3B is 1!

To prove it, we had a party, which was a fun little adventure. We got to discover all the questions about baby birthday parties that we had never had to answer as guests--what time? how long? what do we serve? what do we do? will 3B's hair smell like cake all afternoon?

We still don't know what the right answers are to the first four questions, but because 3B gets his cake eating skills from Mama's side of the family, as you'll see, the answer to the last one is yes, as you'll see:

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Holy @#$%! You can't say that!

3B is babbling up a storm, but doesn't clearly say any words right now beyond "mama" and "dada," which he occasionally uses to refer to Mama and me. As he gets closer to actually talking with, like, words and syntax and stuff, we're starting to become a little more aware of and get a little more scared of our own potty mouths. OK, to be honest, they do sometimes devolve into drunken-sailors-in-a-bar-brawl mouths, like when that @#$%&! nearly ran down Mama, 3B, and Barky in the crosswalk yesterday.

For the most part, however, it's just the occasional slip of the tongue. Then again, that's all it takes for a kid to go astray, start cursing, then move on to more depraved activities, like burping, farting, and eating Oreos without milk. Even worse, when he grows up, he might become a foul-mouthed blogger (one can only hope).

I know from experience that it doesn't take much. Growing up, we never cursed in my house. Nobody did. OK, except Dad, when he was really mad about something, which is when those years in the Navy really paid off. But somehow, in second grade, I was busted twice in one week for saying"shit" on the playground. Granted, it was appropriate, in context, and gramatically correct, but Mom was not impressed.

I know that I'm not the only parent struggling with this issue, and I'm not the first to blog about it. I've even got adult readers--and a new one too, so I might have to bump my readership numbers to seven--who are struggling with whether or not to curse at their job. And it really is a dilemma for me, since I agree with George Carlin that there are no such things as bad words. Words are merely tools, and their value is determined by their utility. Then again, as Ani says, "every tool is a weapon if you hold it right," so words can be used to hurt, and to express ugly thoughts.

So, what to do with 3B? Teach him that certain words are bad? Teach him that we don't use certain words? Let him say whatever the hell he wants, ensuring long afternoons in the principal's office for him and frequent parent-teacher conferences for us?

Any suggestions, insights, and cute stories about your kids cursing inappropriately that you're willing to share are welcome. Especially before our little !@#$%$@# really starts talking.

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Dope slaps

From the Washington Post this evening:

One of it's biggest stars is already gone, and now so is the leader of the Tour de France.

Michael Rasmussen was removed from the race by his Rabobank team after winning Wednesday's stage, a day after Alexandre Vinokourov and his team withdrew when the star cyclist tested positive for a banned blood transfusion. . . .

All this talk of doping prompted Jean-Francois Lamour, vice president of the World Anti-Doping Agency, to suggest the sport should be yanked from the Olympics.

Get real, Lamour. By that rationale, track and field should have been yanked years ago, after the 1988 Summer Olympics. And what about the proposed return of golf, given the recent doping scandal in that sport? And shouldn't you have removed swimming from the Olympics after 1976? What about tennis and soccer/football? Shouldn't they go too?

I'm not saying that cycling is clean, just that it's not the only dirty sport around. It's just everyone's favorite whipping boy right now. Ironically, the reason is that cycling looks so dirty is because it's catching more athletes than any other sport because it has the most aggressive drug testing protocols of any sport.

Golf, for example, has no drug testing. Don't even get me started about the charade that passes for drug testing in US football. How is it that the NFL will suspend--rightly so, I think--Michael Vick for his dogfighting indictment, but won't put an effective drug testing and enforcement program in place--even knowing what it does about players like Bill "'Roid Rage" Romanowski?

And even though there has been plenty of talk about soccer players/footballers being associated with Operation Puerto, have any of them been identified publicly? How about questioned? Tested? Summarily suspended until further notice? Cyclists caught up in Puerto have been not only identified and questioned but also tested and suspended--even without evidence to warrant a suspension.

And how about baseball? As Brother #2 pointed out in a phone call tonight, one of the world's top cycling teams just pulled their team leader, who was leading the biggest race in all of cycling because his behavior gave the appearance that he was engaged in suspicious activity. Back here in the States, Barry "Balco" Bonds is still free to chase Hank Aaron's hallowed home run record, despite continuing investigations into his use of illegal drugs and his possible perjury in his grand jury testimony.

