Here are some more clips from our first few sessions:
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
Open Letter to the Baptists I met on Ebay
Narratives:
Strangers
I smiled and welcomed you into my house when you arrived 70 minutes late for our meeting, ruining any chance of me making it to the goodbye dinner Dena and Brendan cooked for me. Lost a few miles from my house, you called to ask me for directions, and then talked over my responses, while I repeatedly tried to ascertain exactly what your location was so that I could google it for you.
I answered you honestly and candidly when you, a guest in my house, asked me, a complete stranger, what my relationship with God was. I told you that I consider myself a very spiritual person, and a very religious-less person. When I started to explain what that meant to me, you interrupted to tell me that you considered yourself the same thing. You told me that your Baptist Church had it's own sort of charter, and was considered a bit "renegade" by Baptists standards. Perhaps you thought I would be drawn to the rebel aspect, since I play the synthesizer.
When you asked me if I believed the Bible was true, I told you that the question did not make sense to me. Were you asking me if the stories inside were factual? Were you asking if the authors were real people? Were you asking if the parables inside were relevant to my life? Were you asking if the actual paper it was printed on would withstand abuse?
"Ok, ok, do you believe it is the word of God?" you asked, wanting to hurry through this question so that you could tell me that it was indeed the word of God.
"Are you asking me if I believe God literally put pen to page? No, I don't. I believe it was written by men. Do I believe they were inspired? Yes. I believe they were great thinkers, great philosophers, " I answered.
"Well, we believe it is the one true word of God," you volleyed.
"Cool," I offered.
I answered you honestly and candidly when you asked me what my relationship with Jesus Christ is. I listened when you interrupted my answer to explain how important it is, in regards to my salvation, that I recognize him as my personal savior (as opposed to maybe a more general, masses-serving savior?). I listened when you explained how important it is to recognize him as one of the Trinity, but a God unto himself, as opposed to the Mormon belief that he is one of the Trinity but the son of a God, with somewhat Godlike powers. You also wanted me to know how important it is that he is the ONLY son of God, instead of the Mormon belief that he is one of many children of God.
When I asked you if recognizing him as a God instead of the son of a God makes you behave any differently, you balked.
When I asked you why anyone would spend time debating such a thing, when it was Christ's behavior and philosophy we are interested in emulating and not his stature, you answered, with your eyes cast down to my floor (where perhaps you expected to find my spiritual intellect) and an all-knowing smirk played out on your loveless-lips, in a falsely-sympathetic and well-rehearsed tone that Christ would never use,
"It's like love: you couldn't really understand what it's like to have a loving relationship with Jesus Christ until you actually have one... as we do."
You used "we" as an exclusive term, instead of an inclusive one. You used it to give your argument weight.
Seeing the conditions I was living in (or actually, moving out of), you assumed I was single and so strongly suggested that I drive to Londonberry, NH on Sunday morning to find a wife amongst your "eighteen or nineteen really really cute girls." You assured me that many people have found their matches in your congregation. When I suggested it was a bit far to drive to flirt with some girls, you assured me that they were very physically attractive and also kind girls.
I answered you honestly and candidly when you asked me if I'd ever read the bible. I told you, "Never in its entirety. When I was a teen we were forced to read it every morning at 6am before school, and that kind of education does not promote an open mind in a teenager." You challenged me to read it in full.
It is strange and presumptuous to challenge someone you don't know to spend many many many hours reading a book that they've expressed no interest in reading. I thought that perhaps I should challenge you to get really good at the bass guitar.
Despite me having just told you that I was not well versed in regards to the Bible, you proceeded to quote scripture often throughout the remainder of our conversation, like this:
"Well, you know in Matthew it says... "
and
"Well, of course Joshua said..."
You did this so that I would feel uneducated and so that you would feel authoritative. You seemed unable to offer any of your own perspectives on things, only those of men circa 600 BCE. The conversation went like this:
1) I tell you how I feel
2) you tell me how Isaiah feels.
It did not occur to you that if I did not recognize the Bible as the end-all be-all of information then these assertions you were making hold little water with me. This paradox seemed to have escaped you, since you continued to reiterate scripture for over an hour. It is strange for one who is in charge of a congregation to be so unaware of his/her audience.
