Green
You know how it is; you’re back in the office after a long weekend and the hallway banter is a passing, “How was your weekend?”
The question means different things, I think, from different people. From my boss, it means, “Are you any less stressed than you were last week?” From my colleagues it means, “Did you do anything noteworthy?”
To both, I responded an emphatic and contented, “Not really.”
The highlight of the weekend, without fail, was the greening of my deck.
True, I was overly uncomfortable standing behind Abbi at the 77th Street farmer’s market — too crowded, too close, and too hot. And quite frankly, I’m completely out of my element picking plants. Yeah, I did some planting on my roof last spring. But Abbi kicked it up to a whole new level.
Left to my own devices, I would pick simple stuff like spider plants, ivy, and marigolds. But Abbi had done her homework, consulting both the Internet and her mother. She knew which plants did well in direct sunlight (which my roof deck receives in spades), and which plants did well with neglectful bachelors. And while I was antsy and indecisive, she was poised and confident, coolly puzzling out the best color (red, pink and white; my vote for purple and yellow was vetoed) and flower (pansea, genanium) combinations.
The project turned old quickly as we withered in the blazing afternoon sun. Worse, my OCD became virtually crippling as Abbi proposed moving various pieces of patio furniture (most notably, a bistro table I have against the northern wall of my bedroom; though her proposed relocation to the center of the deck afforded better views for those at the table, I couldn’t stomach it in the center of the deck).
But then evening fell. Abbi drank her wine and read Vanity Fair. I drank beer and read GQ (it was a free copy!). My iTunes playlist, titled, simply, “Uh Huh,” scrolled through Neil Young, Travis, Simon & Garfunkle, and other Triple A favorites. The sun fell behind the hills of New Jersey, and the strand of Christmas lights began to replicate stars otherwise obscured by the haze of the city. And there in the half light, in my little back yard in the sky, I was emphatic in my contentment. Which is a pretty good way to end the day.
Memorial Day
My fascination with airplanes is only half as complicated as my fascination with war.
Plenty of posts here have spoken to my aversion/attraction to airplanes. In short, I love planes, but I hate to fly. WFUV’s Vin Scelsa probably best summarized the whole thing when we spoke just after September 11th (and just prior to the release of “Crash Site”):
He said he had for many years suffered from recurring dreams, nightmares, about being in a plane crash. Sometimes he was in the plane crash; sometimes he was just observing the plane crash. And he finally got to the root of it… as a young boy he was the victim of divorce and his parents lived far away from each other so that every time that he had to go visit a parent he had to get on a plane.
I think he referred to it as “Freud 101,” which it probably is.
So, then, what’s with my interest in the military, and war? Obviously (and you’ve read plenty of monologues on the subject here as well), I loathe war. The days and week leading up to the Attack on Iraq made me nuts, primarily because it was so apparent that a) the association between the attacks of September 11th and Saddam Hussein were completely bogus b) there were no WMDs and c) these guys (Bush, Cheney, Rumsfeld, etc) stood to gain (see also: Big Oil, Halliburton, etc) from this senseless act of aggression. Worse, in this borderless age of video conferencing and the Internet, there’s no excuse for not working things out. Still, the drumbeats were sounding. The hawks were circling. Ego was involved. Shock and awe. Blah blah blah.
(My reaction to The Gulf War was equally visceral, but muted. Then, like now, I wasn’t sure what I could do. In one of my stoner-on-the-couch philosophizing, I thought I’d climb the campus bell tower and hoist a gigantic peace sign. Instead, pulled another bong hit and turned up CNN.)
What is odd, then, is how I races onto my roof deck when I heard the F16′s racing up the Hudson. What is odd, then, how many books I have read, and how many films I have watched, about most major conflicts post-WWII: “Band of Brothers,” “Flyboys,” “Flags of Our Fathers,” “Dispatches,” “Jarhead,” “Raid on the Sun,” “Chasing Ghosts,” “Platoon,” “Blackhawk Down,” and on and on and on. Right now, I’m reading Rick Atkinson’s, “In The Company Of Soldiers,” a general’s view on the Attack on Iraq (in short: too quick, too poorly planned, not enough men).
What gives, then? How can I loathe war but so voraciously consume art on the subject?