And yes, cycling is doing itself a huge disservice with its unprofessional testing procedures--leaking confidential results before they're confirmed, using a lab whose procedures and objectivity are questionable, having far too many organizations with only partial control of the situation. Nonetheless, I haven't seen any other sport make even a half-assed attempt at solving the doping problem. Until they do, I don't think that they're in any position to throw stones at cycling.

And until WADA and the IOC puts a muzzle on Dick Pound, or for that matter, Lamour, they don't have much credibility on this topic either, which is sad, given their positions as the enforcers of anti-doping regulations. I can't understand why Lamour would suggest pulling the only sport that's making a credible effort against cheats, unless, like Dick, he's only interested in his own reputation, not those of the sports or athletes that he is allegedly working to keep clean--between interviews with the media, that is.

As for the Tour, I'm still watching. How can I not watch when this morning the whole race was sewed up and tomorrow it's a wide open race again? And for those of you who wonder how I can watch with all that's transpired, I suppose that means that you don't watch any baseball or football--US or the FIFA variety--or golf or track and field or swimming or gymnastics or cross-country skiing or . . .

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To the pain

When we lived in Colorado, I trained for the Montreal-Portland (Maine) AIDS Ride--500 miles in 6 days--byriding about 200 miles a week. I was able to do that because I worked for myself as a web designer, which made my schedule pretty flexible; Mama had a steady job with a regular paycheck that actually covered our expenses; and we had no baby.

That was handy, because those 200 miles covered some pretty steep terrain. We lived at 6,700 feet above sea level, which was at the bottom of the valley. That means that every ride went uphill. One of my favorite rides was to the top of the rim above the valley via Rabbit Ears Pass, which goes from about mile 5 to mile 22 on that profile above, and yes, that's 2,500 feet of elevation gain, so it ends up at about 9,200 feet. It was also possible to do the same amount of climbing in the summer by riding up the mountain bike trails that weave through the ski area, but then you couldn't hit 50 mph on the descent, although you could catch some pretty good air in places.

Now, of course, that's all changed. We aim for flatter terrain, and we depend on the kindness of our friends for babysitting services so we can go for rides. Since we don't pay our babysitters, we try to compensate by feeding them or letting them use our washer and dryer or something, and we work around their schedules. This makes it a little harder to schedule rides, since we're juggling multiple schedules: 3B's many schedules--naps, meals, bathtime, bedtime--as well as Mama's schedule, my schedule, plus the babysitter's.

Despite the complexity, we've managed to get out on a few long rides recently, and it's been nice to hang out with Mama, doing something that we both love. However, it's been a bit weird walking away from 3B with Mama. I'm somewhat used to leaving to go to work, but part of what comforts me when I do is knowing that Mama is with 3B. When Mama's next to me, it's jarring, and I find myself asking, "Where's our baby?" Once we get into the ride, however, both of us focus on where we are rather than where he is.

Several times, however, our schedules have conspired against us, and we've both end up taking our rides on the trainer in the living room. It's a good way to catch up on Antiques Roadshow and 60 Minutes, but it's not nearly as much fun as riding outside, dodging SUVs. In past years, I used to catch up on Le Tour while I rode on my trainer, but this year, since we're getting by on one income in an expensive city, we've cut our spending to the bone, which means no extra channels on the Dish, which means no TV coverage of Le Tour.

What Tour? What other Tour is there, mes amis?

Le Tour de Fwonce, of course.

I am surviving this year without deep Dish coverage through the grace of the innernets, which bring live coverage via CyclingNews.com and plenty of other sources, as Brother #2 has explained. In fact, I'm sure that it's better for me, and for my slowly failing eyes, that I'm not watching four hours of sweaty men in tights on TV every day for a month.

I do have to apologize to Sister #1, however, for getting her hooked on this crack, although I won't apologize for getting her son hooked. I'm hoping that he'll get so enthralled that he'll become a bike racer, which will soon give me the excuse that I'm lacking to go to Fwonce to follow Le Tour with the rest of the caravan, which is sort of like a month-long Dead tour, with spandex replacing tie dye. As if I need an excuse other than to witness the joy of the suffering--this is not just a bike race, after all.

For now, as Mama and I train for our century--our 100-mile one-day ride--this October by taking long, air-conditioned rides to nowhere, there's plenty of suffering in the house. In support of our efforts, 3B is cutting his first molars, ensuring that he's suffering as much as we are. Although 3B might be drooling a bit more than I am, I think that I'm keeping up with him on the whining.

