About once a week my buddy, Barry, and I get together to play guitar and hang out. We almost always play an Uncle Tupelo song called “New Madrid.”

The song references the New Madrid Fault and infamous earthquake prognosticator Iben Browning, including a lyric, “Mr. Browning has a prediction … .”

Browning, while credited with successfully predicting other earthquakes, had speculated that a major earthquake was likely along the New Madrid early in December 1990. He said there was a 50 percent chance of a major quake, in fact, which he based on expected heightened tidal forces at that latitude at that time. The big one never happened.

Well, this Mr. Browning did not predict the earthquake that shook the Midwest Friday morning. But I did make two separate New Madrid Fault jokes in the week preceding the tremors – which appear to be somewhat prescient.

The first comment came last Sunday during a softball game. My friend Chris – a really big guy – ripped the ball to the wall and was trying to leg out a triple when he slid into third and was tagged out. Of course this drew considerable smack from most everyone on our team, particularly after I said seismologists across the country were trying to figure out if the New Madrid Fault had just given way.

I had totally forgotten that joke, when I once again referenced the fault Thursday in our newsroom. When large trucks drive past our office here at the Model Mill Building they often rattle our walls. One truck caused a great deal of seismic activity Thursday. When reporter Rebecca Sandlin asked “what was that?” I responded, “the New Madrid Fault.”

A few hours later, a real earthquake would be rattling our newsroom. I mean, is that weird, or what?

At the very least, you have to admit feeling the earth move in central Indiana was a unique experience. I’d never felt an earthquake like that before. For us here, it was kind of cool. No major damage was reported. No one was hurt. And it gave the local TV stations the opportunity to preempt the national morning news shows and send Tree Boy to interview the rattled masses at an area doughnut shop.

Fortunately, it wasn’t the big one – and Mr. Browning’s prediction has still not come to fruition.

But the great quake of 2008 did allow for one self-fulfilling prophecy. When I arrived at work Friday morning, an e-mail from Barry was waiting.

“I guess we know what we’re opening with tonight,” he wrote.

I’ve detailed the nearly-obsessive love my son has for all things racing many times. It’s scary how big a racing fan he is as a 4-year-old, watching every NASCAR and IRL race that is on television, and using racing jargon as he plays with his toy cars — or his sister’s baby strollers for that matter.

He does not get it from me. I love sports, but have never been a huge motor sports fan. I’ve not discouraged his obsession. Afterall, it’s not like he’s becoming a white supremacist or a Pistons fan. In the past couple years, I’ve learned far more about racing than I ever imagined I would because of Zach.

Well, now it appears he has infected his sister.

Sunday offered up a tricky twin bill of racing, with the NASCAR and Indy Car races running at the same time. I had a lot of work to do around the house, and Zach couldn’t choose just one race. Well, I allowed him to take his first step into manhood, and control the remote. That’s right. I sat him up on the couch with some pretzels, a drink and the remote and taught him how the “recall” button works, so he could switch from race to race at his whim.

At one point in the afternoon, I listened as he explained to 2-year-old Emily that he was watching the Indy Car race and only switching occasionally to the NASCAR race because “NASCAW waces are longoo then Indy Caw waces, and the NASCAW wace will still be on when the Indy Caw wace is over.” Despite his difficulty pronouncing his Rs, he made a compelling argument.

What shocked and dismayed me, though, was after he switched to the Indy Car race during a commercial in the NASCAR race, I heard Emily’s little voice scream in protest, “No, I want watch NATHCAR.”

I’ve had many people question my heritage in recent days. From acquaintances to in-laws to longtime friends, several people have told me that I am not white trash.

Much of this conversation stemmed from my column last week in which I declared myself a White Trash American. I’ve never been ashamed of my roots, and discuss my low rent background openly and freely.

Still, people see me today wearing a tie and conjugating my verbs properly and don’t believe I could have come from the trailer parks of Kokomo. See, that’s a mistake many people make. They believe all White Trash Americans are slack-jawed morons. One must be careful when making assumptions about an entire group of people.

Being white trash doesn’t mean you are stupid. Generally it means you haven’t caught a lot of breaks in life, and in many cases, you just don’t know any better. White trash kids have no control over the fact they were born into poor families. As such, they often don’t get the same educational or cultural opportunities as those born into wealthier families. As a result, they grow up in a world with limited learning and earning potential, and live their entire life in poverty. They have children, and the cycle continues.