Jesus listened, that's why people loved him. And his actions were louder than any words you or anyone else want to put in his mouth. Despite your repeated readings and citations of the One-Book-in-your-life, you have learned neither of these things about your savior, and that's why I want you to know you are soiling his name. Next time, take the keyboard, give me the cash, and leave your proselytizing at home.
I answered you honestly and candidly when you, a guest in my house, asked me, a complete stranger, what my relationship with God was. I told you that I consider myself a very spiritual person, and a very religious-less person. When I started to explain what that meant to me, you interrupted to tell me that you considered yourself the same thing. You told me that your Baptist Church had it's own sort of charter, and was considered a bit "renegade" by Baptists standards. Perhaps you thought I would be drawn to the rebel aspect, since I play the synthesizer.
When you asked me if I believed the Bible was true, I told you that the question did not make sense to me. Were you asking me if the stories inside were factual? Were you asking if the authors were real people? Were you asking if the parables inside were relevant to my life? Were you asking if the actual paper it was printed on would withstand abuse?
"Ok, ok, do you believe it is the word of God?" you asked, wanting to hurry through this question so that you could tell me that it was indeed the word of God.
"Are you asking me if I believe God literally put pen to page? No, I don't. I believe it was written by men. Do I believe they were inspired? Yes. I believe they were great thinkers, great philosophers, " I answered.
"Well, we believe it is the one true word of God," you volleyed.
"Cool," I offered.
I answered you honestly and candidly when you asked me what my relationship with Jesus Christ is. I listened when you interrupted my answer to explain how important it is, in regards to my salvation, that I recognize him as my personal savior (as opposed to maybe a more general, masses-serving savior?). I listened when you explained how important it is to recognize him as one of the Trinity, but a God unto himself, as opposed to the Mormon belief that he is one of the Trinity but the son of a God, with somewhat Godlike powers. You also wanted me to know how important it is that he is the ONLY son of God, instead of the Mormon belief that he is one of many children of God.
When I asked you if recognizing him as a God instead of the son of a God makes you behave any differently, you balked.
When I asked you why anyone would spend time debating such a thing, when it was Christ's behavior and philosophy we are interested in emulating and not his stature, you answered, with your eyes cast down to my floor (where perhaps you expected to find my spiritual intellect) and an all-knowing smirk played out on your loveless-lips, in a falsely-sympathetic and well-rehearsed tone that Christ would never use,
"It's like love: you couldn't really understand what it's like to have a loving relationship with Jesus Christ until you actually have one... as we do."
You used "we" as an exclusive term, instead of an inclusive one. You used it to give your argument weight.
Seeing the conditions I was living in (or actually, moving out of), you assumed I was single and so strongly suggested that I drive to Londonberry, NH on Sunday morning to find a wife amongst your "eighteen or nineteen really really cute girls." You assured me that many people have found their matches in your congregation. When I suggested it was a bit far to drive to flirt with some girls, you assured me that they were very physically attractive and also kind girls.
I answered you honestly and candidly when you asked me if I'd ever read the bible. I told you, "Never in its entirety. When I was a teen we were forced to read it every morning at 6am before school, and that kind of education does not promote an open mind in a teenager." You challenged me to read it in full.
It is strange and presumptuous to challenge someone you don't know to spend many many many hours reading a book that they've expressed no interest in reading. I thought that perhaps I should challenge you to get really good at the bass guitar.
Despite me having just told you that I was not well versed in regards to the Bible, you proceeded to quote scripture often throughout the remainder of our conversation, like this:
"Well, you know in Matthew it says... "
and
"Well, of course Joshua said..."
You did this so that I would feel uneducated and so that you would feel authoritative. You seemed unable to offer any of your own perspectives on things, only those of men circa 600 BCE. The conversation went like this:
1) I tell you how I feel
2) you tell me how Isaiah feels.
It did not occur to you that if I did not recognize the Bible as the end-all be-all of information then these assertions you were making hold little water with me. This paradox seemed to have escaped you, since you continued to reiterate scripture for over an hour. It is strange for one who is in charge of a congregation to be so unaware of his/her audience.