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She's got loving like quicksand

VS.

Please tell me that I'm not the only one who, when reading Goodnight Moon, can't just say, "And a quiet old lady who was whispering hush." because Deep Purple is carved into my neurons like four presidents are carved into the South Dakota granite of Mt. Rushmore.

3B will always think that the story goes a little something like this, "And a quiet old lady who was whispering, doo dee dee doo doo doo doo doo doo, huuush, huuush,
Thought I heard her calling my name now
Huuush, huuush
I need her loving and I'm not to blame now
(love, love)
They got it early in the morning!
(love, love)
They got it late in the evening!
(love, love)
Well, I want that, need it!
(love, love)
Oh, I gotta gotta have it!"

Goodnight room.

Goodnight moon.

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"They say it's your birthday . . .

. . . well it's my birthday too, yeah"
--The Beatles

Growing up, I had a distant cousin, or Mom did, whose birthday was on the same day as mine. I don't know where this cousin found them, but I would get Happy Mutual Birthday cards from her every year--one of which I found recently in a box in Mom's garage.

That's nothing like what we have in the Bradstein Household, however. 3B was due on my birthday, so for nine months, Mama was excitedly talking about how cool it would be for her boys to share a birthday. 3B had other plans, however, and arrived on Mama's birthday--as Mama says, he's the best birthday gift that she ever got.

My view is that he is the best gift, but she damn well earned it with all the work she did.

Of course, this means that I have one fewer date to remember every year, but it also means that Mama's birthday will constantly be in danger of being overshadowed by 3B's, which she's said she's fine with, but which I want to ensure never happens. Although it was a crazy time of year, with me being in California for a week, and Mama and 3B being in Maine up until the day before their birthday, I somehow managed to pull off a surprise birthday party for Mama at the perfect location--a pizza place (perfect for Mama) that's made for kids (perfect for 3B . . . OK, and for me).

As I said, it was a bit crazed, so I have no video or photos to share (before you even ask, King), but Mama was completely surprised, excited, and relieved that she knew nothing about it, which meant that she couldn't stress out over the arrangements. No, no, no, that was my role this year. I was nothing but relieved and happy to see Mama so happy all evening. Plus, I got to hang out with all of her friends, and we all know that they're the coolest, just like Mama.

For 3B's upcoming party, however, we hope to capture some footage and shots, but in case we miss, here's some pictures from some earlier 1-year-old birthday celebrations. The first few are from Mama's first birthday, followed by those from your favorite red-headed Bradstein's cakelove party at Grammy's in Maine.

Mama says that he looks like me . . . not when he's eating cake he doesn't--he's the spitting image of Mama, don'tcha think?

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May your heart always be joyful, may your song always be sung

365 days ago, after more than 24 hours of labor, we were here.

Tonight, we were here.

What a difference a year makes.

Happy Birthday, little tiger. May god bless and keep you always, may your wishes all come true.

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Learning new tricks from 3,000 miles away

Mom was, in her own words, a pack rat, which has upsides and downsides. Brother #2 has shown the primary downside in excruciating and overwhelming detail on his blog. One upside of all of us working for a week on this is that we have made great progress, as Brother #2 also shows . . . and his photo of the garage is old--we now have cleared enough that we have a car parked in there.

The other upside--hey, there's got to be a silver lining in here somewhere, right?--is that there are plenty of opportunities to learn or remember about my family or myself. For example, I know that for my sixth birthday, the theme was Batman, which makes sense given all of the Batman logo drawings on my kindergarten schoolwork.

Yes, I have all of my kindergarten schoolwork. Don't you? (And don't dis Mom in your response, pal.)

I also know that "We ate lemon cake with bat [diagram of bat decoration on cake], ice cream & fruit punch." In addition, Mom noted that we "bought 2 gals of fruit punch & used only 1 for 11 guests + Papa, Sister #3, & Brother #2." But refreshments were only the fourth activity that day:

We played:

1. Pin the Bat on Batman--2 Tootsie Pop prizes--closest and furthest
2. Unwrap game #1--Davey Embick won a mini-Rubber Dragon
3. Papa unwrapped his gifts
4. Refreshments
5. Take group picture [which I'm sure is in one of these other boxes around here]
6. Unwrap game #2
7. Hot Potato ("Spudsie")--Sister #3 won a Tootsie Pop
8. Colors--Record & Balloons-- [no idea what this means, unless we were rockin' Ice T when I was 6]

And home

The lesson is to follow the six-month rule: if you haven't touched it in six months, recycle it, shred it, burn it, shoot it out of a cannon . . . whatever, just get rid of it. The bigger lesson is that there are certain family traits, like being a pack rat, that I don't want to continue or pass on. Mom's house is a vivid example of where that trait can lead--places both fascinating and tedious. While I'm fascinated by the history, the tedious bearing of that burden would sap energy from me that I use to find new fascinations and learn new tricks.

