Plaques & Hams
There are just a few reasons to rock my Blackberry on weekends.
My Curve is fast becoming my go-to gadget, primarily because I can email, text, and call all-in-one. The downside of being connected at all times is, well, being connected at all times.
This afternoon, though, standing in the dressing room line at J. Crew, the blinking red light provided a delightful surprise.
Jonathan — he of the woefully-lapsed blog — sent me an email that read, “We saw this at the zoo.” Attached, I found a photo of an exhibit plaque that read:
Smokey Jungle Frog
(Leptodactylus Pentadactylus)
You, Dear Reader, may recall that my college band was called Smokey Junglefrog. And, in fact, we too discovered the species at the zoo (in our case, the Syracuse zoo). The name stuck, I think, due in no small part to its randomness. Or, perhaps, its irreverence. I don’t remember.
While the photo made me laugh, it was the brief description that really cracked me up. “Loud calls,” it read, “entice females to ponds during mating season.”
Funny. But not so salient to a guy just a few days shy of tying the knot. I found the second tidbit more relevent: “Males churn skin secretions to mounds of foam to support thousand of eggs.”
Not yet, but someday. And metaphorically, people, metaphorically.
Another Saturday
“I shouldn’t even know what a fucking charger is, ok!?!”
The sentence reads more mean-spirited than it sounded at the time. I mean, we were laughing over burgers and beers at the location of our first date, Coffee Shop in Union Square, but I meant it. No dude should know words like duvet, demitasse, or doily.
Or maybe we should.
If I expect Abbi to let me be me — ice cream for dinner, dishes in the sink, clothes at the foot of the bed, rehearsals, recordings and rock shows — then maybe the least I can do is get behind dinner parties, art museums, and Home Depot.
Which explains my Saturday afternoon.
***
5:15 pm. Sacks Fifth Avenue. Up escalator. I’ve dropped fifteen pounds of wedding stuff from an a.m. Soho excursion at home and come to Midtown to meet Abbi. I am woefully underdressed in my Des Moines t-shirt, torn jeans, a navy pinstriped sportcoat and black Chucks — but I like it.
My objectives, the last two major items on my list: dress shirt for rehearsal dinner, dress shoes (”Not J. Crew,” Abbi strongly suggests) for ceremony.
Browsing ends abruptly in Men’s Shoes (8th Floor) when I turn a pair over to discover that the only ones I like — one pair in a thousand: black straight toe buckles — run $690.
The trip ends half a success when I spot a periwinkle and chocolate check point-collared dress shirt so vibrant it actually makes me smile. I exit Sacks $165 lighter (or $595 heavier if you consider the well-tailored cordoroy sportcoat I leave behind).
***
6:01 pm. Bergdorf Goodman Beauty Department. The estrogen is palpable as we descend on the escalator. Scanning a powder green room roughly half the size of a football field and populated entirely by chattering, prattling, and giggling women, I am reminded that are social creatures.
I am way, way out of my comfort zone, lost in some Girls Club for which I scarcely know the password, but I am in awe.
‘Women are so social,’ I think as I retreat to a quiet corner. ‘This is why they rule the world.’
Oddly enough, though, I don’t spot one truly beautiful woman (my wife to be notwithstanding) the entire time I stand there.
***
6:56 pm. Bergdorf Goodman Men’s Shoes. The only pair I like, it ends up, are Prada. $610.
“Hand made in Italy,” the salesman says. “Benchmark shoes, son. Benchmark shoes.”
We call it a day.
In The Mix
It may not surprise you to know that I’m heading into the studio just forty-eight hours before leaving for my South Carolina wedding.
In addition to the all-star cover of “Do They Know It’s Christmas” we recorded last weekend, “A Holiday Family Christmas” — the benefit album I’m producing with Wes Verhoeve — will feature Christmas tunes from some fifteen singer/songwriters and bands. So Sunday night, Chris Abad, Tony Maceli, Ryan Vaughn and I are headed back to Travis Harrison’s Serious Business Studio to bang out Chris’ version of “Feliz Navidad,” and my version of “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).”