I was the first person in my entire family to go to college. That doesn’t mean the rest of my family was dumb. It means I had good grades, caught some breaks and got opportunities people I grew up with did not.

But never mistake the fact that I am white trash. Just a couple examples from my childhood.

My dad bought an old used Jeep when I was a teenager. It didn’t have a canvas top with it. So rather than spend the money on one, he built his own – out of plywood. So as a freshman in high school, I would be dropped off at school each morning in a red Jeep with a big, black, square wooden top on it. In my mind, it was humiliating. In my dad’s mind, he was saving money he could use to buy his seven children food.

My dad was a plumber, who fancied himself a funny guy. Our mailbox was cemented into an old toilet bowl. A wooden sign was fashioned onto the mailbox post that read “junk mail” and had an arrow pointing down to the bowl. To my dad, it was witty. To me, it meant I couldn’t bring anyone from school home to my house. I’ve got hundreds of these types of examples.

People have told me that at least I was able to leave my past behind thanks to my education. Well, as the saying goes, you can take the boy out of the trailer park, but you can’t take the trailer park out of the boy. Besides, the boy would take his trailer with him and move it to a new trailer park.

I’ve not exactly left my white trash ways behind, you see. Many times during my adult life, I’ve had more than one car. Of course only one worked at a time. When a part from one breaks, you take a spare from another, essentially creating a “frankencar.” Those cars have had their share of clothes hanger antennas, too. The rehearsal dinner for my first marriage was held at Ponderosa. I use to never throw away socks. I would sew the toes and heals and keep the same pair for decades. Once again, I’ve got hundreds of examples.

My current – and last – wife, Michelle, is responsible for making me look shinier than I am. This Tuesday we will have been married eight years. She has civilized me.

Michelle is from the exact opposite end of the social ladder than me. Her people have class and sophistication. They write thank you letters anytime someone gives them anything. They have cocktail parties with hors d’oeuvres, and serve beer in glasses. Her family resembles a Norman Rockwell painting, whereas mine resembles a Far Side comic.

Michelle has taught me it is OK to buy a replacement when something has broken rather than trying to duct tape everything back together. She, to some degree, has ended my longstanding practice of recycling Kleenex.

While my eyes have been opened to new things, and I’ve grown in my ability to move and function in polite society, I never forget from where it is that I came. Some might be embarrassed about being white trash, but not me. My upbringing made me who I am. I appreciate hard work, and the value of a buck. I am thankful for everything I have, and I never look down on others who have less. I am a White Trash American, and proud of it.

I’m a mutt. My ancestry consists of a potpourri of peoples. Best I can tell, I’m part German, part Scottish, part English and a few parts unknown. As far as my heritage is concerned, I’m primarily white trash.

Like most of America, I am gearing up to celebrate the Irish heritage that I don’t possess. While I am partial to the holidays that center around drinking – and I’ve been known to throw down a few green beers in honor of St. Patrick’s Day – I always feel a little jealous this time of year.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never minded being a mutt. It’s just that my people don’t get a holiday in our honor during which every bar has a special. There are no parades, or mayors dying rivers. Unlike Italian Americans or African Americans, I don’t have any cultural identity, nothing that makes me feel a part of a larger, special group.

As a white trash American, my people are known primarily for our penchant for living in trailer parks and fighting on Jerry Springer. The closest we get to cultural celebrations are NASCAR races.

In the great American melting pot, I think there are a lot of people out there like me. We’re like a human goolosh, with no background or nation of origin providing the bulk of our cultural identity. So we identify with the environment in which we grew up and we latch on to those bits of others’ culture with which we can identify.

I think that explains why St. Patrick’s Day has become a celebration of the masses whereas other cultural celebrations have not. All that you have to do to enjoy St. Patrick’s Day is drink and wear green. I like to drink, and I look good in green. So it is a celebration of heritage that I can embrace.

So many others are closely tied to religious practices. This requires a heavy investment on the part of the celebrant. I mean, have you ever attended a Passover Seder? With all the reading and ritual, it’s a very participatory … and long … evening. As a Gentile, I don’t exactly feel like I fit right in each year as my wife’s family celebrates Passover. Besides, Maneshevitz is not my drink of choice.