Turns out 3B has been learning some new tricks this week, as related to me by Mama, who's with him, 3,000 miles from here:

• On Sunday, he threw his first temper tantrum, screaming, crying, and pulling his cousin's hair (sorry about that, cuz).
• Also on Sunday, he learned how to take off his pants, which he now does every time he's put down for a nap. Fortunately, he's not taking off his diaper too (please knock on wood for us on that count).
• He learned the sound that squirrels make when they're doing battle with the chipmunks in Grammy's backyard and, being fascinated with the cute little rats, to look immediately to the bird feeder, which is their primary battleground, when he hears it.

With no prompting from Mama or Grammy, 3B also learned how much fun a mud puddle is:

This is one trait that Mama can't deny comes from her side of the family:

However, I believe that Mama's holding me responsible for 3B's proclivity for eating rocks:

And even though Mama's been proclaiming that 3B gets his adorable cheeks from me, I have to say that she's got an even claim on them--more than even, since his cheeks also have her dimples:

As for this, we're both blaming Barky:

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Joyeux anniversaire à moi

I've been out here on the Left Coast for the last week, staying at Mom's house, working with Brother #2 and Sisters #1 and #2 on clearing out some more of the items collected during a life worth living. Every morning has started with a curse for the Prince of Pestilence, a cup of coffee, and a slow awakening while watching men in tights.

Papa's 1st Shoes

After that, I've gone for a ride of my own, usually on about the same route, which takes me by the cemetery, where I can stop and visit Mom and Dad's graves. I did take a one day break from the ride, on what happened to be my birthday, to help my recovery from the rides and this pernicious pestilence. That gave me time for a birthday tradition that I've followed since about the time that I was in college: delivering flowers to Mom.

Papa's 1st Shoes, as displayed on Mom's buffet, with a picture from Mama and Papa's Wedding

I started the tradition when I realized that everyone gave me gifts for being born, but that nobody ever congratulated Mom, who was the other one in the room with me when I was born (Dad was off corraling my five siblings), and she was the one doing all the hard work. I was always happy when the flowers surprised her, as they often did. She would always call to tell me that she'd had a good chat with "little Stevie" who would deliver the flowers. I would have already had a good chat myself with Steve, who went to elementary school with Sister #2 and then went on later in life to buy my favorite florist.

Yo, check that outfit.

The irony this year is that Sister #2 and I are here to go by and visit with and pick up the flowers from Steve in person, but Mom's not here to receive them. I did still get gifts from Mom, however--items that were marked for delivery to me that we've uncovered as we go through the house. In addition, there's plenty of obvious evidence of Mom's lifelong love throughout the house, the easiest pieces of which to share are the pictures--although if you'd like to see the love that Mom showed me by saving all of my K-6 schoolwork or every invitation list, gift list, and card from every birthday party, I have a few crates of paperwork that I can forward to you. Don't worry--there's plenty to share among all six of you loyal readers.

Until I get your mailing addresses, you'll have to make do with these pictures.

Turns out I wasn't always this tall. Or that short.

No, I don't still have that shirt. Nor the freckles.

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Plagues on a Plane

It's 4:23 a.m. where I sit, on the Left Coast, which makes it 7:23 where Mama and 3B are (and half-past a meter for you Brits). Although I miss Mama and 3B terribly, my insomnia is not due to their absence. Neither is it due to jet lag, since I've been here for the better part of five days. No, I'm awake now because I had this misfortune on the flight out here to sit next to Sniffly McSneezerson--aka, The Toxic Virus Atomizer, Meat Puppet of Death, or Typhoid Larry to friends.

