A Load For Free

It was my third to last load: a sixty-seven pound air conditioner. I had stripped to jeans and a t-shirt, was breathing heavily and sweating vigorously as my right foot touched down on the last step.

“You’re not going to throw that out, are you?”

I had called Chris Sunday night.

“Man, I hate to ask,” I said. “But I just don’t think I can get this desk down five flights alone.”

We agreed to meet Tuesday night, after ten hour days, kid’s bedtimes, and condo board meetings. We were unlikely to be our best at nine o’clock on a school night, but it needed to be done. Everything had to go.

The apartment was empty, but with more than I cared to remember: the (oft) aforementioned red chair, the AC unit, the desk, shelving, and a futon frame. I began by karate chopping everything wood, tearing legs from tabletops like wings from a fly. Despite the racket, it was vaguely cathartic thing to do at the end of the day in the cool night air.

Still, there is navigating piled of shattered wood and bulky, six foot bed frames down five, narrow flights. I began to perspire. I began to get angry. At what, or whom, I’m not sure. Physical labor tends to trigger The Hulk in me. For that very reason, I like to listen to bands like Rage Against The Machine when I work. Tonight, though, I labored in silence. Until Chris showed up.

Chris lived at 103 West 80th for three years prior to me. Before he moved — its eight hundred square feet too cramped for his wife and new baby — he said to me, “You gotta’ keep this place in the family, dude.” It was five hundred dollars more than I could afford, but with the high ceiling and west facing views, I couldn’t refuse.

Chris left a lot in the apartment when he moved: two air conditioners, and a patio full of terra cotta pots. Just as, years prior, he had bequeathed me the (oft) aforementioned red chair. It was a big ole’ thing, probably four feet wide, a vaguely art deco mess from sometime in the Fifties when synthetic fibers were just catching fire. Chris had one too, a green one. For years, when we lived together in our early twenties, they sat next to each other in the living room first facing the television and, then, when we decided the TV was evil, facing each other.

I first began to insinuate that the chair was dumpster bound when I moved from Hell’s Kitchen to the Upper West Side. In addition to weighing seventy some awkward, bulky, pounds, it was old, dusty, and — frankly — not all that cool looking to begin with.

“Dude,” he’d say, “you can’t break up the chairs!”

And so I didn’t. I jammed it in the corner, as far from my faux Mid-Century suede gray couch as possible, and carried on. In the era of the merge, though, as Abbi and I cast aside dozens of (literal and figurative) things aside, it had to go.

The chair and desk were all that remained of the move when Chris dropped his, “You’re not going to throw that out, are you?” on me. He loped upstairs, his face screwed up in disapproval. I humped the a.c. to the basement, the bound upstairs in a tiff.

“There are probably other ways to greet me,” I said brushing quickly past him.

He lifted the desk over his head, said, “This was too heavy for you?” and walked off down the stairs. Fuming, and not to be outdone, I struggled to lift the red chair over my head. He had purported that this was possible — and even an efficient means of transport — previously, reminding me that he had single-handedly moved both from Upstate New York when we first moved here in 1995. The first time I tried, the weight of the chair compressed my spine. “Don’t break your neck,” I’d though. In anger, though, I found the might to lift the greatest weight, and soon found myself huffing and puffing as I pointed myself down the narrow staircase. The banister, though, thwarted each crooked, steep turn. Just one flight down, he met me and said, gently, “Can I help you dude?”

As we struggled — together — to wrestle this massive, cumbersome beast of a chair to the curb, my biceps and lungs burning, I thought to myself, “This is the weight of brotherhood itself.”

Each awkward shift in the chair’s mass rattled with the sound of its loose innards. As we caught our breath on the sidewalk, the White Whale slain, I said, “I kind of want to do an autopsy, to slit it open and see what’s in its stomach.”

I sat on the arm, sweat trickling down my forehead, and reached deep into the chairs massive, dusty frame. The mood lightened as I cautiously excavated the contents of our great, fraternal lost and found: seven ball point pens, six pieces of un-chewed Trident, four lighters, three teaspoons, two Tylenol Cold tablets, one packet of Alka Seltzer effervescent cold relief tablets, one digital tuner, one capo, and a gummy bear.

Upstairs, we took one last pass at the apartment, our home for more than six years. Deep in the corner of a closet, I found a piece of canvas wrapped in black duct tape. I pulled it out, unfurled it, and surveyed one of my first — and last — great oil paintings: a great swath of flat, blue sky punctuated by billowing, white clouds. It looks like a fifth grade art project. I painted it when I was thirty-one-years old.

“It’s eight feet by four-and-a half,” I said. “The same aspect ratio as a movie screen.”

Chris smiled.

“I’m gonna’ miss this place,” he said, softening still. “The sunsets, the moon rising over the water towers.”

“The blue sky,” I said.

We turned out the lights, closed the door, and walked weightlessly downstairs.