But put a green beer in my hand, and surround me with dozens of green-clad bar flies, and I feel right at home, despite the fact I don’t have a lick o’ Irish blood in me.

I’d always heard that when you have kids who go to school or daycare, you would get sick constantly because of all the bugs they bring home, but soon you’d build up some superhuman immunity and never be under the weather again.

Bullsnot … which is the substance I think is emanating from my cranial orifices even as I write this. I have had roughly 58 colds this winter. Or, more accurately, 1 cold — which I caught in September and which remains lodged in my lungs and sinus passages today.

I’ve had a kid in daycare/nursery school for more than four years now — two the past two years. While each has the occasional sniffles, the little carriers seem to be remarkably healthy considering the number of bugs they’ve brought home to me in recent years. My question is when does my superparent immune system kick in? I should be like freaking Wolverine by now.

My God. Well, guitar god at least. Eric Clapton is coming to my neighborhood, and I don’t know that I’m going to be able to see him.

The Noblesville Daily Times reported today that Clapton will play Verizon Wireless Music Center — literally blocks from my house — May 30.

Slow Hand has always been one of my favorite guitarists. As I’ve written before, no one makes it look easier. I’ve loved his work through every era of his career, from the Yardbirds, to his fiery Blues Breakers stint – when “Clapton is God” began appearing across London — from his groundbreaking work with Cream, all of his various supergroups to his solo stuff, I love to watch and listen to him play. My dog and constant companion for 13 years was named Layla for chrissakes.

But fatherhood, a low-paying career choice, and escalating ticket prices have conspired to limit the number of concerts I attend nowadays. I use to go to any decent show in the area, but now I’m forced to pick just a few that I simply can’t miss.

I’m already planning a trip to the Bonnaroo festival in June, and I’ve got my prime seats lined up for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers in July. That pretty much exhausts my concert budget for the summer.

Clapton’s tickets are $175 for lower pavilion and $89.50 for upper pavilion. I don’t think I’m going to be able to swing that with a lot of other things going on in my life right now. Lawn seats are $38, but I can’t see spending that much to sit a mile from the stage.

I’m going to have to make some tough choices. I don’t know that I’ve ever missed a Clapton show in the Indianapolis area since I was 16. Add in the fact that this very well could be my last chance to ever see him, and I just don’t know what to do.

Of course, my beautiful, intelligent, funny, saint of a sister-in-law (who just happens to be a regular reader of this blog) is in the music industry. Over the years she’s fed my Slow Hand cravings by giving me recent releases for Christmas (including remastered deluxe packages of “461 Ocean Boulevard” and Cream’s “Disraeli Gears” as well as the “Me and Mr. Johnson” disc and various concert DVDs), and this year gave me his autobiography. Hmm, tickets sure would make a nice birthday gift. Hey sis … you out there? Maribeth? Hello?

Oh well, in the meantime I’ll just crank up “Promises” on my way home, and watch clips like this on the computer.

Before I had kids, or at least before my kids were able to walk and talk, I use to see the little mini shopping carts at various stores and think they were a great idea. I figured they would keep the kiddies occupied, and even let them feel like they were helping out by pushing their own cart carrying various items. Aww, how cute.

Well, my kids can walk and talk now, and I think the mini carts were forged in the fires of hell by Satan himself as a way to bring turmoil upon otherwise happy families.

If you have more than one kid of at least toddler age, you know why I make such a claim. Try taking your kid into a store and NOT let them push one of those carts once they’ve spotted it. If you say no, it is not going to be a happy shopping experience for the kids, for you, nor for anyone within earshot. A child who wants to push their own cart will not let you forget just HOW much they want to push their own cart the entire time you are in the store.

If there is only one mini cart available, and you have two kids, and you give in and say “sure, you guys can push that cart, but you have to share” … well, it is not going to be a happy shopping experience for the kids, for you, nor for anyone within earshot. Youngsters, no matter how polite and cooperative, revert to some primal beast when they feel they have been slighted while participating in a sharing arrangement. And they WILL feel slighted, even if you time each sibling’s turn pushing the cart with an Olympic timing device.