Thanks to Sniffly, I'm now on an overnight flight that's a code-share between Claritin and Sudafed. The Claritin is to ensure that allergies don't add to my misery, and the Sudafed is to keep me from dehydrating through my nose. And while I've been up, I've composed a brief message for the Toxic Virus Atomizer:

If we're going to survive as a species, we're all going to have to get along on this little planet that we inhabit. To keep us from species self-annihilation, we've developed some rules of conduct during the course of human history. If you would like to prevent your own personal annihilation, you might want to review this following abridged list of behaviors that will keep your fellow travelers from drawing and quartering you and selling your entrails in the street for a pittance--or, at the very least, keep them from ramming red-hot pokers up your nose:

• Salad fork goes on the outside left.
• Turn signals are to be employed before you turn, every time you turn. They are not decorative items, meant only to balance the feng shui of your vehicle; they are meant to communicate your intentions to those driving around you who can't bend spoons without touching them.
• Pestilence shall not be borne onto any airplane, particularly by anyone lacking basic hygiene skills, such as the ability to wash one's hands, and who is repeatedly sneezing a fine mist filled with the Plague of 1,000 Aches without adequately enclosing their face with, say, a plastic bag for the duration of the flight.
  

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Smoove as a baby's bottom

Fresh news from the fount of wisdom that is BabyCenter:

Hello, Papa!

Your baby understands more than she says, and she's aware that everything around her has a name. Help satisfy her curiosity by pointing at familiar objects and naming them: "Ball." "Truck." "Airplane." Few 11-month-olds are ready to say these words, but they file them away for future use. Soon you'll be able to say, "Where's the ball?" and she'll show you. If her first words sound strange, she may be repeating them the way they sound to her ears: "Da-ee" for "doggie," for example.

First, BabyCenter calls me a mom, now they're calling 3B a girl? I know we had that whole orchiopexy thing, but that's no reason to call him a girl. Don't make me pull this blog over and come back there, BabyCenter.

Genders aside, BC is pretty accurate about some developmental stages in their e-mail notices. This one, however, they're a little behind on. It was about three weeks ago that Mama told me when I came home that she had been reading 3B a story with a mention of a ball, and that when she got to that point, 3B looked up over the top of the book and found his ball in the room. The big purple one, not the one the doctor recovered in the orchiopexy, you knob.

It's been lots of fun for 3B to discover the names of various things and find them or go grab them. Following the advice of my sisters, we leave burp diapers in his crib as comfort items--easier to replace than a worn-out blanket and you always have a burp diaper when you need one (or two, since the Curious George doll in his crib needs one too, apparently). When he's out of his crib, we can ask 3B where his burp diaper is and he'll go find it in his crib, pull it out through the rails, and lay down to cuddle with it on the floor. It's adorable.

Since he's been learning the names of his various body parts, there's been plenty of grabbing of those too--like ears, hair, eyes. Of course, it's best to grab those when there's no better trouble--like screwdrivers or electrical cords--to get into, like when he's in his high chair, hands coated with cereal, banana, or other sticky foods. That's also the best time to point out Mommy and Daddy's ears, hair, and eyes, and to pat their heads. "Pat" being the word we use for "open-handed strike to the top of the skull, delivered with enough force to knock out fillings." It's 3B's little way of extending our together time past just meals, since we all need a shower by the time we're done feeding him.

Just the other day, when I was apparently as high as a kite, I thought it would be a good idea to give him a banana for a snack. He loves bananas, right? He can eat them by himself, right? We're going to be walking around during snack time, which means he can't eat a snack that requires sitting, so this is a brilliant solution right?

Right:

Sort of like marinara sauce and a white shirt in reverse, no?

For all of his recognition of various objects and shapes--balls, bike, books, stars, the moon--and for all of his babbling, which is a pretty steady stream of various phonemes these days, 3B hasn't seemed to try to put too many of them together to imitate us, although he does say both "da da" and "ma ma" for each of us. But after last night's successful trial of my new martini cocktail set, I'm would contest BC's assertion that if 3B says "da-ee" for "doggie" that he's not repeating exactly the sounds that we make. If sometime today 3B says, "Dish mar-ee-nee is sooooooooo smoove." and then rubs his lips to see if they're still attached to his face, we'll know that he's repeating exactly what he hears.

Not that we're not able to learn by mimicking 3B, however. Just last night, for example, I found out that sometimes cuddling with a burp diaper on the floor is just what a boy needs. Mmm. Dat mar-ee-nee was sooooooooo smoove.

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Cabana Boy Safe from Marauding Kitty

This is a baby gift that has something for everyone. It's perfect for parents raising an aspiring young Kato Kaelin. Or those parents who are locked in rehab, lounging by the pool, trying to keep the hands of seamy debutantes, half-wit B-list actors, and vapid heiresses off of their little beauty. And for those parents whose 'hood is overrun with clowders of cats, it will keep their young cabana boy safe.

