Down Time
“You can always tell the veterans; they bring magazines to the cafeteria,” he said. It was lunch time. We were waiting for the elevator. They are notoriously slow in the afternoon.
I turned down my iPod. “Yeah, I’m not so good with the down time.”
A few minutes later, we exited the building into the fray of a Times Square bustling with matinee goers, and waved each other off into the crowd. I turned my iPod up.
My lunch time routine is fairly, well, routine: I walk to an organic health food place called Green Symphony, grab some stuff, and walk back. It’s all of two blocks. I’m outside for less than fifteen minutes. It’s often the only direct sunlight I see all day. It’s down time. And I never spend it without protection: my iPod and sunglasses.
Today was only slightly different. There was a fruit stand on the corner of 43d & Eighth. I reached into my pocket for a quarter, and felt a coin slip down my leg. I let it go, figuring someone else could use it more then me. I got a banana, and walked on to Green Symphony. I got a salad (with tofu, sunflower seeds, broccoli, carrots, and a hard boiled egg). Standing in line I noticed that my left arm felt lighter. I looked down at my wrist for the time, and saw only a pale wisp of skin where my watch had once been.
You remember the watch, right? The one about which I wrote:
I have a wicked cool wristwatch. I always feel dressed up when I’m wearing it (which is always), even if I’m in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt and flip flops. Plus, it keeps terrific time.
The one that I “set it forward a few seconds” because “I wanna’ get there first, and feel it fully every time.”
I walked back to the office thinking I’d taken it off. Nope. I stepped back outside and retraced my steps meticulously. Nothing. I asked the fruit guy, and the Green Symphony guy. Nope. Nope. I returned to work to sit blank-faced through a meeting. Fumbling nervously with change in my pocket, I found a single, cold and smooth watch link. A clue. The scent of hope. I struck out on a ‘CSI’ mission to reconstruct the incident. I stepped inside 255 West 43d and asked the security if someone could dig around the space below the sidewalk grates. He made a call. I sat in reception and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited…
In the interim, I learned that 255 West 43d Street is the old Times Square Hotel. It’s now a 650+ room, mixed-income housing initiative for actors, seniors, AIDS patients, veterans, and local employees. There was a woman playing show tunes on the piano in the lobby. There was resident-created art on the walls. It was a bee hive of activity.
Twenty minutes later, a woman named Sharleen introduced herself smiling. We walked outside, and crept over the grates while another man swept around with a broom. I explained the events as I had reconstructed them. She was rich with empathy, but alas, our efforts failed: there was no watch. It was lost and gone forever.
“Maybe it happened for a reason,” Sharleen said smiling.
My immediate instinct upon heading off into the crowd was to get myself coffee and a cookie — a little pick me up in the face of my loss. But as I’ve made great strides in refined sugars and afternoon caffeine in the last month, I headed to Jamba Juice instead, and settled for an extra shot of protein.
I tell myself that it was only a thing. I remind myself that, though it cost nearly as much my first car (a 1981 Volkswagen Rabbit), it’s just an object, material. It was my only extravagance, the first and only superfluous item I’ve purchased as an adult. It was simple, classic, elegant, and cool. And it is lost and gone forever.
And so I’m working on the down time.
Girlfriend
I really wanted to record a cover of Matthew Sweet’s ‘Girlfriend’ for ya’ll tonight. Butcha’ know what? It’s 11:28 and this fourth beer is speeling one thing: S-L-E-E-P. Still… an interesting day. It went something like this…
Morning, this morning, the curtains are shut… wait, that’s a YAZ song. I wake up, I head in. I get to work early, stopping en route for an organic apple from Westerly Market (I’m all about living a refined-sugarless life these days). I do the News meeting, etc etc. Work. What does work feel like these days? Put it this way: I print out my Outlook calendar in an effort to stay on top of where I’m supposed to be when. True story: I spent so much of the afternoon shuttling between the 29th (News) and 8th (MTV.com) floors that I actually stepped into the elevator and forgot which way to go. Up? Or down?
I went up. Always up.
Cut to after work. I’m at a place called Freight on 16th & Ninth watching a bunch of short films at an event called Spoiler. It’s a themed film festival. Tonight the theme is ‘Divine Interbention.’ I step outside for a breather, and note that on the south side of 16th, hundreds of hipsters are staring at flat screen TVs. On the north side of 16th, there’s an urban development (aka a “project”) complete with clothes hanging from the railing. What a contrast. How New York.
Back home, nearly 11:00 p.m., no one will deliver sushi to me (boo hoo). So I settle — again — for lettuce, nuts and berries. And I look towards calling it a day. What to say it all? What to make of it all? In the words of Outkast, “Motherfuck the wagon, come join the band.”