Meantime, though, Travis has been toiling away on our Band Aid cover, firing off rough edits for my review. So I thought you’d get a laugh out my uber-obsessive compulsive mix notes:
1- Save acoustic til third measure (:04)
2- Save piano til second verse (:35)
3- Re: overall vocals, I’d bump em all up a bit and anything you can do to deepen (bassier) and level (in relation to one another) would be hot
4- in the four part harmony section (:55-1:20), I’d minimize the 180 degree vocal pans thusly so it’s less seperated on the edges but more on the center
5- Save the tamborine for the big finish (2:30)
6- Tuck in” the “ooooh” at 1:42 a bit, and turn down the dude a bit
7- Likewise, I’d tuck in George/Jess’ “here’s to you” and “here’s to them” about 10% (both in volume and pan)
8- I’m not sure there’s much we can do about it, but guitarist John’s delay-heavy from 2:30 on is a hair much. I’d tuck it in 10%.
9- Mike’s piano should sit out the first two “feed the worlds” (2:30) and answer where “let them know it’s christmas time” will be.
10- Finally? Slow fade: start bringin us down at fourth “let them know it’s christmas time” (3:20) and be out by 3:40.
As I said to Travis, “I imagine this’d be easier if I weren’t a closet Pro Tools rat.” Or OCD. But I am. So… there it is.
Weddings & Celebrations
“Hey, this is Reggie,” a man with a thick Brooklyn accent says on my voicemail. “I’m callin’ from The New York Times. I wanna get your voice into the narrative that I’m writing for your, yunno, announcement.”
Inconsistent as it might sound, I’ve been an avid and enthusiastic reader of The New York Times Weddings & Celebrations section since picking up the paper my first weekend in town. I’ve read it consistently ever since. I’ve even watched some of those Vows Videos they’ve been doing lately.
My amateur psychological diagnosis is that reading a dozen or so wedding announcements a week has provided me with evidence that, despite what I might have witnessed first-hand, marriage works. Or even if it doesn’t, people keep tryin’. I like to think The Times played a roll and lending some confidence to the institution.
So as our wedding approached — as un-rock ‘n roll as it might seem — Abbi and I wanted in. Better yet, so did our friends, uber-couple Ron Lieber (WSJ) and Jodi Kantor (NYT) who emailed us to say, “You should be in Vows!”
So Reggie and I just got off the phone. He’d already spoken with Abbi, so I was just confirming facts and elaborating on story points. Like that we met at Rockwood Music Hall, and that I sing and play guitar, and that I was in a relationship when Abbi and I met — WHAT!?! No, no, no, no, I told him, I was as single as I’d ever been in my whole LIFE when Abbi and I met! I was doing one of those “time off” things.
“So how long had you been single?” he asked. “And how long was your previous relationship?”
And I was all like, “No, no, no. It’s wasn’t like that. There wasn’t some long-term, heavy-duty break-up. More like a series of mishaps. So I was just trying to figure my shit out. Which is when she tapped me on the shoulder.”
Much as I worried that our borderline-sacharine story (not to mention my enthusiastic re-telling of it) would make him puke, Vinnie was great. He told me that he speaks to about a dozen couples a week.
“Usually people are sweet, and you listen to their story and ask yourself, ‘Where do I start,” he explained. “Other times, though, people are uptight and nervous. Getting ‘em to talk is like pulling teeth.”
I asked him if he was a fan of the section, and whether he’s a romantic, or if it just an assignment.
“If you Google me you’ll see my stuff’s all over the paper,” he said. “I write for Metro and I do a sports column on Sundays. But I get to meet some cool people writing these. And sometimes I think, ‘Where were all these women when I was gettin’ married?’
In Between Days
“I’m a rock star. I’m not supposed to do dishes!”
These are strange, strenuous, and superlative days.
One minute finds me coordinating a roomful of musicians, the next. I’m marvelling at the stupendous dicing abilities of a new pairing knife.
‘Man, that’s the best knife ever!’ I think.
One minute finds me tossing back pints in a raucous downtown dive with Pete Yorn, the next, I’m getting misty eyed watching a four-year-old’s blissful yawn.
‘Aaaaaw,’ I think.
Or, there are moments like this one when — so distracted am I by the plane reservations, car services, vows, cuff links, collars, cues, seating arrangements, blogs posts, songs, videos, redesigns, relaunches, recallibrations and reruns — that I end up one subway stop too far in Astoria, Queens.
‘Ten days,’ I think.
Ten days. Which explains why my left eye is twitching, my excema is itching, and every song that comes on my iPod sounds customized for each melodramatic moment. And it explains why the tension between who I am and who I thought I’d be feels more palpable than ever.