For better or worse, it seems from my civilian eyes that war makes men, it forges brotherhood, it requires sacrifice, and a depth of personal investment — not so much for our beliefs, but for each other. There’s something about the furnace of despair, peril and urgency that makes us greater. Those who make it home, that is. Those who make it home with all their limbs, or all their wits.
As I said to my father, last night, I have no beef with the generals, or the boots on the ground. I appreciate their sacrifice. It’s the clowns in the business suits, the guys who deferred or narrowly escaped their service to country who smugly stand before the wives, sons and daughters of the lost and say, “Liberty is always the achievement of courage.”
I love this country for its potential. I love it for its scope, and breadth, and inclusiveness (recent movements for a “national language” and a “good fences make good neighbors” policy notwithstanding). But I am not proud on Memorial Day. We really should be able to work these things out. I’m grateful for the men and women who make my dissent possible. And I’m sad. And when the Fourth of July rolls around, I’m with Aimee Mann.
“What a waste of gunpowder and sky.”
Favorite Things, Volume III
In August, 1989, my friend Greg and I piled into my silver two-door, four-speed Volkswagen Rabbit, and drove 750 miles from Valley Forge, PA, to Athens, GA, for no reason whatsoever except to see the hometown of our favorite band, R.E.M.
As we rolled through five states, we consumed five tanks of gas, sixteen D batteries (for the boom box in the back seat), and a quarter ounce of skunk weed.
Sure, it was “So. Central Rain” the hooked me on the band’s quirky, esoteric, alternative pop sensibilities. “Reckoning” was to me what “The White Album” or “Led Zeppelin IV” was to others. But “Pilgrimage” took me places. And “Pilgrimage” changed the way I looked at — and listened to — everything.
For me, it’s all about Michael, Mike and Bill’s overlapping, echoing vocals, and Bill’s polyrhythm in the bridge.
“Pilgrimage” is the second song on R.E.M. first full-length album, “Murmur,” after “Radio Free Europe.” It begins with Michael singing like a ghost from way off in the boomy distance, “Take our time/Take our fortune.” It’s eerie. It’s different. Then Mike and Bill, just a bass and kick drum. Then, what sound like vibes soaked in tremolo. It’s a strange groove, full of space and air, but gloomy and dark. And Michael’s lyrics? Completely obtuse.
They called the clip
A two headed cow
Your hate clipped and distant
Your luck pilgrimage
Rest assured this will not last
Take a turn for the worst
Your hate clipped and distant
Your luck a two headed cow
Um… huh?
Doesn’t matter what he says, or what he means; it works: the vowels, the melody. Especially in the chorus when Mike and Bill go off after Michael sings “pilgrimage has gained momentum.” Unlike The Byrds, or The Troggs, or any other of the band’s influences, R.E.M. didn’t just sing the chorus in three-part harmony. The background vocals are completely different words, different phrasing, and different timing. They’re not solely there to support the thesis of the song; they add an entirely new line of thinking. It’s part of R.E.M. genius (which I’ve ripped off time and time again, but — at best — half as effectively).
For me, “Pilgrimage” is all about the bridge. In most three minute pop songs, the bridge is where the songs introduces something new before its big finish. Most screenplays employ a similar device: everything changes just before the end, when, through hope, or persistence, or violence, the protagonist (and the audience) is returned to pretty much where they began. But they’re changed for the journey.
The bridge in “Pilgrimage” is musically staccato guitar, and jagged drums, but smoothed over by Michael, Mike and Bill’s descending harmonies, and what can only be described as Bill jamming out on congas. For me, it’s that section (at about 3:40, for those of you listening at home) — that extra texture, that new sound, that new place, that complete cohesion — that transports me. I want to sing, and to dance, and I want it to go on and on and on…
But it doesn’t. The band brings us safely back to earth with a final refrain.
I ripped of the “Murmur” album cover for “Bloom,” and failed. I’ve tried to rip off Michael’s non-linear, stream of consciousness lyrics numerous times (“Kathryn,” “Hollywood Arms,” and “St. Anne,” to name just a few), and failed. And I’ve tried to rip off the instrumentation and heightened musicality of this bridge as recently as “Carmelita.” And failed.
Greg and I played “Pilgrimage” once an hour every hour for two days straight. Other than The 40 Watt Club, we didn’t see a thing. We came back empty handed, save for some local music, and a few photos.