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Douglas Coupland: Everything’s Gone Green

I’ve read all of Douglas Coupland’s books. I love his seemless marriage of pop culture currency and left-of-center magical realism. He looks just beneath the curated lawns of suburbia to expose everything from Yuppies adrift (“Generation X”) to Boomer grow ops (“Jpod”) with a dash of wit, whimsy, and a light sprinkling of symbolic absurdity (plane crashes, meteor showers, the apocalypse). When I heard the author, screenwriter, and visual artist was going to be in New York City to promote his theatrical debut, I jumped at the chance to interview him.

I think it’s fair to say that Coupland and I developed rapport fairly rapidly. Our conversation was wildly erratic, bouncing from topic to topic like a slow-motion game of Pong. Still, we turned quickly to larger, more substantive themes. At the end of our conversation (which I crafted into an article, “Douglas Coupland On ‘Everything’s Gone Green,’ Beaver Dams, Siberia” on MTV News), he said, “Oh, I wish I could just stay here and talk to you.” And I think he might have meant it.

Benjamin Wagner: I was hoping to take you to this amazing public art work in Madison Square Park just down the street. There’s a lawn in the middle of all these trees, and in the middle of this lawn they’ve erected two, huge stainless steel trees! Like, life-sized fake chrome trees! It totally made me think of you.

Douglas Coupland: That’s so weird. I’m working on a chrome beaver damn for a park in Vancouver. We’re scanning them in and printing them up stereo lithography in the film and then putting steal in them and putting this space shuttle sealer chemical after which point you can chrome that, it’s really elaborate, it’s going to be beautiful it’s a parabola. Probably about feet across and there’s a slate flat surface where the water is sort of in an infinity pool and comes down. It’s really going to be something.

BW: So, that’s interesting that there’s this overlap, what struck me ­ and it’s extra interesting that you’d already gone there — was the juxtaposition of the natural and the artificial, and especially the fact that your putting it in the exact same place: in the center of this park. Not that I planned on this being a dialogue on art Œcuz frankly that’s not my strength, but what made you think to juxtapose those two things?

DC: I’m from Vancouver, the neighborhood I grew up there’s this fence that surrounds the water shed and honestly if you go on the other side of this fence there’s nothing until the North Pole and then down to Siberia. It’s the absolute weird, binary cut off point between man and nature. I used to think nothing of it but now I think it really has made me sensitized to points and places ­ like the chrome tree growing in the park there — where man and nature just collide. Sometimes beautifully and sometimes uglilly. Is that a word? I think that’s where that comes from.

BW: First, by way of transparency, as it were, I’m Executive Producer of MTV News, so my day job has nothing to do with this, I mean, I began in New York as an interviewer in the ’90s, but when the film popped up on my radar and the opportunity to speak with you came up I said, “I’m coming out of retirement.”

DC: Oh thank you! That’s very nice.

BW: Well, I’m a great admirer of your books, so I thought it would be fun to talk to you.

DC: I had a wonderful experience at your offices back in ’94. I was in there doing something and I was in Judy McGrath’s office and she was saying, “Do you want to go to a show tonight?” And I’m like, “Which show?” And it was Nirvana Unplugged. So she gave me like three ringsides and I’m like, “Oh my God.” And it was the premiere day of John Stewart’s first show and all the girls in the office were just swooning, “Oh, he’s so dreamy,” like Wilma Flintstone over Stony Curtis or something. ’94, that was thirteen years ago. How odd.

BW: That was arguably they heyday when there was some relevance of the brand. I’m there because it affords me the opportunity to do creative things in and above and because I still believe in the possibility, but…

DC: It’s huge! How many channels is it now?

BW: I honestly don’t even know. Hundreds.

DC: What’s your background?

BW: Um, I’m from the Middle West. I’ve lived in New York City for about fifteen years. I’ve been a digital journalist, for lack of better word, for about that long. I’m a musician, a singer/songwriter.

BW: Oh really?

BW: I’m a writer with a web site. I probably write a thousand words every couple of days.

DC: Do you have a link?

BW: Oh, yeah. I’ll give you my card. It’s my name and then add a “dot com.” So, yunno, fundamentally, I’m a creative person in a corporate world — sound familiar?

DC: I think its something you can do there.

BW: Right.

DC: It sounds like a very good place to be.

BW: So far so good. It has its moments.

DC: Um, this is going to sound weird, but it’s only because there’s this, like, scrim behind you, but, um, you’re ears are really asymmetrical.

BW: That’s so funny, yeah. One is squarer, right?

DC: Yeah, that one’s got a –

BW: You sir are the first person on Earth to point that out to me! But I’ve noticed it.

DC: The first person who had the bad taste to point it out!