It’s always been significant.
These days, I want more than credit for holding down my job, doing the laundry, wiping the counter, grocery shopping or anything more than drinking beer, smoking cigarettes, and writing songs. I want bonus points. I want gold stars. A plaque.
These days, I resist the suburban ideal ever as I jog towards it. I scoff at the suit as I trudge towards the corporate tower. I roll my eyes at luxury condo ads in magazines my doorman sorts.
I am becoming the very thing I was rebelling against.
And yet… And yet…
And yet I’m not sure I was ever either of those things to begin with.
Maybe there is no rebellion. And maybe there isn’t anything to rebel against. Maybe — and I’m banking on this — maybe there’s a space in between.
That’s where I’m headed.
It’s Christmas Time (There’s No Need To Be Afraid)
Band Aid’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas” was the right song at the right time.
I was a newly-minted teenager when Bob Geldof and Ultravox’s Midge Ure rounded up Paul Young, Phil Collins, Sting, Bono et all to record the first-and-definitive benefit single on behalf of African famine relief.
MTV was a nascent entity then too. It amplified and super-saturated my already Rolling Stone-distorted perception of rocknroll. Here was an awkward and flawed (they all did, after all, spend sufficient time on the couch — allbeit at The Ritz in Ibiza — smoking cigarettes and discussing their childhoods) group of singers being celebrated for the flaws and their singing! I had flaws. And I sang!
Moreover, my worldview was changing. At thirteen, I was allowed to take the bus to Kingof Prussia Mall or the train to Ardmore Square.
It was at a record store there that — lulled into blissful consumer submission by the all-star music video played on near-repeat — that I joyfully laid down my allowance for the vinyl 45.
As a song, Ure’s four minute Anglo-centric plea for empathy is an odd one. There is no refrain, per say, just a galloping synth beat adorned with tubular bells building towards a rousing, repetative finish.
Didn’t matter to me; I held constant vigile for the video, scampering into our mustard-colored TV room as soon as I heard those clanging bells.
Fast forward: December 23, 2006. I’m in my home studio brainstorming my annual online holiday single. ‘Hmm,’ I thought, ‘”Do They Know It’s Christmas” made for a genius encore at The Nadas’ Silent Night benefit concert in last year. Maybe I should call all of my New York City friends to record a version of our own.’
My watch read 11:23 pm. Christmas was mere hours away. Much as Casey, Chris or Jeff have my back,’ I thought, ‘There’s no way I’ll get ‘em out on Christmas Eve.’
And so it is that I rallied some fifteen or so local singer/songwriters/musicians to record our version this weekend. The “Family Records Holiday Album” aggregates the ideas behind “A Very Special Christmas” and “Do They Know It’s Christmas.” Fifteen local singer/songwriter/bands have contributed one holiday track each, plus our version of the Band Aid single. A music video will do online pre-press for a December release and performance. The entire thing will benefit 826NYC, a youth literacy program.
Chris Abad, Casey Shea, Tony Maceli, Ryan Vaughn and I met up at Travis Harrison’s Serious Business Studios in the heart of SoHo (Spring & Lafayette) as a hard rain began to fall Saturday morning. A few hours and many cups of coffee later, we had our basic track (drums, bass, acoustic guitar and scratch vocals). Langhorn Stoneburner Shea and Hot Rocks hostess Jenny Piston showed up with DV cams to begin shooting the music video. Casey — due to depart for London with the rest of Sundown, laid down his vocal. “It’s Christmas time,” he sang flawlessly in one take, “There’s no need to be afraid.”
And we were off.
Attorney’s guitarist John Wlaysewski showed up with bandmate William Ryan George and nailed a nuanced-but-powerful guitar part. Then Wakey! Wakey! frontman Mike Grubbs showed up and — between bites of veggie burger and fries — nailed the now-famous, completely memorable hook. Less than six hours in, the basic recording was done. We left the studio two hours ahead of schedule as dusk fell on Manhattan.
I spent the bulk of Sunday morning watching the video over and over on You Tube trying to assign the right parts to the right people (knowing already that a) Casey had already played the part of Paul Young, and I was laying claim to Bono’s big line). Travis, Chris, and I re-assembled at noon. The chorus, as it were, began to trickle in one by one: Wynn Walent, Tarrah Reynolds, Kailen Garrity, Seth Kallen, Jeff Jacobson, Misty Boyce, William Ryan George and John Wlaysewski (The Attorneys), George & Jess Jezel (El Jezel), Wes Verhoeve (Undisputed Heavyweights), plus Mike and Gene Adam (Wakey! Wakey!). We rehearsed along with the track a half-dozen times, then began knocking out individual parts.