P.S. Have you listened to my latest Morning Mix, ‘Stupid”? If not, please do. I think I’v got this ProTools thing figured out. Lesson one? Don’t combine with beer.
P.P.S. An adaptation of my ‘Mr. Rogers: Deep & Simple piece is to be published in a book called ‘To Do Before I Die.’ Cool, huh? (Thanks Ron Lieber!)
P.P.P.S. I’m going to Boston this weekend to hang out at my friend Rob’s lake house: BBQ, waterskiing, etc. My buddy Fish has pledged to teach me to surf on Sunday morning. Rock!
P.P.P.P.S. I can see a couple making out in the window of the school across the street. I think he’s going to pork ‘er! (‘National Lampoon’s Vacation’ reference, sorry.)
I still love you, New York.
The Miracle Of Mindfulness
I sat down for dinner tonight at 10:54 p.m. It was just lettuce, nuts, and tofu, so I feel o.k. about eating so late. But still, can I guy get a mellow, post-triathlon Monday?
I woke up pretty early this morning, before the alarm even, on account of the fact that I basically ate and slept in alternating shifts all weekend. Excepting the two hours forty that I was swimming a mile, riding twenty-five, and running six, it was a relaxing weekend. So I was well rested. Sore in all kinds of new places, but well rested.
So I woke up early and surveyed my apartment. It was a wreck. Dirty clothes were strewn everywhere, garbage had piled in the corners, musical instruments were tossed about on my desk, The Sunday New York Times was sprawled across the living room floor, and the sink… well, it was piled — and I mean piled with dishes. Something had to be done. And I had the time to do it. There was, after all, no way I was going running.
I make the bed, fold the clothes, and stumble out to the kitchen (which, in classic New York City style, is little more than a closet with an oven and some cupboards). There, before me, filling the sink and spilling over onto the stovetop, counters, and every horizontal surface, is nearly every cup, saucer, plate, bowl, knife, fork, and spoon I own.
I read a book in college called, ‘The Miracle of Mindfulness.’ It’s still in print, check Amazon. Anyway, it’s by this dude, Thich Nhat Hanh. He’s this totally chill Zen Buddhist master. Big smile, glasses, robe — the works. He writes about practicing meditation every moment through finding the joy in the mundane. His metaphor in ‘The Miracle of Mindfulness’ is dishes. He writes about washing dishes to wash dishes. Neither hurrying, nor fixating (hello, OCD!), he teaches about finding pleasure in the task, and in the process.
It’s simple stuff. I distinctly recall trying to invoke his lessons as I cleaned up after my seven, highly slovenly roommates some twelve years ago. I think it worked pretty well then, but I may have taken a bit of a shortcut with the old bong. Either way, it didn’t with me over time. As the years tick away, I find myself increasinly running from destination to destination, executing tasks, and crossing items off lists. Sometimes I forget the joy of being there.
Until now.
Not that I was gettin’ all Zen on my dishes this morning. To the contrary, I was trying to get them done as soon as possible so that I could watch the end of my Blockbuster rental. (Ok, ok: it was Ben Affleck’s ‘Paycheck.’ Are you satisfied?) I was totally not in the moment. And I certainly didn’t get any closer to the moment until, well… until just now. Seventeen hours after my day started, bone tired and brittle from the day, not to mention the day before, I remembered Thich Nhat Hanh, and a beautiful Victoria Williams song that so nicely sums it all up…
This moment will never come again
I know this because it has never been before
I listen to the rain outside the door
A thousand voices singin’ songs that ain’t been sung before
Post Time
I suffer from what I’ve come to call ‘post-race letdown’ (in the case of sports) or ‘post-gig let down’ (in the case of music). Come feel me tremble…
It started like this: 5:30 this morning, I hop on my bike and ride down to the river. I slide it into position #1517, arrange my things — helmet, sunglasses, towel, running shoes, PowerGel — and walk off towards the swim start one mile upstream. Once there, I wait for my wave (male 30-34 B), noting that I am in the . 05% minority of competitors without a wetsuit. The sun rises. Wave after wave departs the barge. And then the orange caps — me, us — and I’m onto the barge, into the water, and swimming, swimming, swimming.
I do this shit for fun.
A few minutes into the swim I think, ‘I’m good at this! I like swimming!’ Which is something of a revelation as I’m competing in my fourth New York City Triathlon having failed to train even a little bit for the swim. The last time I swam freestyle was 400M in last July’s Stone Harbor Tri. One year later, I staring down river at a full-on mile.