BW: It’s funny that you should go there. Because — as I said — I’m a fan of your work. I’ve read all of your books. I’m a person who seeks meaning in symbol. And who, I hope, has some capability to observe detail and nuance, which ­ whether we’re talking about this film or your written work — struck me as something that’s absolutely ­ in fact, my last question, and I was going to save it for the bonus round, but the fact that you pointed this out to me tells me that you have a really, really keen ability to observe both on an aesthetic and a symbolic level and on an intuitive personal level.

DC: Did you read JPod? Because when I wrote Jpod I had to really investigate the world of autism. I really do believe that autism isn’t like an either or situation, there’s this whole spectrum, like, micro behaviors that define it. If you’re autistic, things have to be just right. Some kids won’t eat their food unless there vegetables are separated or whatever. And if it’s not right, it’s not right. I think it’s just, and this is probably where art school and everything else comes in, things either are right or they’re not right. I don’t want to pathologize completely the way I see the world. As I say, I went to art school and it really was one of the most remarkable experiences of my life. I knew I was never cut out to have a job job, it just wasn’t going to happen. Trying to recreate that sensibility… And also it was the early ’80s, it was the end of the hippy era and the PC revolution was yet to happen, and there was still this openness and willingness to talk about anything which ended quickly after I left. And so I used to do the school paper and I worked in sculpture and interdisciplinary media studies and media theory — and that’s basically what I do right now.

You have great accessories. I dress like shit. I’m post-clothes. I just gave up on clothes a long time ago. But everything you have is good. But that’s because you’re a musician, they always dress best.

BW: Jeez, thanks.

DC: You know what I noticed on this trip to New York? I was here in once in 1980, which barely counts; it was two days. But in the late ’80s — you probably got the tail end of it — but that’s when insane. Crazy, mad, mental people with AIDS like spitting in your face and throwing poo at you, I mean it was really, just, like Gothic. And now it’s just so happy in New York! I was down on St. Mark’s last night, and you can see some of the old, crusty, salt and pepper, from the 60s anarchy people walking around and they’re probably wondering, “Wow, what the hell happened here?” I mean, where did all those people go? Is there some spot where the anarchic can go and, if not just be tolerant and indulge, at least fully express itself. I’m not sure if its here anymore. You might know.

BW: It’s Miami Beach around here: sterile, mirrored glass high rise apartments, spas, luxury everything. I have a day job and all, though of my extra money goes to making records, I can live in this. But I don’t know tenable it is, nor do I know that it’s the environment that I cam here for ­ to your point. When I first started working in Times Square, Times Square still had an edge to it. I mean, I don’t mean to be nostalgic about edge, but there’s something lost in terms of why I came here to be a creative soul.

DC: Nostalgic for edge. That’s interesting.

BW: Right now I’d say the creative stuff is Outer Borough, it’s not Manhattan.

DC: What about Brooklyn?

BW: Even Brooklyn’s gone upscale. I mean, Soho has been radically transformed. It’s like the most upscale mall I’ve ever walked around in.

DC: It really is.

BW: And the Lower East Side which, fifteen years ago was pretty rough and tumble, has gotten so upscale that the cool stuff has gone across the bridge.

DC: Someone bought Stuytown?

BW: Yeah, for like five billion dollars.

DC: I used to have a friend who lived there. This is back in like 1991, ’92, and you would walk in there and just wait for the detonators to come in and just get rid of these things.

Maybe the place is no longer geographical. Maybe it’s moved into the digital. I mean, this sounds like a conversation from Wired Magazine in the early ’90s or something, but I wonder if that spirit has entered the machine now and where you are physically is almost like a notation, a bookkeeping device. Having said that you’re not going to get me to move to Afghanistan or something!

BW: Well, since you and I stand, generationally, on both sides of that argument, I mean, literally in terms of our demographic you and I have one foot in the analogue and one foot in the digital — I’m a little reticent to fully let go of the geographical fully — despite my gear and despite my day job — so much of your work has been about seeking connection in a world that might push against our ability to connect.

DC: I would agree, yeah.

BW: So my concern is the ability to connect in a time when this sort of one-on-one, personal connection isn’t happening.

DC: You’re nostalgic for the analogue.

BW: I’m nostalgic for the flesh.

DC: Yeah. Hmmm… How old are you?

BW: Thirty-five.

BW: For me, all of the meaningful moments — and I think the film gets at this — all of the meaningful moments in life are about people.

DC: I’m from Vancouver. So many of the forces defining the new century are playing themselves out at full volume there. Nobody makes anything. I call it pushing electrons around with a stick. We make video games. We flip real estate. Ryan, in the movie, is a twenty-nine-year-old who is a very 20th century person who hasn’t figured out that everyone else is in the new century. And he’s still trying to hold it together, though maybe not in the right way. But, man, I wrote that movie so long ago in 1999, so to be talking about it in 2007 is sort of strange to me. But I think everything that was happening in that movie has just gone on to become more pronounced. Have you seen it?

BW: Yeah.

DC: Ok.

BW: That’s my experience with your work in general. You tend to have your finger on a pulse that only become more pronounced with time.

