in the Belfast Cowboys at Lee's; groove to the dancers and the drinkers.

My kids and I went to the pet store to get dog food earlier today. I ended up buying them a guinea pig. On the way home, the guinea pig got stuck under the car's floorboard and the kids burst into drama-king and -queen tears and howls.

I pulled into the gas station on Diamond Lake Road and Lyndale, got down and ripped up the carpet and a chunk of plastic from the passenger side, both kids bawling, "LeBron is dead, LeBron is dead," and we haven't even had the thing out of the store for ten minutes. Nice.

I knelt down and stuck my hand in the hole in the floor. I could feel his warm fur. He squeaked. He was wedged between the gear shift and the back of the grill, and I was afraid that if I drove, I'd kill him. And I don't know about you, but I've had it with guinea pig funerals.

When I brushed my fingers over his foot, it was no big deal. I did what any good American would have done in that situation: I grabbed the scruff of his back with everything I had, because guinea pigs are quick and because I didn't want to see another dead thing and because I wanted to see my kids happy, and when I pulled him out, the kids' cries of despair turned to cries of joy.

I sat up, sweaty but weirdly not shaken -- like a guardian angel or two was looking over me. I held the guinea pig in my arms, and stroked the part of his back where I'd ripped out a clump of his fur.

He purred.

He was freaked, but OK.

There was fur all over the car and all over my sweatshirt. I started up the car and drove off and let the sunshine spray in the windows and pretty much felt the way that guinea pig in Minneapolis felt yesterday afternoon, and the way this great new band in St. Paul made me feel last night:

Reborn.

... for this bit of myth-busting genius. Dude's work can be seen taped up to the wall at First Avenue, by the pool tables. Oh, and these are the good old days.

...it's Braggy vs. MySpace

Message From Coach Westerberg

P.S. Paulie, tell your kids that Rod Carew says to use your hands, not necessarily your arms and torso, to get good bat speed.