Invariably, I tire. Some fella’ swims right over me, clobbering me with his flailing arms, clawing at me with his grubby mits. I veer right, and I begin to think, ‘Hmmmm, not so into swimming any more.’ I count my strokes, sprinkling a few breast strokes in every five minutes or so. And then I look up and spot the finish. ‘Wow,’ I think, ‘That’s it?’
Save for the 25 mile bike ride and six mile run, yeah, that’s it.
Two hours forty-two minutes (and two seconds) from my start, I am home: Central Park. I cross the finish, arms raised, gulping for air. My last mile was sub-seven. I have done it. I am done.
I’ve finished a lot of big races in the last ten years or so, not the least of which being the NYC Marathon, second only to the NYC Tri. In both cases, the experience is just a little more than I think I’m capable. And so I dole out my energies, focus on small goals, and just keep moving forward. When the finish comes, there is joy, to be sure, and pain, for that matter — in equal measure. But it is the joy, the beauty of accomplishment, of going further than I’d thought I could, that makes the day. For a moment, anyway.
See, the glory fades fast. More and more quickly, if you must know. My first marathon found me finishing nearly in tears such was my elation in finishing. Subsequent finishes, though, have been lackluster. Mostly, I think to myself, ‘Phew, I can stop now,” and notice all the other competitors who finished first.
Today I finished #165 of more than a thousand male competitors.
And yet, in the afterglow, I couldn’t feign the enthusiasm to answer the phone, much less leave the apartment for more than a six pack and a Blockbuster rental. Strange. Mostly, I feel like sleeping. A lot.
Everyone’s Changing (I Don’t Feel The Same)
I’m the worst.
I have a wicked cool wristwatch. I always feel dressed up when I’m wearing it (which is always), even if I’m in pajama bottoms, a t-shirt and flip flops. Plus, it keeps terrific time. I have five clocks in my 800-square-foot apartment: one in the living room, one in the kitchen, one on the microwave, one on my G4 laptop, plus my bedside clock radio. And I have three in my 200-square-floor office: one on my G4 laptop, one on my Dell PC, and one on the VCR. How on Earth, then, was I late to the Knitting Factory last night? How on Earth did we miss Matt Pond PA? How on Earth did I manage to drive my companion to raging into her cell phone?
You know you’re well out of the MTV demographic when you find yourself in the office after hours populating an Excel document with PBS’ ‘Liberty! The American Revolution’ on the television over your shoulder. And you know you’re in trouble when you realize that the credits are rolling and you’re supposed to be in Tribeca.
I’m always late. Usually it’s just a minute or five, but often it’s more. And I’ve been called out on it more than once. ‘Just call,’ I’m told again and again. But for some reason, every time I look at one of the nine time keeping devices in my immediate vicinity, I think, ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ Now, I’ve lived in New York City for nearly ten years and I don’t think I’ve gotten anywhere in ten minutes, even when I used to ride my bike down the fire lane at top speed.
Fortunately, the power of music, and especially the soaring, melodic beauty of Keane, was more than sufficient enough to cleanse my palette (and my companion’s, I think) of any residual negativity. With lyrics like “And if you have a minute why don’t we go
Talk about it somewhere only we know? / This could be the end of everything / So why don’t we go / Somewhere only we know?” one is bound to be uplifted. Or moved anyway. How could one not be? These three lads are feelin’ it. They’re owning it. They’re all animated and bouncing around the tiny stage like we were a Wembly-sized crowd. And good for them! In an era of been-there-done-that hipsterism, it’s totally refreshing to see unabashed sincerity and honest expression. ‘Course, that’s right in my wheelhouse (to use a baseball metaphor, since I know nothing of the sport). I’m a big fan of anyone who has the courage to be uncool enough to sing “Emotion keeps my heart on me!”
Standing there in the crowd all sweaty and smelling of beer singing along with all of my might, all of my worries disappeared. The negative voices boomeranging around my head fell silent. And I thought to myself, ‘I’ve never felt more alive.’ I looked down at my wristwatch, and set it forward a few seconds. I wanna’ get there first, and feel it fully every time.
Please Love Me
I’ve had the same mic stand for fourteen years. It’s seen plenty of action prior to its current incarnation as the foundation of my new home studio.
It’s a boom mic stand. It was purchased in 1990 with money earned by my college band, Smokey Junglefrog. We were paid to stealthily set up in the front hallway of the Fiji fraternity house at 4 a.m. and wake up the brothers. We were just launching into ‘The Finest Worksong’ when a Neanderthal-type with a baseball bat suggested we stop playing. $300 later, we had two boom mics from Radio Shack. I’ve used the stand for many, many gigs.