DC: Some smart aleck at People Magazine said,” He’s always forty-five minutes in the future.” That was kind of funny. [Laughs] In “Microserfs,” for example, which I wrote in ’93 or ’94, I remember I told my editor Judith — yes, the Judith Regan — that I wanted to write a book set a Microsoft. And she was like, “Micro-what? What do they do there?” And I said, yunno, “They make software.” And she was like, “Soft what?” So I took a big advance hit on that. And it came out the same week of Windows95 which seemed like some sort of coup but it was absolutely random. And i became this weird sort of Gorillas in the Mist sort of clique kind of grew and grew and grew until it absorbed the whole culture. Now I look back on that book and — I’ve been doing this for seventeen years now — instead of dating things it’s sort of become this time capsule, if anything.

I mean, you would know this because you’re at MTV, but the early ’90s were viable, they were just waiting to happen at any moment. That’d be a very good book for someone to do, a good period piece. What’s interesting for that for a lot of people is just how bad the technology was back then. The way everything was still diskettes. I remember watching “Melrose Place” — I’m love TV but I was never a fan of “Melrose Place” — and they work in this office where the computers didn’t even have plugs! It was like Pebbles Flintstone or a cassette deck or something. It would be kind of neat, in like a “Where’s Waldo” way, to play some sort of “Spot The Bad Technology.” Anyhow… we’re so far off track.

BW: I keep wondering if at some point I’m going to choose to step off this sort of technology treadmill.

DC: I think most people I know do. Probably not until you’re about forty-one. I mean, I asked you’re age not just gratuitously. Thirty to thirty-five are probably the best years of your life. Not that the rest of you’re life isn’t going to be fulfilling or happy. But you’re going to go through a really fucked up period for about five or six years now. Everyone goes through it: rich or poor, whether you live in the Indian Subcontinent or here. And here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to sit and micro-obsess on every decision you ever made, some of which you’ll be grateful for and others you’ll start having regrets over — this is when you start having regrets. You’re gonna become hyper-competitive with every guy you ever meet or read about. Like, you’re competitive but wait until that kicks in. And you’ll probably make one or two super-major life decisions. Usually it’s a geographical move. Like, you’ll move to New Mexico or something. And you’ll still do what you do, but you’ll learn something else. And you’ll turn soft and weak! [Laughs] I don’t know. I’m only forty-five right now. I’m at the other end of it. It’s over. Oh God, talk about hubris and tempting the Gods!

BW: Dude, you don’t know how close you are. I got engaged six week ago …

DC: Congratulations!

BW: So it’s ALL changing. And for a typical ’80s kids raised on divorce who staked his claim on having a journalism day job and rock ‘n roll sideline that would overtake the day job, well, here’s the realization at thirty-five that it didn’t turn out like I thought it would.

DC: It’s like a hangover or something. [Pauses] Well, yunno, what is there to find solace in? In my twenties I wish somebody had told me that everyone else was going through the same thing I was going through. But we don’t do that in our culture. And by the time it was over, in your thirties, it’s like, “We didn’t we ever talk about that!?!” You can take solace in the fact that, it doesn’t end, but you get used to it. Which sounds sort of depressing or defeatist but it’s not. It’s the way we’re made. I’ve been thinking about religion a lot lately. And I think religion in the old days used to be about explaining why life is so short. Now it’s the opposite, really. We have to explain why it is we just keep on going and going and going. Oh, and time is going to speed up for you soon too. That’s the next thing. [Laughs] But I’ve gotta give you some good news, hang on, what can I tell you that’s good… Nah. You’re smart. You’re going to do fine. I can already tell.

BW: Your work suggests to me — and to what degree that’s a representation of you or my projection — that despite all that, that as we settle our lives, that its not the meteor or the plane crash or beached whale, it’s the engagement. Is that true for you? Where do you find your joy, your solace, your meaning, despite that?

DC: By the way, the beached whale scene is exactly what happened to me: where Ryan is in the film, the direction he’s riding his bike in, what was on the radio and the time of day, people in the work shoes coming down to the water. It was really haunting to see the dailies on that.

I find the joy … I would never … um, when I’m writing, actually. And that sounds like such a sucky answer, but it’s the one time ­ it’s beach combing, just because you’re looking at objects and it turns your brain completely quiet. At least when you’re writing and channeling a character, you’re still in your own head, but you’re out of your own head. [Pauses sixteen seconds] Boy, that’s a real traffic jam of a question. Well, I mean, I’m not trying to avoid it but can I throw it back to you? Where do you get yours? In your music?

BW: It’s interesting that you use the phrase “out of your head” because I have a record called “Out Of Your Head.” It’s not my best, but, for me, the phrase is of value because I find it can be so cloudy and noisy up here –

DC: Oh yeah.

BW: That the moments that bring me great joy are the ones that are actually the most out of body.

DC: Oh, completely. I remember one of the best experiences I ever had. I mentioned beach combing because ­ did you read Jpod?