Later that afternoon, as we stood crowded around a single, omni-directional Neumann microphone drinking 20 ounce Budweissers, I laughed at Chris and Jenny (who have been staunch supporters from the start). “We did it!” I mouthed silently between “Feed the world!” and “Let them know it’s Christmas time!!!”
We did it.
And it sounds totally freakin’ bad ass.
Wait ’til you hear it.
Like a thirteen-year-old in a dusty record store, you’ll believe in blind optimism all over again.
Wakey! Wakey!
Just after midnight. Back of a cab. Houston & West Broadway.
Years and years ago I walked this same cross street with an ex. I remember it well. It was deep winter. The sky was grey like concrete. It was bitter cold. See your breath, break your bones, bitter cold. I don’t think was the cold, or the scenery, but we broke up shrtly thereafter.
I’m on Sixth and 8th Street now. And I’m burying the lede.
I just saw one of the most exciting show of the last ten years of late-night, beer-soaked, New York City small-stage shows: Wakey! Wakey!
Holy shit!!! As I wrote for MTV News’ citizen journalism site You R Here:
I love this guy! He claps to the beat of his own songs! Who (un-ironically) claps anymore!?!
Floppy hair? Check.
High cheek bones? Check.
Dress shirt under t-shirt? Check.
Ironic tie? Check.
Esoteric, multi-ethnic band? Check.
Witty, self-depricating banter with adorable bassist? Check.
AND the dude plays piano! And hits the money notes! With grace and style and theatrical flair! Who’s the last guy you can think of who nails that criteria? And who sings — convincingly AND melodically — lyrics like “What will your legacy be?”
Wakey! Wakey! (otherwise known as Mike Grubs), Ladies and Gentlemen.
In a word: Wow. Ear to ear smiles. Seriously good stuff. And good dude. Get thee to his next show (next Thursday at Rockwood Music Hall). Trust me.
Everyone was there: Ken Rockwood (The Owner), Tommy (The Booker), Casey, Wes and Andy from Sundown (who are on their way to London for ten days, though Casey’ll be back to rock Abbi and my wedding), my pals Tony and Ryan (fast becoming the most sought after rhythm section in New York), plus a who’s who of local singer/songwriters: Wynn Walent, Kyle Irvin, Paula Vallstein. Wow. Talented room.
Still, for me, it was all about Wakey! Wakey!
Too Much Time On My Hands (And It’s Ticking Away)
Thank goodness for my Blackberry.
Lately, I’m wedging wedding, documentary, and rock show planning into every square inch of my day. Much as I hate to be that guy, I’m rockin’ my Blackberry Curve in elevators, cabs, and even one-handed on the street.
Heck, I’m blogging from it in my boxers now (Abbi’s on the PowerBook doing registry stuff — stemware: wohoo!).
My musician pals (Casey Shea, Chris Abad, Tony Maceli, Ryan Vaughn) are getting hammered with email.
They’re all key participants (stars, you might say) in the wedding (which is sixteen days away). Chris is performing solo in the ceremony, then all five of them are performing Abbi and my first dance. Later, Casey will helm a few dance classics before we all join the kick ass wedding band, Mo’ Soul, for an all-star jam.
We’re rehearsing tonight for our all-star benefit cover of “Do They Know It’s Christmas” for the “Family Records Holiday Album” that Wes Verhoeve and I are putting together.
In addition to the guys, Tarrah Reynolds, Seth Kallen, Wynn Walent, Jeff Jacobson, El Jezel, Flying Machines (formerly The Attorneys), Misty Boyce, Leroy Justice and Undisputed Heavyweights are recording at Travis Harrison’s Serious Business Studios this weekend.
My pals Jenny Piston (who hosts the Hot Rocks dance party at The Rivington and has been a huge help on this project) and Langhorn Shea (yes, Mrs. Casey Shea) are shooting and editing a music video.
We’re releasing the CD — which, in addition to the cover will feature a holiday song from each of us — in December. It will benefit 826 NYC, David Eggers’ youth literacy organization.