It was completely worth it.
(Not So) Kool Thing
Figures that I’m dressed like some West Palm real estate agent the day I ride the elevator with Thurston Moore.
Not like I would have said anything, or foisted a CD on him or anything. Still, you don’t wanna look like a total tool bag when the Godfather of Alternative Rock is in the house. All I did was confirm his assumption that MTV is just a bunch of suits. Which it isn’t. It’s more like high school. With sport coats.
Anyway, things are ok. Not much to report. Work had me turned inside out on Monday, so much so that my boss said, “Do you have a vacation planned any time soon?” I do. Abbi and I are going to Bonaire in four short weeks. Which is kind of cool.
We ran this morning. It was gorgeous out. It’s been beautiful here all week (“awfully beautiful,” I think I said). The sky is a shade of blue that only spring brings. In another few weeks, heat and pollution will turn it brown. For now, it’s gorgeous. And the trees are super green. And everything feels clean and new. It’s nice.
Otherwise, not doing anything exciting planned this weekend. Gonna run, and ride. Maybe take the Q to Coney Island. And hopefully see some movies. That’s all.
There are a few other things to look forward to. We’re going to have some Wagner critical mass in NYC in a few weeks when my cousin Luke returns from Bhutan. His parents’ll be here. And his brother Andrew (keyboard player for World Leader Pretend). Of course, my brother, Jen and Ethan will be here. And my dad and his wife. So we’re gonna have a BBQ on my deck.
Oh, and Ethan turns three-years-old in a few weeks. Yipee!
I’m having a Summer Solstice Party on my deck June 23. (Email me if you didn’t get the invite; you should have.) Um…
Then Bonaire, then the MTV Video Music Awards, then Nantucket (and my thirty-fifth birthday), then the Ireland tour (maybe maybe maybe), and the NYC Marathon…
I know, boring post. I got nothing today. Sorry.
What did you expect? I’m wearing a white Lacoste and a navy blazer, for God’s sake.
Downer
“So what you’re saying,” she said, “is that you’re really into your head right now.”
We were in the basement of The Knitting Factory. Chris Abad, was setting up on stage. I had just finished a three minute rant in response to Chris’ fiance, Megan’s, simple inquiry of “How are you?”
“Yeah,” I replied. “In a phrase, I guess I am.”
She politely walked off, leaving me to luke warm beer in a plastic cup.
Chris, Tony and Walker (3/4 of the now defunct Dough) played a spectacular set. I sat in the front row, tapping my Chuck’s to the band’s groove, one well-earned through familiarity and time. His newest tune, “Downer,” nailed something spot on.
All this time I didn’t mean to be a downer
This time I didn’t mean to ruin your day
This time I didn’t mean to be a downer
I’ll try not to drag you down
Drag you down deep in the dregs
I called Abbi en route to the show.
“You should see the sky. It’s just outrageous: all windswept, blues and whites, totally swirling and chaotic. It’s changing. It doesn’t even know its own forecast.”
“Neat,” she deadpanned.
I paused, scanning Canal for traffic.
“I’m sorry. I’m in that postpartum, post-gig space.”
“So… you’re into your head again.”
“Yeah,” I said, stepping into shadows. “I guess so.”
Undisputed
Everyone was singing along…
To my cover of The Undisputed Heavyweights’ “Roll Your Windows Down.”
Which was great.
Game day started with a jolt. Abbi and I snoozed through the alarm. By the time we stirred from sleep, we had a 10k race to run in a half hour. We sprinted up to Central Park, and ran the Healthy Kidney 10k with 3000 runner. (The irony was not lost on me that my kidney was still prcessing three vodka tonics and a Harp from the evening prior.) We finished in 54:15 (8:45 minutes per mile).
We limped back the the East Side, pausing for coffee and bagels, then spent the afternoon watching “The English Patient.” I rode back to my apartment around five o’clock.
I sat on my deck and continued my fact finding mission. Two weeks ago, I ripped through Paul Reickhoff’s “Chasing Ghosts.” Last week I read “Raid On The Sun,” Rodger Claire’s recounting of Israel’s 1981 attack on Iraq’s nuclear missile building operation. This week, I’m reading Rick Atkinson’s “In The Company Of Soldiers.” (At this exact moment, I’m listening to a Times Talk podcast of Michael Gordon and Bernard Trainor’s “Secrets Of The Iraq War.”)