BW: Mmmm hmmm.

DC: Ok, remember how there, like, twenty pages of random number pi or whatever?

BW: Mmmm hmmm.

DC: In this museum in Newfoundland we did this one room, it was a small room, called “The Pi Room” because we did pi to fifty thousand digits. And you walk in the room and it’s remarkable because your brain just turned off because you’re not verbal, you’re in the world of numbers. And I realized that it was just the same as beachcombing.

A friend of mine, Gordon Smith, he’s a painter he’s eighty-seven, and we chartered a boat and studied the tide chart and we just nailed this one beach on the west coast of this north island of Queen Charlottes which is insanely hard to get to. In fact, I don’t think anyone had been there in over a decade; it was so hard to get to. And we got into a little rubber Zodiac, and I brought trash bags, and the whole beach ­ because all the storms come in over the winters and dump everything that floats — the whole beach was covered with floats. It was like the Easter Egg beach: just a half-mile of floats. It was like, “Mine! Mine! Mine!” I got this huge pile — I took a photograph of it — this huge pile of floats. I thought we’d find, like, four floats. We found about a thousand. It was an out of body experience, that sensation of, like, “Oh! Oh! Oh! This is the afterlife.” I hope that’s what it’s like.

I mean, if you’re blogging a thousand words a day, you’ve got to be getting something out of that, right?

BW: Mmmm hmmm.

DC: What is it you get? Is it a chemical sensation?

BW: Wow, no one’s asked me that. I imagine maybe it’s a little bit of a … there’s just a … there’s a moment when you know you’ve got it. And it’s just a moment.

DC: Ok. You know how you’re really hungry and there’s a great dinner and you eat tons? Ok, if you could take a pill that would give you that sensation, and you ate it and were like, “Aaaah!” If you could take a pill that made you feel like you’d just written your thousand words, how would you define that? Clinicise it.

BW: Um… weightless.

DC: Yeah.

BW: But grounded.

DC: And the possibility that maybe you’d seen or thought or found something which has never been seen or thought or found before.

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Just A Stranger On The Bus

I was at wits end by the time I hailed a cab at the corner of 80th & Columbus.

Moving has been death by a million paper cuts. Merging thirty plus years of material acquisition and two diverse aesthetics into one 750 square foot apartment requires some sacrifice. Whole bunches of stuff’s been left behind: chairs, desks, futon frames, air conditioners. The five flights between my old apartment and the street haven’t done much by way of motivating the move, but time is running out; the lease ends on Friday. And so tonight found me riding the Broadway line back to the Upper West one last time.

I stepped onto the deck just as the sun fell behind the hills of New Jersey. I paused to take it in one last time: the broad, blue sky brushed with wisps of cloud, the burnt red brick buildings glowing in the evening light. Intellectually, it struck me as an important moment, something meaningful and nostalgic. Emotionally, though, I was scarcely present. There was work to be done.

I have been hauling boxes up and down those five flights — seventy stairs per trip — for weeks now. Each time I drag a chair, or crate full of dishes, I wonder, ‘Just how many times have you endured this torture?’ Today I calculated. I lived at West 80th from November, 2004, through March, 2007. Twenty-eight months. Thirty days a month. At least 140 steps a day…

117,600 steps.

Let’s imagine that each step is good for one foot (or twelve inches). That’s roughly 24 miles. That’s almost a marathon. That’s nearly 1/3 of the way to outer space.

Couple the sad sight of my big, empty, dusty living room — the place where I hosted parties, played shows, and spent at least a few of the last 720 days of my bachelorhood — add in a fair shake of day job exhaustion, and the general melancholy that dusk brings, and, well…

I was at wits end by the time I hailed a cab at the corner of 80th & Columbus.

I’ve grabbed a hundred cabs there before. And tonight was no different. I strode out into the street just as the signal changed, waved down the nearest white light, and opened the door even as the vehicle came to a stop.

“56th & Ninth, please.”

“Straight down, huh?”

“Yessir. Thank you.”

I paused to decide whether to engage…

“How are you tonight, sir?” I asked.

My cabby –a gray haired, dark skinned, sixty-year-old man — paused.

“Eh,” he said. “So-so.”

“Fair enough,” I replied. “That’s how you distinguish the good days.”

“That’s right,” he said, laughing.

We could have left it there. Some days, a few minutes of quiet in the back of a cab is all you get. Other days, you need more.

“So how was you Easter?” he asked.

“Pizza and beer,” I said callously leaving my melancholy to linger in the silence between us.

I looked out the window at Lincoln Center. Juliard was under construction. Well above it, the North Star shone like a beacon.

“Are you listening to WNYC?” I asked.

Cab driver Antoine Ilione and I spent just twenty-four blocks together. In that time — seven or eight minutes, tops — we transitioned from WNYC to NPR to Fred Rogers.