Of course, a pit bull would go through that thing like a lawnmower through Kleenex, but at least Pickles won't be rappelling (abseiling for you Brits) into your cabana boy's crib. Then again, if Pickles used his claws to climb up there, rather than being dropped in place by a photographer, I'm pretty sure that it would look like a bridesmaid's taffeta gown after being dragged over every bush in the White House Rose Garden.

But perhaps it would have stalled a dingo for long enough to prevent all of us from being subjected to Meryl's accent.


Portable Play Yard Tent plus Cabana Kit from BabyCenter

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Hey, Baby, It's the Fourth of July . . .

OK, I've got the car keys--which way to the pool?

. . . when we're free to do whatever we want, be whoever we want to be, and listen to whatever we want to. As a public service to you, my six loyal readers, I'm providing the playlist that we're rolling out to at the Bradstein Household to celebrate the Fourth of July. (Not sure what you Brits can do with this, since I'm not sure how dates and music convert to the metric system. Perhaps you can watch a movie and reminisce about the good ol' Thatcher days.)

We're not only rolling out of bed, but rolling out of the house and down the hill, since we're starting to get serious about bike training for our century. Mama just got a consulting gig that's going to require her to be here during the century that we had previously targeted, so we picked another one.

The new century is still in October, to give us enough time to train for it, but it's also two weeks earlier than our previous choice, so we've got to get serious about riding now, especially with our trips coming up.

Oh, did I forget to mention that we're all taking trips this month? To separate locations? And how much fun it is to prepare for that--both logistically and emotionally? (And for all of you innernets stalkers, one of us will be here most of the time, and when we're not here, someone will be staying here with Barky, so don't even try it. And did I ever mention our next door neighbor who was going to become a priest, but who's put that off for now, which means that he's free to mess you up, and he'll be forgiven later? And yes, he really would thump you pretty good.)

Those trips, in addition to our crunched training time frame, have us scrambling to figure out when we can ride, riding as much as possible before our trips, and blogging almost not at all. As soon as we get into a new rhythm, I'm sure we'll find time for all the things we used to do.

Whatever adjustments we have to make, the shortened schedule is worth it for the extra money that Mama will bring in. We've been revving the financial red line ever since our income was cut in half when Mama became a SAHM--a decision that neither of us would change. That hasn't been fun, but we've been trying to patiently figure a way out of this situation, rather than jumping off to whatever looks like a quick fix. That hasn't been easy; patience is a virtue, but it's not one of mine.

But I digress. On to the tuneage--feel free to modify to your tastes and tell the other five loyal readers about it in the comments . . .

• Fanfare for the Common Man, Copland (1900-1990), Fanfare for the Common Man; The Man and his music. San Francisco Symphony, Thomas, 2000
• 4th Of July, U2, The Unforgettable Fire, 1984
• United States of Whatever, Liam Lynch, Fake Songs, 2003
• 4th Of July, Ani DiFranco, Puddle Dive, 1993
• Livin' In The USA, Lsjumb, Ultrasound
• 4th of July, X, See How We Are, 1987
• Help Save The Youth Of America, Billy Bragg, Talking With The Taxman About Poetry, 1986
• Revolution 1, The Beatles, The Beatles (White Album) [Disc 2], 1968
• Coup D'Etat, The Circle Jerks, Repo Man: The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack, 1984
• Party at Ground Zero, Fishbone
  
• God's Country, Ani DiFranco, Puddle Dive, 1993
• In God's Country, U2, Joshua Tree, 1987
• God Save The Queen, Queen, A Night At The Opera, 1991
• America Is Waiting, Brian Eno and David Byrne, My Life In The Bush Of Ghosts, 2000
• Boys of Summer, Don Henley
• Summer Days, Bob Dylan, Love & Theft, 2001
• The Summer Wind, Madeleine Peyroux, Half The Perfect World, 2006
• Summertime, Sarah Vaughan, The Divine Sarah Vaughan: The Columbia Years 1949-1953 [Disc 1], 1949
• Independence Day, Bruce Springsteen, Live 1975-1985 (Disc 2), 1986
• Elvis Presley And America, U2, The Unforgettable Fire, 1984
• The Star-Spangled Banner ('70), The Stanford Band, The Winds Of Freedom Blow (Greatest Hits 1970-1998) (Disc 2)

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