The sun set, I stepped inside, shed my running gear, showered away the grime, and pulled on some rock clothes. Downstairs, I pulled together my guitar, tuner, capo, extra strings, three copies of each of “The Desert Star,” “Heartland,” and “Almost Home,” plus three hand written set lists, and headed out the door.
“Where to sir?” the cabbie asked.
“Avenue C and 7th Street, thanks,” I replied.
“Very well, sir,” he followed. “How are you tonight, sir?”
“Pretty well,” I said. “A little nervous, but well.”
“Nervous, sir?”
“Yeah, I have a rock show to play.”
“Tonight, sir?”
“Yeah, in about an hour.”
“Very much good luck, sir. You will do well, I am sure.”
Sensing, perhaps, that I was likely to talk his ear off for the next fifteen minutes, the cabbie turned up his radio. I pushed play on my iPod, setting my playlist, “New Hotness” (Fall Out Boy, The Damnwells, Pearl Jam) to full blast. I rolled down the window, and began breathing methodically, inhaling slowly through my nose, exhaling slowly through my mouth. For four miles and $17.60.
The Alphabet Lounge was near empty when I arrived. An off pitch singer/songwriter warbled on an empty stage. I set down my guitar, and took a short walk. By the time I got back, drummer Ryan Vaughn was unpacked and ready to rock. We were on in five minutes. Tony was nowehere to be found. So I called him.
“I can’t find a place to park,” Tony said, exhasperated. “I’ve been circling for half an hour.”
My pulse quickened. He double parked, dropped off his bass and amp, and continued on to find a parking spot… in the East Village… at ten o’clock on a Saturday. The mediocre singer/songwriter dude finished his set, and stumbled off stage. Ryan and I set everything up, and sound checked. No word from Tony. It’s was five after ten.
“You guys have until 10:45,” soundman Nick said. By my count, our set ran :40.
I called Tony.
“I just got a spot on 2d Street,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
I don’t blame Tony, or the East Village, or Saturday nights, but I was nervous. And this wasn’t helping. I stepped outside, and walked downtown to meet him on the street. We walked in at ten fifteen, stepped straight onto the stage and, with a minimum of fanfare, launched into “Flirting With Disaster.”
You’re flirting with disaster
And you’re always on the run
And your heart is beating faster
On and on and on
Perfect.
I relaxed and cracked a smile somewhere around “St. Anne (Of The Silence).” We sounded good. The audience was with us. But I was preoccupied with running out of time. I had an encore up my sleeve — two, really — that I didn’t want to skip.
“This next song is by an absolutely amazing band from right here in New York City. If you don’t know The Undisputed Heavyweights, you should, and you will,” I said. “And we’re lucky enough to have two fifths of The Heavyweights here tonight…”
“Jeff Jacobson’s on the phone!” Casey yelled from the back.
“Three fifths of The Undisputed Heavyweights!” I said. “So ladies and gentleman, let’s get some applause together for Casey Shea, Wes Verhoeve, and Jeff Jacobson who are gonna help me cover their song, “Roll Your Windows Down!”
I turned to Tony and told him the chords (“G, Bm, Am, C. Watch my fingers.”), then to Ryan to review the form (“Verse, chorus straight through. Follow me.”). And we were off.
I don’t think I’ve ever performed a song standing next to the guys who wrote it. I have a tendency to get creative with lyrics, including my own. And frankly, Casey’s falsetto is impecable on the song. But I gave it a go, and loved doing so. The song has a simple refrain (“Roll your windows down / It’s all behind you”) and typically generates rabid audience participation (in a town unknown for any demonstration of enthusiasm whatsoever). My audience didn’t fail. The band paused for the a capella section, and the audience obliged. As deafening as The Heavyweights’ Crash Mansion show? Not quiet. But I got goose bumps.
The Love You Bring Won’t Mean A Thing
I’m going to tell you a secret…
I don’t like to play guitar.
Ok, lemme qualify that. I don’t like to play guitar at my shows. In a perfect world (one in which my entire iTunes catalogue comprises the iTunes Store’s Top 100 Albums for a year straight), my band would include both rhythm and lead guitar players. And I would just sing.