“He was good man,” Antoine said in his thick, Senegalese accent. “No more like him now,” he said earnestly.

In that seven or eight minutes, I felt deep inside of me the difference a random act of kindness can make.

On a day when everything seemed heavy, when the distance between things seemed greater than ever before, Antoine somehow reminded me the value of simple, human connection.

Stepping onto 56th and Ninth as I’d done so many times so many years before, I felt tears pooling in my eyes. Was it the cold wind blowing off the river? Or something else?

I’ve been listening to Joan Osborne’s “One Of Us” a ton lately. I’m not sure why. It seems to fit my mood as I walk through the city, and as I ride the subways. Tonight, though, as I passed my old apartment and stepped towards the new, I wondered…

What if God is all of us?

And what if it takes 117,600 steps to even begin to reach the atmosphere, and Beyond?

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Easter Sunday

I’m sitting on the couch idly watching “CBS Sunday Morning” and talking quietly with Abbigail with whom I’m trying in vain to shake a well-earned hangover.

Despite my current preference for the sedentary, there’s still lots of moving to be done. The apartment is still stacked with boxes. My bike remains in the center of the living room. Thirty blocks uptown, my big, heavy desk, hand-me-down Art Deco and cheap, faux-leather lounge chairs, and a whole slew of shelves still need to be hauled down five flights.

Here, though, I am surrounded by wedding magazines (Modern Bride, Elegant Bride, Town & Country Weddings) and wedding related lists: to do lists, guest lists, contacts. We spent three hours looking at invitations yesterday, finally arriving on the very first book we surveyed.

Immediately thereafter, we took the F downtown, and wandered in and out of furniture showrooms. Two hours into our second weekend trying to procure a new couch, coffee table, end table, nightstand, dining room table and chairs, we resolved that it all looks the same.

We walked from Chelsea to the Lower East Side afterwards. Passing Bowery, I marveled at the sparkling new condos where CBGB used to be.

“I would say I’m glad to have played there before it closed,” I told Abbi. “Except that it doesn’t really make any difference to anyone or anything. It’s just something that used to be, but no isn’t.”

We reached Rockwood Music Hall just prior to Deena Goodman’s set. She sounded terrific. Abbi met Tommy (who books there, and thus is in some way responsible for my performing there the night that Abbi introduced herself). Bassist Tony Macelli showed up. Jeff Jacobson said hi before hitting the stage with Casey Shea. My cousin Andrew, in from New Orleans, walked in with his friend Liz just as Casey got rockin’.

Watching Casey perform was energizing. He looked part George Harrison, and part Gram Parsons, and sounded outstanding, as always. I wanted to jump onstage with him and harmonize on “Lartigue,” but alas, he stayed seated for my most recent set, hate not to return the deference.

Watching Casey perform was also just a little bit heartbreaking. There’s so much for me to do these days between working, planning the wedding, and making this new home. I barely have time to think, let alone pull my guitar out of the closet, tune it up, find inspiration, and get it down on tape. Abbi and I making so much up as we go along, as if no couple’s ever managed moving in together and getting married (and releasing a b-sides record, and competing in a triathlon and running a marathon) in under six months. Still, though, it’s all new for us. And despite knowing better, we want it all to be perfect. Which takes all my energy. So music, for now, gets next to none.

It’s more than that, though. It’s the the admission and the realization (as I pack my ProTools MBox into a cardboard box deep within the closet) that the bulk of my rock ‘n roll years are probably behind me. I will perform less, not more. I will record less, not more. And while I made that decision of my own volition, I feel some sense of some loss.

After the show, Tony whisked us uptown. As we crossed Bowery, I pointed northward and said to Andrew, “See that white condo that looks like it belongs in Santa Monica? That’s where CBGB used to be.”

“No way!” he replied (bless his heart).

Chris and Megan walked in to great applause as we sat in a corner booth of Mercury Bar snacking on fries and wings. We laughed loudly, made fun of nearby patrons, and sang along with 80s hits, then stumbled home where I choked down a pint of Gatorade and too many spoonfuls of ice cream while watching Discovery Channel.

It’s times like these (as Dave Grohl’ll tell ya’) that you learn to live again. Everything is new. And I don’t really know what it will look like when it’s done.

About all I know is that this difficult transition will be met with another, more difficult transition. And that If I’m lucky my friends and family will be there to help me figure it out, and laugh it off.

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Run For Your Life

I ran into the Executive Vice President of News & Production in the elevator banks this morning. “How are you?” he asked. “Harried,” I replied.

The truth is, the sweat on my brow and bounce in my step had more to do with too much coffee and a really long run. Somehow, though, that came out as “harried.”

I spent the next thirty-two floors explaining this cool new website, mapmyrun.com, how I went on an extra long morning run in an effort to put the site through its paces, then sat on the floor of my new apartment (sidebarring with him for a moment on Abbi and my big move) marking each data point on the map (a process made more complicated by my insistance on running as far off of the beaten path as possible).