Jesus listened, that's why people loved him. And his actions were louder than any words you or anyone else want to put in his mouth. Despite your repeated readings and citations of the One-Book-in-your-life, you have learned neither of these things about your savior, and that's why I want you to know you are soiling his name. Next time, take the keyboard, give me the cash, and leave your proselytizing at home.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
06-27-2026: Protest In These Modern Times
Narratives:
A Bullet A Lever A Key,
Audio and Video
I've been sitting here trying to figure out exactly when weddings started to feel like funerals to me. Some of my fondest memories happened at weddings: Dave's wedding (when the surprise rain finally let up and he said to his pensive entourage "LET'S DO THIS BITCH"), Rich's wedding (at which Brendan slammed his own face in the cake for no understandable reason), and more recently, Jay's wedding (which featured a nine-piece cocktail band that allowed me to sit in for Burt Bacharach's smash hit "Close to You," to a frenzied albeit heavily-inebriated audience). Now that I think of it, I guess my biggest indicator should be that I didn't list my own wedding in there... Is that when it switched?
It wasn't like it was a bad experience or something; in fact it went exactly as Sarah planned it. We didn't go with my ice cream cake-shaped-like-a-Beluga whale idea, I remember being put off by that. But it was a tacky idea, I know. Come to think of it, I do remember being disappointed about how quickly she dismissed my original concept/theme, Sidelined Superhero. In that scenario, our wedding would be held at a beach, everything breezy and gentle. Most of the food would be shrimp-based. All of my family members who were allowed to attend my sisters' weddings in the temple (while I waited outside, as I am not a practicing Mormon) would be given superhero costumes and led to a roped off area on the beach about fifty yards from the actual ceremony. Most of the vows would be inaudible, I know, but if they couldn't join in the joyous celebration directly, at least they could take turns saving the world (within the confines of the velvet rope). I know it sounds bitter. I'm not bitter. Really, I'm not.
We danced, and danced and stuffed ourselves with Empanadas (my idea). But there was a nearly insurmountable inertia to it that I thought would end with the words "I do." And here I am, sitting at my sister-in-law's wedding and I have that same knot in my lungs that pinched me in 2013. Maybe not so much a knot as a boulder.
Perhaps I've had too much to drink. Sarah told me as much when she told me to "sit down for a while." The daggerlooks from my father-in-law would certainly support that theory, but then Papa August has been wearing the screwface ever since he was diagnosed with brain cancer four months ago. Hell, maybe it's the look of collusion; he seems as unconvinced of his daughter's holy matrimony as I am. I don't know why I'm so pessimistic about them - I've never even met the groom. I'm probably drunk.
I was content before, with our little dance party in the other room: Chris, Zo and I. Both of my kids have surprisingly adult rhythm for their ages, and I guess I'm a little proud of that, since I consider it my major contribution to their genetic makeup. Zo was doing some sort of neck thing that she must have learned from school when Sarah came in and told me I should sit down for a while. I should have known - I probably looked more happy than I've looked in years and you know she can't abide that! I went for broke, asking her to join us but she said that people were staring and that this was the kids' room. I went to the bathroom instead (this is what protest looks like, at this point... I takes m' time sitting down when she tells me to sit!) and wiped down my face in the mirror. I haven't seen my face in years, I think. All my features seem to be fleeing from my nose. My hair has been cowering back by my ears for years, but now I can see the explosive expressions I used to wear cutting a deeply-grooved retreat to the back of my head. I look older than my father, maybe. I must be drunk.
Sarah bangs on the door, tells me there's a strange man dancing "inappropriately" with our kids. At first I think she is being facetious, and I don't respond (so rebellious!). But then she insists that I come "do something about it." I'm annoyed. I ask her what exactly is so inappropriate about dancing with kids, but she doesn't acknowledge the defensiveness in my voice, she instead tells me that he had his hands "all over Zoey!"
I towel off my face, and just before I turn to go back to her world, I see a trace of anger work it's way back towards the front of me.