Once, deep into winter of 1993 at a gig in the basement of a fraternity house in Keane, NH, the stand formed a perfect circuit with the spilled beer and rogue electricity coursing through the mic. Or perhaps I should say that I completed the circuit when I was thrown onto the wet cement by a jolt of lightening.
Once, a year or so out of school, my acoustic duo-mate Eric Gilman and I dragged ass from Saratoga Springs, NY, to Burlington, VT, where we performed at an all-girls, Catholic college. They baked us a cake that said, ‘Welcome Eric & Benjamin.’ I swear to God. And yeah, the mic stand was en tow.
I don’t use it for every show in New York, the likelihood that it’ll disappear is too high. But odds are good that if I’m doing a CD release or something major, I have it a long for good luck. Why? No reason really.
There’s an circa-’97, oval-shaped, kelly green, royal blue and silver Benjamin Wagner Deluxe sticker affixed to the gunmetal gray base which is about the size of a 77 RPM LP (ever seen one of those?). There’s a tattered and faded black and white Smokey Junglefrog sticker on the silver telescoping cylinder that rises from the base. Other than that, it’s nothing special.
Still, years ago (1996), I left it at a venue (The Red Room) and rode my bike (Cannondale M900) downtown in the middle of the night (well, 1 am or so) to retrieve it. Worth it? You bet.
Why? Well, as Spinal Tap manager Ian Faith said of his cricket mallet, I guess its totemistic. Though the luck in my 15+ years of performance hasn’t elapsed precisely as I’d have imagined (hello, cover of Rolling Stone?), it’s been a good ride. From that Fiji house on Euclid Avenue in Syracuse, NY, to Bill’s Bar in Boston, MA, to Sin-e, The Mercury Lounge, and well beyond, the mic stand’s been my sole steady companion. Upright, reliable, resolute, and downright attractive, it’s been there for me day in and out.
And that’s it in a nut shell, really, isn’t it? Nothing beats a little reliable excellence. Like Aimee Mann. I saw her perform tonight in Brooklyn, and God bless her, she remains my heroine. Yeah, yeah, yeah: she’s adorable. And she’s funny — no one drops the f-bomb with more precision. But above all she is all things: she’s a lyrical genius (“There comes a time when you swim or sink / So I jumped in the drink / Cuz I couldn’t make myself clear”) with a beautiful voice and a kick ass band. I will seize any opportunity to see her (next show for me: June 30 at Hudson Park). And so should you. Because real, live, reliable performance is hard to come by.
I’m A Wheel (I Will)
“Gosh, I don’t remember when last time I saw you was,” she said. “I don’t either,” I replied, “But I’m pretty sure we were making out.”
I met my long-time friend Jen for dinner last night. We went to high school together back in the Eighties (ha ha). Actually, I crashed her meal with a mutual friend of our who I kissed sometime around my fifteenth birthday. She’s a lawyer now (the mutual friend), and has a big, sparkly diamond ring on her left hand, but other than that, looks pretty much the same. Funny thing was that, while she said my face looks familiar but that should “would pass [me] on the street,” and doesn’t remember kissing me all that well (neither do I, and I wasn’t much of a kisser in those days anyhow), she did remember a note I’d sent her (I was big into notes, surprise, surprise). She recounted it thusly: “You must’ve known my sister or something ‘cuz you wrote me this note that said something like, ‘I’m only a sophomore but if you’re as charming and beautiful as your sister, I’m really looking forward to meeting you.’”
Jen and I looked at each other and laughed. Jen said, “Sounds like you to me.” And I was all like, “Some things never change.” Which I’m not pointing out to pat myself on the back. I guess I think being charming or sweet or whatever is a good thing so long as it’s genuine, which it was then and is now. But I think it can come off otherwise — smarmy, disgenuine, flirtatious, cocky — pretty easily. Which is a bad thing.
Anyway, it was fun. And it’s kinda’ funny how people come back around. And just how quickly fifteen years can slip away. And how little can change in that time. All of a sudden, you’re a grown up, you have a real job, you live in New York City, and you have less hair. But you’re still genuine, and you still mean it. And that’s a good thing.
Can You Hear Me (I’ve Been Calling All Day)
I disconnected my phone today. For good.
Let’s be honest, the traditional LAN line doesn’t really serve much of a function anyway. I mean, no one calls me on it but telemarketers. And now that I’ve joined the 21st Century with my cellphone and internet broadband connection, well, let’s just say Verizon’s lost another customer to the wireless universe. And they didn’t even protest.