I’ve been singing as long as I can remember. It comes pretty easy. I don’t think much about it; it just works. I took a few voice lessons about twenty years ago, but they didn’t really stick. So I have some bad habits. I do this weird vocal flip thing, where I kind of turn the sound over in my throat and transform it from proper singing to more of a warble or a wail (I blame Michael Stipe). Sometimes I kinda sound like I’m from the south, even though I’m not (ditto). Still, people have always seemed to respond to my voice. But instruments? Totally different thing.
I tried piano in second grade. When my mom figured out I was playing by ear, though, I got the boot. Then I tried flute. (I wanted to play trumpet, but my parents had been through the racket with my brother.) I played for two years (by which point the prospect of playing flute in junior high school became absolutely unacceptable). I still couldn’t read music. So I stuck with singing: chorus, school plays, talent show, and then the high school rock band thing. I was good at it. Chicks dug it. But something was still missing…
I bought my first guitar (an Ibanez) in the summer between my freshman and sophomore years at Syracuse. My high school band was defunct, and I’d yet to form Smokey Junglefrog. So my primary motivation was to be able to write songs. My secondary motivation was to not have to rely on a band for anything. And my tertiary motivation went back to one fateful evening the fall prior…
One of the women (girls?) in the dorm room across the hall invited me on the Delta Delta Delta hay ride. I wasn’t so into the Greek thing, or hatrides, but I was into her. The pledges were strictly prohibited from bringing booze. So there we were on a beautiful fall night sitting in a circle around a fire, stone cold sober, and some chumpy, blonde-haired, Greek alphabet wearing rugby player is strumming his acoustic and singing Grateful Dead songs. Every woman around the fire pit was mesmerized.
‘Note to self,’ I thought.
So I bought a guitar. And I taught myself how to play it. Chords, mostly. Nothing fancy: G, C, D, E. Later I got hip to bar chords — B minor! C sharp minor! And nowadays I can hack through a solo (and did all over “Heartland.”
I’m not gonna say it was an instant success, but I did meet the woman I dated for three years at Smokey Junglefrog’s very first show.
I played my acoustic about thirty percent of the time in SJF. Mostly, though, I played the front man: dancing, gesturing, swaying, bobbing, boozing, joking, laughing — working the room. It was more theatrical. It was more reckless, more absorbing, less mathematical, freer. I loved it.
I graduated college in 1993. Smokey Junglefrog broke up shortly thereafter. I wanted to show the guys I didn’t need them. And I wanted something to do with my summer. So I released my first solo album (a cassette, really) that fall. I released my first CD, “Bloom,” the following spring. (My hypomania was in full affect even then.) I scraped together band mates, and began again.
Thing is, when you’re a singer/songwriter, you’re kinda stuck holding the guitar. Your band isn’t really a band, per se. They’re a bunch of guys who might like your songs, or might not. Either way, they’re not their songs. It’s not a democracy. You’re not all in it together. Most likely, they’re in it for the money. Not in a bad way, that’s just usually the way it is. So nobody in the band knows the songs better than you do. And you’re the band leader. So you kinda’ gotta play the thing. And while I can certainly play guitar and sing in time no sweat, it just doesn¹t feel comfortable. You’re kinda bound to the thing. You can’t move as quickly. You have to think more than feel. And in general, I feel better than I think. I could do a better job singing if that¹s all I had to do.
The downside of playing less shows these days is that I have to rehearse more when I do perform. I’ve been rehearsing all week for Saturday night’s show. Which brings me to tonight. I’m standing on my deck, staring into the sun, running through the set: “Flirting With Disaster,” “Harder To Believe” — you’ll have to come out Saturday for the whole thing. And I think to myself, ‘Wow, I don’t really like strumming this thing.’ I love the sound of the thing: all warm and deep. I love writing songs. I love getting lost in that process. I love recording. But man, I wish I could just sing on Saturday night. Cuz I think I sing pretty well. Singing’s all right brain; all intuition, all big picture.
So… now you know. I’m glad I can play guitar. I’m glad I can write songs. And I don’t particularly mind performing with it. But if I got a record deal tomorrow? F it.
Roll Your Windows Down
I met the kid just a few days into a freshly installed 2004.