Grace Land (2006) - The Rooster And the Matador
It wasn't like it was a bad experience or something; in fact it went exactly as Sarah planned it. We didn't go with my ice cream cake-shaped-like-a-Beluga whale idea, I remember being put off by that. But it was a tacky idea, I know. Come to think of it, I do remember being disappointed about how quickly she dismissed my original concept/theme, Sidelined Superhero. In that scenario, our wedding would be held at a beach, everything breezy and gentle. Most of the food would be shrimp-based. All of my family members who were allowed to attend my sisters' weddings in the temple (while I waited outside, as I am not a practicing Mormon) would be given superhero costumes and led to a roped off area on the beach about fifty yards from the actual ceremony. Most of the vows would be inaudible, I know, but if they couldn't join in the joyous celebration directly, at least they could take turns saving the world (within the confines of the velvet rope). I know it sounds bitter. I'm not bitter. Really, I'm not.
We danced, and danced and stuffed ourselves with Empanadas (my idea). But there was a nearly insurmountable inertia to it that I thought would end with the words "I do." And here I am, sitting at my sister-in-law's wedding and I have that same knot in my lungs that pinched me in 2013. Maybe not so much a knot as a boulder.
Perhaps I've had too much to drink. Sarah told me as much when she told me to "sit down for a while." The daggerlooks from my father-in-law would certainly support that theory, but then Papa August has been wearing the screwface ever since he was diagnosed with brain cancer four months ago. Hell, maybe it's the look of collusion; he seems as unconvinced of his daughter's holy matrimony as I am. I don't know why I'm so pessimistic about them - I've never even met the groom. I'm probably drunk.
I was content before, with our little dance party in the other room: Chris, Zo and I. Both of my kids have surprisingly adult rhythm for their ages, and I guess I'm a little proud of that, since I consider it my major contribution to their genetic makeup. Zo was doing some sort of neck thing that she must have learned from school when Sarah came in and told me I should sit down for a while. I should have known - I probably looked more happy than I've looked in years and you know she can't abide that! I went for broke, asking her to join us but she said that people were staring and that this was the kids' room. I went to the bathroom instead (this is what protest looks like, at this point... I takes m' time sitting down when she tells me to sit!) and wiped down my face in the mirror. I haven't seen my face in years, I think. All my features seem to be fleeing from my nose. My hair has been cowering back by my ears for years, but now I can see the explosive expressions I used to wear cutting a deeply-grooved retreat to the back of my head. I look older than my father, maybe. I must be drunk.
Sarah bangs on the door, tells me there's a strange man dancing "inappropriately" with our kids. At first I think she is being facetious, and I don't respond (so rebellious!). But then she insists that I come "do something about it." I'm annoyed. I ask her what exactly is so inappropriate about dancing with kids, but she doesn't acknowledge the defensiveness in my voice, she instead tells me that he had his hands "all over Zoey!"
I towel off my face, and just before I turn to go back to her world, I see a trace of anger work it's way back towards the front of me.
Grace Land (2006) - The Rooster And the Matador
Friday, May 16, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Day 10-11: Flute, Percussion, French Horn, Double Bass
Narratives:
Audio and Video,
Home
This past weekend I did the last of my sessions with hired musician. Here are some moments:
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Day 9: String Sessions
Narratives:
Audio and Video,
Home
On Friday Rob Pemberton and I had the good pleasure of recording strings at Zippah Studios in Boston, MA. Cellist Jeremy Harman, violist Russell Wilson, and violinist Fung Chern Whei toiled for 10 hour straight to complete the 10 tracks that feature a quartet (double bass is being recorded in a separate session). It was a small miracle that we got through all the charts, and I didn't get nearly as much footage as I would've liked (many of the takes on this video are not the final takes), but all said and done it was a very satisfying experience. They played beautifully.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Nick
Narratives:
Strangers
I was taking this English teacher to school (hohoho) on the air hockey table at Dave & Busters one night. Things were tense: we were two and two in a five match set. The Red Sox were on the overhead TVs, winning game whatever of the World Whatever and this English teacher is one of those people that says "we" when she refers to the Sox, so she was having a hard time concentrating on reality long enough to support the obscene amount of boasting she'd done prior to the game. Being attached to a teacher, her arms had never been subjected to anything as rigorous as [my] professional air hockey, and by the time I slammed the 7th goal, they were spasming this way and that in a frantic poultry-esque fashion.