Best case scenario, there is one mini cart available for every child in tow. But, even if every kid has a cart, it is not going to be a happy shopping experience for you or anyone on foot not wearing a suit of armor. Despite their promises to go slow and stay near mommy and daddy, my kids turn shopping trips into the final laps of a NASCAR race when they each have their own cart. They trade paint with each other’s carts, with the cart mommy or daddy is pushing, every display and the occasional shin of an innocent bystander.

I’ve taken my kids to thousands of stores, thousands of restaurants, and I think for the most part, they are pretty well behaved and we typically have fun. Throw a mini cart or two into the equation, however, and it spells misery.

If anyone would like to join with me in forming a grassroots campaign to have these devices outlawed, let me know. I’ll take it all the way to Washington if I have to.

 As I write this, I remain on hold, waiting for a customer service supervisor from Dish Network to talk to me. This is the second time I’ve been on hold during this phone call … the first time taking roughly 10 minutes after I waded my way through the oh-so-convenient voice operated telephone service, repeating everything I said twice because apparently the mechanical operator, much like the customer service reps I’ve talked to repeatedly over the past few months, does not recognize English. When the customer service guy, Sylvester answered, I immediately asked for a supervisor. Sylvester hasn’t screwed me over, so there’s no reason to vent on him.

If I ever do get to talk to a supervisor, I believe my next step is to drive home, rip the satellite dish off my house, set fire to it, record it and post it on YouTube. I HATE DISH NETWORK. This company has been a nightmare to deal with… Oh wait, Sylvester the customer service rep tells me Fred the “floor supervisor” is about to take my call…

… no satisfaction from Fred. He tells me the lies told to me by the Dish Network salesman can’t be rectified. I’ve asked to talk to someone from the “executive department” (sounds impressive), so I am on hold again.

 This nightmare began in October with an innocuous little post card I received in the mail. I had been looking to upgrade to high definition service, and this particular “Special Offer” would provide me 75 HD channels as opposed to the nine HD channels my cable provider could offer.

When I called to take advantage of this special offer, I asked two questions: 1. Will my local channels by in HD? 2. Will I get Fox Sports Indiana — the station that carries local broadcasts of Indiana Pacers games? I would NEVER sign up for a system on which I could not watch the Pacers. I was given an emphatic “yes” to both questions.

 Come to find out, after my system was hooked up … an ordeal that took an entire Sunday (I’m not kidding, it was more than 5 hours, and included me having to rip the cork board off my garage wall, only for the highly skilled installer to realize that the splitter he needed was in my attic) and caused me to miss the first half of a Colts game … not only were my local channels NOT offered in HD, but I had to go out and buy a special 80-freaking-dollar cable in order to get ANY channels in HD  on my HD receiver. How does this work? I ordered HD satellite service. They guy came, installed it and left, yet no HD service. When I called to get phone service, I didn’t have to go out and buy wires that allowed my phone to work with the phone line the guy installed. When the phone guy left, I had phone service. But I digress.

The biggest concern for me was, Halloween night came, opening night of the Pacers season, and I did NOT have Fox Sports Indiana. I called the 800 number for Dish, explained the situation, and some woman magically flipped a switch and I had the game. She did not mention the word “upgrade” and she did not mention any additional cost.

But… when I started getting my bills, sure enough, I had been upgraded to a higher priced package. Soooo, a special offer thta was suppose to cost $44.99 a month for six months, and then $67 thereafter, was costing me more than $70 out of the gate.

Then my three month movie channel trial ended. I called to cancel those so I wouldn’t have to pay for them. Sure enough, I’ve been charged for them EVERY month since I’ve cancelled them. Then, I get my bill this month — did I mention it was suppose to be $44.99 a month? — well, this month’s bill was for $107.83. It included the upgrade, and two months of a premium movie package I had cancelled two months ago … wait, Fred is back on the line …

Aparently the big wigs in the “executive department” were too busy to talk to someone as insignificant as a customer. Fred did say they will give me the upgraded package (which includes the Pacers games) for the price of the lower package. THERE was that so hard? I’ve had three different “floor managers” including Fred tell me they simply could not do that. Well, apparently they can. Of course, I’m taking it with a grain of salt until I see next month’s bill. It will probably be $200.

It has finally happened. I am fully domesticated. Wednesday night, I bought a mini van.