By the time we got to our conference room for our weekly Digital Programming Meeting, I was scolding myself for actually answering his question in such rediculous detail.

“That’s probably more than you really needed to know,” I said, pausing to take a long tug on my Gatorade and instantaniously considering this age of Media 2.0, User Generated Content, Transparency, and — maybe, just maybe — too much information.

“I guess you gotta’ blame the coffee. And the adrenaline.”

I guess you do too.

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Something Worth Holding Onto

The sun never did quite break through the fog yesterday. Dusk, then, found the skyline brushed with a fine, salmon-colored mist. Heading up Tenth Avenue, the city looked like a Hollywood back lot.

The Parsons Desk was unwieldy even without my messenger bag, or the shopping bag full of Bed, Bath & Beyond clothes hangers.

“Dude, that’ll never fit in a cab,” the West Elm employee said. “Wanna car service?”

I looked down at the box, which I pegged at roughly four feet long and three feet wide.

“What’s it weigh?” I asked.

“Eh, about seventy or eighty.”

“Then yeah, I do wanna’ car service, thanks.”

The car service, it ends up, was in fact an SUV service. I stood sheepishly at the curb as the guys loaded the box into the back, embarrassed at the size of my ride. The black, Chevy Tahoe with 22″ chrome rims was more Notorious B.I.G. than Benjamin Wagner. I considered climbing into the front seat, then wavered; I didn’t wanna’ creep out the driver. And frankly, I could use a minute to think.

Excepting clothes, media (CDs, DVDs, and books), electronics (stereos, laptops, and iPods), and a few framed photos, Abbi and I didn’t bring a ton of material into our new relationship. We wanted to start fresh and build a home full of stuff worth holding onto. And so couches, chairs, ottomans, desks, and shelves all stayed at her sister’s, or hit the curb in front of my old place. On paper, and in conversation, our intention to build a home together sounds well intentioned, noble, and even romantic. I have no doubt that it’s the right thing to do. But that doesn’t mean it’s the easy thing to do.

The result of this romantic ambition, then, is that, save for my couch (which, luckily, we moved at the last minute or we wouldn’t have had anything to sit on), and her bed, our new apartment is a jumble of boxes. For two people who absolutely crave order, it’s a bit maddening.

“If I only had a desk,” I told Abbi Sunday night, “A creative space where I can write, and play, and record, I think everything would be fine.”

Which brings us to the back seat of my $40 ride up Tenth Avenue in a black, Chevy Tahoe with 22″ chrome rims. I’m rarely one to sit quietly in a cab or car service. It doesn’t fit with my proletariat leanings. I like to talk people up, dispell the service-oriented power dynamic. But after a quick, “So is the Passover holiday good or bad for business?” we fell silent. I couldn’t make my mouth work for all the thoughts in my head.

I stumbled across two envelopes with the return address: Corporation Service Company, Wilmington, Delaware, as I pulled together my taxes Monday afternoon. CSC acts as registering agent for my two LLCs: Benjamin Wagner Deluxe (which protects me), and Ubiquity Ltd. Publishing (which protects my songs). Of course, they do so for a fee of two hundred bucks per year per entity. Which is all fine and good, assuming a) I make more than $400 on any given year and b) I pay the bills on time.

Um, about that Ubiquity Ltd. Publishing, LLC, bill…

Somehow, I discovered to my horror, I have failed to pay it in some time.

I owe $1162.

I began sweating immediately.

I am not the most fiscally responsible guy you know. At least, I haven’t been historically. I’ve dropped $2k on last-minute mixes, and $600 on last minute flights, even as I ignored burgeoning cavities, ran marathons on worn sneakers, and pulled on the same ratty jeans and faded sport coat. You could say that rock ‘n roll has skewed my priorities a little bit.

Not surprisingly, doing right by Abbi has been a great inspiration. I’ve done a decent job spending more intelligently (that is, buying well-tailored Brooks Brothers dress shirts instead of nearly-disposable Gap oxfords), paying my bills on time, and even planning ahead. A little.

Starting a new life with Abbi mere days after purchasing a diamond ring, though, has posed
some challenges. Confessing my $1162 oversight, then, proved… well, sticky.

I was sitting on the floor of our new bedroom, drinking a beer, listening to a melancholy playlist (Fountains of Wayne’s “Troubled Times,” Death cab For Cutie’s “I Will Follow You Into The Dark,” The Fray’s “Over My Head”), assembling our new desk when she walked in. Before long, everything was on the table. Intellectually, I knew that the $1162 bill and the $302 desk and the $325 doctor’s bill and the rent and the invitations and the plane tickets and the — intellectually, I knew it would all work out. Emotionally, though, I was torqued. I was curt and defensive.

Abbi and I worked it all out before bed, but it took until this morning for me to begin to realize why it was all so difficult.