Speaking of 826, I’m still working with the immensly lovely and talented Jennifer Snow to book a visit to 826 for the doc. We hope to speak with her (who was in no small part inspired by Mister Rogers), some of her colleagues and kids, and maybe even longtime supporter and puiblic radio star, Amy Vowell.
So there’s that.
But first, my new pal Davy Rothbart is in town with his Found Magazine “There Goes The Neighborhood” tour. So we’re trying to work out some camera time for tomorrow night (plus see the show!), in addition to planning a collective soujourn to Pittsburgh in November.
Finally, Buckeye returns to the Knitting Factory for a Halloween show on October 27. Luckily, Chris Abad’s been helming that. Unluckily, the show is just five days after Abbi and I return from our honeymoon.
Oh yeah! The honeymoon! I still need to get insurance, book seats, reserve dive times (Maldives, baby!), and plan a day trip in Dubai! Snap.
Plus I still need dress shoes, a belt, an entire “casual” outfit for the rehearsal dinner, and gifts for the groomsmen, ushers and band. (And goodness knows what else I need to do that I don’t know I need to do.)
And did I mention I have a day job? One with two major events in the next ten days? One of which features Bono?
Mike Lazaridis, I solute you, sir.
Breckenridge, Colorado
September 17th, 2007
Time Spent
With the possible exception of “strong language” and “excessive flatulence,” I’m pretty sure the MPAA would have bestowed a lowly PG-13 rating upon my bachelor party (dubbed “Benjamin’s Breckenridge Weekend” on the custom beer coozies my father brought) at worst.
Not that we caught the four day adventure on film (though there is some photographic evidence, or had any intention of a theatrical release.
And not that I would have had it any other way. I’ve never understood the appeal of the traditional bachelor party, you know: seedy strip clubs, black out binge drinking. Nah, I wanted something a little bit different. Perhaps not surprisignly, I wanted something a little more substantive.
And so it is that my brother, father, and nine of my closest friends and family members descended on a three-level, six-bedroom, six bathroom, two hot tub, one steam room and one pool table chalet some ten thousand feet above and two thousand miles west of New York.
I didn’t simply want to drink beer, play golf and grill steak (though all three were featured on the agenda), I wanted to celebrate the men that (as Mister Rogers would say) “loved me into being.”
Hence the attendee list comprised of the twelve men who have most contributed to the man that I am.
The Father, David Wagner (aka “Big Dave,” “Big Daddy Wags,” “Pops”). Many fathers, when confronted with the geographic divide sometimes the result of custody arrangements, might have simply said “The hell with ‘em.” My father, though — already a strong presence as baseball coach, go cart mechanic and frequent chauffeur, and, at the time of The Divorce, younger than I am now — spent his weekend driving three thousand miles round trip between Indianapolis and Philadelphia to be with Chris and me. He has been a constant, collaborative, compassionate presence throughout.
The Brother, Christofer (aka “Chris,” “Wags”). What to say about my elder (key word: elder) brother? He likes to play and to party, but in the middle of it all will turn his head a little bit, squint his eyes, purse his lips and ask the hard questions. He is my unwavering and unflappable best friend.
The Uncles: Stan (aka “Big Stan,” “Fat Boy”) & Jim Wagner (aka “Jimbo”). My father’s elder and younger brothers, respectively, these two have been constant and consistent companions in Wagner Brother Adventures from riding our bikes across Iowa to white water rafting. They’re amiable, loveable, loving, and full of more than just a little bit of good natured shit.
The Rock-N-Roll Cousin, Andrew Wagner (aka “Andy,”"Drew”). Drew, the eldest of the Wagner cousins, has been roped into more than one Wagner Brother adventure including an ill-fated attempt to summit New York State’s second highest summit with nothing but three sleeping bags and a six pack of beer. Moreover, though, he is a sweet, sensitive and serious singer/songwriter.
Over-Worked & Under-Slept Corporate Cousin, Brian Bolster. It’s a miracle Bri made our humble affair as he typically spends his time jet setting between Dallas, Dubai and Dusseldorf while tending to his adorable family (who live three blocks north of Abbi and me, but who we’ve seen once in six months).
The Father-In-Law, Richard Keller. Let’s be honest, it took stones for Richard travel 2000 miles into the beer-soaked belly of the beast. If “showing up” is 9/10 of life (and I think it is), he’s got it down.