I’d been working with his lovely girlfriend for some time. I’d heard she was dating an aspiring rock star. I wanted to meet him. So there I was in some dark, anonymous Lower East Side Bar, on a regular Friday night in January, 2004, when the beautiful Ms. Stoneburner introduced me to the force of nature that is Casey Shea.
The kid was a fresh face bordered by thick, wiry black hair. He could¹ve been wearing sunglasses at night, I don’t know. I could see his eyes, though. They were a little akimbo, kinda wild. I cornered the young lad, straight, I was told, from Nashville, and schooled him on the cruel New York City rock scene.
Me, the corporate media executive with a sideline on LES stages. Me, the grizzled, old veteran, jaded by apathy, age, and a waning audience. Me, who always swore this gig was the last, this record was the coda. Me, never hip, never cool, never it.
“If you’re gonna do the rock ‘n roll thing,” I said, “Do it full-on, no compromises, no fall-backs, no second guessing.”
It was all the advice I’d never been given, nor had the courage to follow. (And it was the advice he never asked for, but graciously accepted.)
Time passes. I visit the man’s home in Jacksonville. I meet the man’s family. I attend the man’s wedding. He drinks red wine on my roof deck. We share a few stages. He loans me his guitar. He plays harmonica on my record.
Fast-forward to last Friday night. Abbi and I have tossed back a few. We stumble out of a cab in front of Crash Mansion. “You’re just in time,” Jeremy, the booker there, tells us at the door. “They’re about to go on… fashionably late.”
I greet Ms. Stoneburner — now Mrs. Shea — who appears thrilled that we have joined the throng. Wes spots me from the stage, extends his hand, then turns to Casey and mouths, “Ben Wagner’s here!”
Could be that the gentlemen received me with the deference of an elder statesman. Could be that, in my three Stella Artois, two Grey Goose and tonics, and one shot Petron mind, it just felt that way. Either way, I appreciated it. I was glad I was there.
The Undisputed Heavyweights show really is a thing of its own. It’s an Vaudevillian/acoustic/rock/blues show, or something. Casey’s stage persona is equal parts James Brown, Elvis Presley, and Bono. He struts, he preens, his gestures wildly. Heck, the guy wears sunglasses on stage and gets away with it. But then comes the surprise, etched in cursive on the head of a pin. Listen closely, and the songs are beautiful heartfelt, and wrenching.
Take “Roll Your Window Down,” one of maybe about six songs ever that I wish I’d written. What sounds like a simple, melodic refrain (“Roll the windows down / It’s all behind you”) is drenched with beautiful melancholy. Have I invested the song with what I know of Mr. Shea’s interior life? Perhaps. Does the audience invest the song with its? Absolutely.
I run into Casey all the time: on the street, in the hallways, in the elevators. Mrs. Shea, when she is around, rolls her eyes. We are overly fond of one another, she thinks. We hug, chat, catch up, and then — invariably — our ridiculous days drag us back to their ridiculous bidding. Nearly every time, though, as I toss my hand over my shoulder to wave goodbye, the kid shouts, “Dominate!”
Dominate, indeed.
Straight Up & Sadly
I wish you could’ve seen the sunset just now.
The day started crappy and gray, lugging thirteen dress shirts and a pair of linen pants (Memorial Day is moments away!) to the dry cleaners; jockeying for position on the 1/9 (I’ll always call it that, even if the 9 is long gone); sipping bad coffee and dodging tourist umbrellas. My lunchtime walk around the block brought little solace, despite my iPod’s best effort. The sun was fighting through the clouds, but it didn’t matter, I wore crappy and gray like a badge.
By two o’clock, the streets below my office window were free of umbrellas. The sky was clearing. Then came an unexpected chirp from my cell phone. I pulled it from my bag and read the display, which read, “Steph K.”
‘Really?’ I thought.
“I’m in your MTV building,” she texted.
“U R in trouble if you don’t stop by #2979 ext. 8925,” I replied.
An hour later, amidst promos, encoding, and fashion reportage woes, she materialized in my doorway, all red hair and fabulousness. I lost my footing. My work world and the blogosphere collided. And besides, she was supposed to be in Austin.