Living with someone, and committing to growing with them, is like walking around with a mirror and a camera crew. Nothing goes unseen, or unsaid. You can’t hide. It’s all there for both of you to see and know, warts and all. And so, in the absence of denial, and in the face of extreme scrutiny, we are laid bare. We are made vulnerable. And vulnerability is scary. And admitting you’re imperfect is difficult.

The cool thing, though, is waking up and knowing that you’ve found someone with whom to be imperfect, and then sitting down at your new desk, and writing it all down as the sun breaks through the clouds and starts a brand new day.

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Send This Smile Over To You

A little less than three years ago, I shot a music video for “The Rest of My Life” in which I feigned to move into a hip New York City apartment with a beautiful blonde. This weekend, my fiction became reality. And what a reality.

I announced my impending cohabitation to a colleague Thursday afternoon. I hadn’t seen Josh in years. Since our last handshake, he had gotten engaged and married, become a father, and moved to New Jersey.

“It’s a hole new world, dude,” he said. “Brace yourself.”

My family moved four times before my eleventh birthday. I’ve moved four times since. That I approached this one with confidence, then, shouldn’t be too surprising.

Saturday morning, I sold my Marshall JCM900 Dual Reverb Tube Amplifier for $460 to a nice fella’ named Dave, guitarist for the burgeoning rock quartet, Actual Facts (“We have a British front man,” he beamed).

Afterwards, I said to Abbi, “Let’s make sure we spend this $460 on something good, something whole — a desk, a table, a chair. I don’t want to fritter it away on clothes hangers and a wicker hamper.

Thirty-six hours, two parking garages, two end tables (Ikea), one recycling bin (Target), shower curtain (Bed, Bath & Beyond), and various closet organization technologies (The Container Store) later, I have $136 in my wallet.

I knew intellectually that this move was going different. Despite Josh’s warning, though, I was woefully unprepared to find myself answering the following on a Friday night at Bed, Bath & Beyond:

“Babe? Waffled or quilted shower curtain?”

Which is kind of it in a nutshell. It felt like every second I spent beneath those fluorescent lights was one less song I’d write, or one less show I’d play. I could practically feel the rock bleeding out of me.

Before I go on, let me say straight up: Abbi is the best. She is the only woman I’ve ever known with whom who I’d want to embark on this incredible journey. And she’s probably the only woman crazy, patient, and cool enough to do so with me.

My adjustment to being a couple isn’t so much about her, really. It’s about me wanting to do right by her, and for for her. It’s about figuring out how to decide things together: who to be, where to go, what to do. For thirty-five years, the most complicated question I had to answer was, “What do you want to do next?” Not so much anymore.

Moreover, the whole thing pushes me way, way outside of my comfort zone. Everything stresses me out: driving, shopping, spending money — everything. But when there are two of you, you can forget about sitting it out. There’s no, “Nah, I’ll stay inside and do it tomorrow.”

In the moments after Abbigail said yes to my proposal, I whispered, “We have no idea what we just got ourselves into, do we?” Which I meant both ways: it will be more difficult, and more rewarding, than we could imagine.

It’s already been both. All I could think as we trudged like lemmings through Ikea was, “I want to shoot myself in the throat.” Just a few hours later, sharing our visions for our wedding ceremony over a burger and beer at Peter McManus on 19th & Seventh, I was so happy, and having such a fun, meaningful time with Abbi, I actually busted out a few tears. It’s been funny too. Earlier, Abbi said to me, “Listen, now that we live together, no more hanging your running shorts on the door knobs by the crotch, ok?”

I took a few summer school courses between my sophomore and junior years at Syracuse. Towards the end of the semester, my “ENG 217: Post-Empire Brit Lit” professor, a young, bespectacled NYU grad, told us he was about to get married.

“Some afternoons,” he said, “I find myself out on the highway driving as fast as I can.”

I thought of him this afternoon, speedometer pushing seventy-five, hands planted firmly at ten and two, Smashing Pumpkins at ten on the CD player. For the first time I could sort of understand.

In the few minutes of the long weekend that Abbi and I haven’t been homemaking, we’ve watched two episodes of The Sundance Channel’s “Iconoclasts.” Last night we watched Fiona Apple and Quentin Tarantino, this afternoon Lorne Michael and Paul Simon.

“This is something that I decided to do when I was twelve years old,” Simon said. “I decided that I want to be a rock ‘n roll musician and write songs. That’s a twelve-year-old’s decision.”

Since I was a kid flipping through the pages of Rolling Stone, all I ever imagined of adulthood was distorted guitars, wailing amplifiers, an adoring audience, and rose-colored footlights. As Abbi pointed out, though, “Even Tommy Lee has to change diapers, honey.”

In the final frames of “The Rest of My Life,” I wake up to discover that it was all a dream. Tonight, I am sitting on the couch with my beautiful fiance. The bed is made, the stereo is on, the walk-in closet is in order, and we’ve unpacked 37 of our 51 boxes.

Tonight, I am home.

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