It shouldn’t come as too great a shock to my system, after all, I already live in a subdivision in the suburbs, with my wife and 2.5 children and wear a tie to work. I keep my hair off my ears, I wave to my neighbors and I have lunch meetings. I just never envisioned the day where I would own a mini van.

I blame my wife, Michelle. You see, Michelle is a classy woman. She’s the type of girl who would have recoiled in fear from me and my friends in high school as we walked down the hall in our Iron Maiden and Ozzy concert T-shirts, hair past our shoulders, bathed in smoke.

Even as a young professional I maintained a certain wild side. While I might have attended city council meetings and circulated in polite society during the day as a reporter, at night you would have been much more likely to find me in a mosh pit than a cocktail party.

Then came a mortgage, and two kids, and Michelle. In the 11 years we’ve been together, I not only gave up my convertible Mustang, but my beloved pick up truck, as it wasn’t practical to haul around kids. I don’t spend most of my nights in bars anymore, and I make it to a fraction of the concerts I use to.

Don’t get me wrong, her influence on me has been for the best. She got me to move out of my apartment that frequently had no hot water, but plenty of holes in the ceiling, that I shared with at least one squirrel and many roaches. I’ve not had to attend a single 12-step program since we’ve been together, and she made me realize that punching people who pissed me off wasn’t a good way to handle most social encounters.

But a mini van? I’d fought her off on this issue for years. But when the transmission went out of her Jeep last weekend, I knew it was probably time for a new vehicle. And I knew the road we’d be headed down.

So now I am fully domesticated. There’s no looking back. Despite Peyton Manning’s advice, she’s not going to let me get a big No. 18 on the side of the van. There’s no disguising this symbol of all I use to loathe.

If I crank Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” in the CD player will that help me fight off middle age? No, it’s too late for me. I own a mini van for chrissakes.

I’m facing a bit of a musical conundrum. It centers around a CD entitled ”Kidz Bop 12.” I don’t know if I should embrace it, or chuck it into the White River without my son’s knowledge.

For those unfamiliar with the Kidz Bop collections, these are CDs full of current pop songs, only they are cover versions with kids singing. I have long hated pop music — from my youth when the likes of Culture Club ruled the charts to now — where game show contestants and 14 year old girls are all the rage. 

Thanks to this CD, not only do I get to listen to songs like “Girlfriend,” whenever I’m in the car with my kids, but I get to hear songs like it and ”How To Save a Life,” being performed by what sounds like sixth-grade choir classes.

 Clearly, I hate this CD. So what’s the problem? Several. First and foremost, my son loves it.

Both Zach and his little sister Emily seem to have developed a love for music like mine. Music is something I’ve always tried to make part of Zach’s and Emily’s lives, whether it is singing around the house or playing good music in their presence. When I use to take them to daycare each day, I’d play a different CD each week, so they’d hear it a couple times through and gain some familiarity. One week it might be the Beatles’ ”Abby Road,” the next week it might be Aerosmith’s “Toys in the Attic,” followed by Son Volt’s “Trace.” I tried to mix it up, but give them exposure to some great albums.

That changed when their mother started taking them to daycare. She likes pop music, and is quick to put in one of their “kiddie” CDs, with songs like “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Their daily exposure to great albums ended.

Then came the Kidz Bop 12 CD in question. My sister-in-law bought it for him because Zach, who now hears pop music each day in the car, likes some of the songs on it. I understand the SIL’s thinking. She is a true music lover and is open to a much broader variety of styles than me. She wanted her nephew to have a CD of songs he likes, and had no problem with him listening to pop music.

I DO have a problem with him liking pop music, and that is the part that is causing me the greatest discomfort. I’ve vowed to be less of a music snob. I’m trying lately not to cast aspersion onto those styles that I don’t like, and accept the fact that someone may indeed find Fergie to be an interesting and creative artist. Yet, it’s tough to overcome such prejudices overnight.

 So, do I give in and let my kids enjoy the type of music that gives them pleasure? I know the answer is yes. But I also know I must redouble my efforts to make sure they know who Ryan Adams and Eric Clapton are.

So, for the time being, I’ll try not to accidentally destroy Zach’s copy of “Kidz Bop 12″ and I’ll let my children’s musical tastes develop naturally. Now, if he comes home in a Tom Brady jersey, that is a different story altogether.