There is that which we are, and those whom we wish we were. I envied Stephanie’s single-mindedness when I met her, and I admire it now. I met Stephanie at Barnes and Nobles for coffee in the summer of 2003. She was working feverishly on her novel, now called “Straight Up & Dirty” and due any minute from Regan Books. Whenever we talked, she was hard at work. Still, she made time for my shows, my parties, and to photograph my favorite album cover. Say what you will about the woman’s forthcoming blog (I say “Right on!”), Stephanie has an amazing magnetism, and an amazing work ethic. She deserves every shred of success she has so laboriously earned.
Still, there was something, um, humbling, embarrassing, pathetic about being me, there in my red sweater and jeans on the 29th floor of the Viacom building: still working for The Man, still releasing modest recordings, still blogging in (near) obscurity.
“I told you,” she said, “If this pilot ever makes it off the ground, ‘Shiver’ is going to be on the soundtrack.”
She showed me the book. It looks excellent. I wanted to close the door and start reading right there on the spot.
“Stephanie, it looks great. I can’t wait to read it! And I should’ve known that someone with your eye would craft such a graphically rich book.”
“You should know,” she said, “That one of my posts about you made it in. But I combined you with another guy, someone with a small penis. So you should tell people that that part’s not you.”
“I’ve become an amalgam,” I blushed.
“Yeah,” she smiled.
A few minutes of awkward (on my behalf) catch up later, she gathered her things, and headed off to Blue Fin for (no doubt) a martini.
“Have a tall one for me,” I said.
You wish fame and fortune on your friends. When it strikes, when they buy a house and a car and move to an exotic, sunny corner of the country, you smile, and wish them more still. In the quiet of the sunset, though — the kind you drew in crayon as a little kid, all billowing clouds and rays of sunlight — you’re a little sad to be left behind. You’re a little sad to be the same person you were before: not so photogenic, not so sought after, and not so sexy.
Just sayin’, straight up.
I’m Not Sleeping
Could be the allergies. Could be the dreams. Could be that the neighbors left the light on right over my bedroom window. Whatever. I’m not sleeping anymore.
The first time I woke up tonight was, in retrospect, pretty painless. I stirred from some random dream, visited the little boys room, put my arm over my eyes and slipped back into sleep. The second time was downright strange…
I’d somehow become Chad Michael Murray’s sidekick. After a long day of shooting (“Does every movie shoot in the same exact corner of the West Village?” I asked the key grip over a grilled cheese at craft services), we drive up into the hills (that’s the beauty of dreams: work in Manhattan, sleep in Hollywood) to his rather expansive (I remember thinking, ‘Has he really done this many movies?’), red adobe compound. There is a sweeping view of Los Angeles out the back door, and some sort of Indian burial shrine out the front. Inside is empty except for the kind of strange tchotchkes you’d except a teenage celebrity to own: a red bean bag chair, a giant cell phone (I’m talking six feet high, people), a big old TV, and two huge aquariums. Eliza Cuthbert is in the other room. I’m watching the dailies from this movie of his on the big old TV, and I’m thinking, ‘Hey, this is pretty good. I’m actually kind of moved here.’ Next thing I know, local news breaks into the dailies. The breaking story is that Chad Michael Murray’s neighbors are fire bombing his home. The shot is from a helicopter. The neighbors are lobbing flaming arrows from some sort of catapult-like contraption. And the reporter says, “He’s only going to have time to save important things like pets.” So the flames a licking at the windowsill, and we’re scrambling to get our shit together and get out of the house, but we’re not really having much success. Last thing I remember thinking was, ‘What about the turtle!?!’
And then I woke up.
I didn’t used to have any trouble sleeping whatsoever. In fact, I’m usually the first to go, and the last to rise. It’s kind of a new thing, maybe in the last year or so. And the last few months have been really bad. Last weekend I had to get up and read for an hour before I could go back to sleep. Sometimes, it’s close enough to morning that I just keep busy until the sun comes up. Not tonight, though: it’s just 4:43. And I’m supposed to run in two hours.
I’m not sure what it’s all about, this new insomnia of mine. Maybe it’s just the light, or the pollen. Maybe there’s a lot going on in my mind. Maybe my bedroom’s feng shui is all wrong. Maybe it’s the wind, or the noise from traffic on Columbus, or that soy shake I drank just before bed. I dunno. I gotta go back to sleep. The sun’s gonna rise any minute now, and I am not ready for it. Plus, I’ve got to rescue that turtle.