The Social Chair, Sibby Browne (aka “Sib,” “Sabbo,” “Snib Dog” and many, many more). I met Sibby on in the back of a big yellow school bus on my first day of sixth grade. Chris and I call him “The Third Wagner Brother.” First to the party, last to leave, and most-likely to raise the bar and push the envelope.
The Rogue Agent, James Degus (aka “Dreegs,” “Jimmy Dean”). Perhaps the “high school friend” with whom I share the most in common as an adult, James is the rare Hollywood executive with heart.
The Mad Scientist, John Larkin (aka “Dirt,” “Larks”). An early ally in my more, um, psychadelic experimentation, Jon — a husband of ten years and father of two — has cleaned up nicely (though he’s still prone to foist an American Spirit and shot of Milagro Tequila on an unwitting — and unwaveringly abstenant — victim in the wee hours of a Saturday night), and remained constantly cool.
The Legal Eagle, Rob Perreault (aka “Rockin’ Robbie P”). Though I spent three years in Smokey Junglefrog with his younger brother, the intervening years have found Rob and me strumming guitars and waxing poetic from Aruba to Nashua to Nantucket and beyond.
The Singer/Songwriter, Chris Abad (aka “CJ,” “Ceej”). An absurdly talented musician and a master of the beer pong table, Chris is solid, sensitive, smart and game for anything.
Though the destination seemed inconvenient and odd to many, we picked Breckenridge for good reason. We wanted somewhere naturally beautiful with lots of things to do (or nothing to do, if one so chose). And we wanted somewhere that felt removed from the hustle and bustle of our everyday lives.
Moreover, though, Colorado has always held a special place in my heart. The mountains have awed me since my father first hiked Chris and I into the Holy Cross Wilderness in 1980. Years later, Stan baught me my first microbrew at Breckenridge Brew Pub. The following summer, I moved to Telluride to pump gas, write songs, and mountain bike. Years later, I spent a long weekend at 13,000 feet contemplating a potential future at MTV. Flash forward eleven years…
It’s Friday night. Twelve of the most important dudes in my life — many from completely different places and stages — are jammed around the dinning room table. Sibby’s laughing with Uncle Stan. James is rappin’ with Rob. Richard’s nodding at something Brian just said. And my mind’s kinda blown with all of the odd, asynchronous intersections.
Christofer leans in and says, “This is all for you.”
And while, intellectually — playing golf, shooting pool, simmering in the hot tub — I knew it was all for me, somehow, I felt outside of it all. Maybe it was the elevation, or the juxtaposition of dudes from disperate life phases, or maybe it was the sheer quantity of barley and hops. Whatever it was, I often found myself feeling like a witness or spectator marvelling at the Breakfast Club full of guys.
‘In the simplest terms and most convenient definitions,’ I kept thinking, ‘We’re all brains, athletes, basket cases, criminals and princes.”
Thus, somehow making me an over-worked, under-slept, beer swilling, big question-asking, rogue agent, corporate singer/songwriter.
***
Sunday afternoon, with nearly everyone en route to their regularly scheduled lives, Christofer, Sibby and I resolved to summit the peak behind our rental. The mountain lacked a proper hiking trail, so we pointed ourselves straight up the mountain.
Ominous gray clouds began to slither around the peaks to our southwest. Soon, low, rumbling thunder was competitng with the sound of the wind through the aspen, the rattle of my breath, and the thud of my heartbeat.
Like so many times before, the three of us pressed onward making slow, steady, and hard-earned progress by setting periodic goals just beyong our view.
Our calves were burning and lungs were heaving and we stumbled into a warming hut well above the tree line. An icey drizzle was whipping our faces as we posed there some 12,000 feet above it all beaming ear-to-ear.
“Like so many things we’ve done together,” I said as thick black clouds obscured Mount Baldy across the valley, “This was probably a little bit foolhearty.”
“But I’m awefully glad we did it.”
***
I’m back in New York City now, sitting on my Hell’s Kitchen patio with a pint of Harp and a brand-new New York Magazine. My back is sore from two dozen bungled drives. My quads are burning still from the ascent. But the air here at sea level is sweet and thick like honey.
I am as puzzled as ever as to just exactly who my friends and family loved into being, but I am grateful for each and every one of them, their influence, and their being there.
And I can’t wait for Abbigail to get home.