The snipping of old-fashioned phone lines notwithstanding, I do continue to struggle a little bit with modernity. Though I’ve made healthy progress with ProTools, thanks in no part to my supersensitive Samson condenser microphone with phantom power xlr, I’m still not quite at the point where I can record and release in one-fell-swoop. In fact, I’m this close to uploading a new song, ‘Testing 1,2,3 (Yeah, Yeah, Yeah),’ to you, Dear Reader. It’s not a great song, but it’s my first solo ProTools effort. And frankly, it’s more about the effort than the outcome in this case. Anyhow, the last step is the current stumbling block. Right now it’s a 28M aiff file. It needs to be a 3M mp3. And it will be once I get into work and make it so.
The Monday Mix is going to be a new part of the site where I post new songs, experiments, outtakes, b-sides, covers, and other such Benjamin Wagner ephemera every Monday morning. Over time, you ought to have a pretty healthy collection of randomness on your iPod. Hopefully, it’ll whet your whistle for a new album, not dampen your spirits (or sap you wallet — Lord knows I gotta’ pay off this equipment!). In fact, maybe I’ll add a PayPal donation button — seems to do well by Fish. Anyway, it’s coming soon…
Yeah, so that was my Monday: twelve hours at the MTV, a trip to UPS headquarters (with a pint break at Druids), a stop at D’Ag’s for lettuce (the good kind), and home again, home again.
In between? I sent out an email to the band — Tony on bass, Todd on drums, Kevin on keyboards, and Nick on pedal steel — to try and set up a rehearsal for the July 16th Sin-e performance (have you marked your calendar?). And received the good word that The Smith Family will be playing Hank’s in Brooklyn July 22. That and a delicious salad or two (lunch and dinner), and a guy’s got a day pretty well spent. ‘Cuz apparently I’ve got something in common with Mr. Ethan Hawk, who says in the current issue of ‘New York’ that if he “doesn’t do at least one creative thing each day, he considers the day ‘pissed away, useless, wasted.’”
So, I guess today — the first day of summer, the longest and lightest day of the year — was none of the above. Thank goodness.
Sunrise, Sunset
It’s Sunday night. The sun has set. And I seem to have squandered my weekend.
‘Treasure of the Sierra Madre’ is paused on the DVD player. Dinner (mixed greens with pine nuts, sunflower seeds, tofu, garbonzo beans, and a hard boiled egg) is gone. I made the requisite paternal communique. I spent time in Central Park with The Kid. I walked the well-worn route from the Upper West to Hell’s Kitchen. I brunched at the Essex House. And I rode to the Little Red Lighthouse and back.
Still, what do I have to show for myself? What do I have to show for my weekend?
Tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is the longest of the year.
The better to squander, My Dear.
Simplest Terms, Convenient Definitions
Dear Mr. Vernon: We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it is we did wrong, but we think you’re crazy for making us write an essay telling you who we think we are.
John Hughes bottled the cultural zeitgeist of teen angst before it turned midnight blue and blood red. Before Columbine, Cosmo Girl, and Ridalin, before Melissa Drexler, John Lewis, Dylan Klebold, and Eric Harris, there was Andy Clark, Brian Johnson, Allison Reynolds, Claire Standish, and John Bender, and times that appear a whole lot simpler now.
I was teetering on the edge of high school myself when ‘The Breakfast Club’ came out some twenty (gasp) years ago. I saw a midnight screening of the film tonight, and took a ride in the way-back machine…
I don’t remember much of high school, really, but I remember that nothing seemed simple then. I remember meladrama. I remember long, burning crushes. I remember foresight no further than that night or that weekend, at best. Everything was the end of the world.
I never felt like I belonged anywhere specific in high school. The measure of one’s popularity, I suppose, was in the lunchroom. I floated. Some days I sat with the art students or student council types, other days the jocks or the pretty girls. I lacked easily identifiable marks: no sports uniform, no Metallica patch-laden denim jacket, no hippie rags. I pretty much wear now what I wore then: jeans, a white T-shirt, button-down, and Chucks.
Looking back now, it seems like I was pretty comfortable with myself. But I wasn’t. I never lacked for a girlfriend, but always felt alone. I was elected to the Homecoming Court annually, but never quite knew how or why. I always smiled, but lacked confidence.
It was, in a word — well, two words — high school.
It has its legacy: the broken jaw baggage, the always-in-love syndrome, the populrity complex. But with time, my skin fits better and better, and these battered Chucks feel more and more comfortable. With time, what is apparent is what is shared more than what is not shared.
You see us as you want to see us: in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess, and a criminal. Does that answer your question?
Sincerely yours, The Breakfast Club.