The drive home was dry to say the least. Like any caring educator, I kept trying to review the shortcomings in her game that had brought her to this embarrassing outcome, but she didn't want to grow from the experience. I imagine she was also agitated that each of the Sox's points was scored in sync with one of mine, so oftentimes it was unclear whether the entire D&Bs was erupting over my acrobatic performance or the Sox's (I made sure to thank the crowd graciously, just to be sure).
When we arrived at my house, which is situated on a long winding old-towny road with no sidewalk, there was a baggily-dressed youth ambling around the dirt patch that used to be my front lawn. As we got out of my car, he approached, calling me "sir" and explaining his situation. I braced myself for an abdominal wound, but he appeared unarmed and unconventionally honest:
"I was at this party, and I got real drunk... I had to leave. Can y’all give me a ride home?"
This was one of those times in my life where I recognize the response conventional wisdom would prompt one to give and then immediately contradict it: "Sure, hop in."
Not two minutes into the drive, Nick started bragging about the oodles of money he was making selling cocaine. He took my response ("Cool, man") as a vote of disbelief and began to spill money and contraband onto the back seat. He told us that he’d opted not to leave the party with his friends because “shit was going to go down.”
"That was smart," said the English teacher.
Possibly thinking intelligence a sign of weakness, he digressed, "I ain't afraid of that shit. I do what I have to do in Pawtucket. Shit is crazy. My uncle shot a dude in front of me when I was fourteen so I would know what the deal."
"That's awful," said the English teacher.
"We don't fuck around in Pawtucket."
"Hey Nick, where am I taking you?" I asked.
"You don't know where I'm going, man?"
"No, you said you were headed to Pawtucket, but where in Pawtucket?"
"You live in Pawtucket?"
"No, Nick. You were just at my house remember? We were in Lincoln...we're going to Pawtucket now but I need to know where you want me to leave you."
"Oh, maaaaaan. You know Delicious?"
"No. I don't know who that is. Is that where you want to go? Can you call and ask his address?"
"Ay, yo," he said to the teacher, "Is he ya man?"
"Nick," she replies, "We're trying to help you but you've got to tell us where you live."
He leaned forward to whisper something lewd in my ear, but ended up kind of licking it instead and I jerked my head forward. "What are you doing?!"
Disoriented, "Did y'all take my phone? Where's my muthafuckin phone?!"
"Nick, I've been driving. How would I take your phone?"
"You sure you didn't take my phone?" I expected to feel the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head, but it didn’t come. This could be that snap moment that comes with certain coke-heads and drunkards when they suddenly and inexplicably turn violent.
"Look, Nick. You asked me for a ride, and I'm happy to help. But you've got to figure out where you want to go."
"Ay-yo, don't be mad, son. I ain't mean nothing. Don't be mad. Don't hate."
"I don't hate, Nick, I'm just tired. We gotta get back home, and you're not helping."
"Oh, aight. I got you. Y’all in a rush. Y'all want money? I got shit loads. Here's a hundred." He attempted to pass forward a hundred dollar bill.
"Nick, I don't want your money, it's not like that. Look, you gotta call someone and get directions."
“Give me your phone. Yous got a phone?”
I lied, “I don’t have a phone. We’ll stop at this pay phone and you can call a friend.”
I pulled over a few feet away from a pay phone and gave him a quarter. At this point, the entire illegal contents of his pockets were scattered across my back seat and his nose was dripping brown stuff.
"Yo, y'all took my phone!"
"NICK, WE DID NOT TAKE YOUR PHONE. HERE'S A QUARTER. MAKE THE CALL."
"Hey, you guys need some weed?" he pushed a baggie towards the rear view mirror where my eyes were narrowing.
Things were beyond awkward. His door was ajar but aside from one foot on the pavement, he was otherwised planted in the car. We could taste escape but this was starting to resemble the scene in the movie where the girl escapes the mass murderer, flags down the car, and realizes that the driver is the murderer’s inbred brother.
"Nick, we don't need any weed. We need you to make this call." We didn't talk about it, but it was understood that we would peel out of there the minute he was out of the car. He must've known how bad we wanted him out. He was finding every excuse to delay the departure.
"Don't be mad."
"I'm not mad."
"Whose wallet dis?"
"That's your wallet, Nick."
"Aight. Y'all hate me now."
"Nick, please just take the quarter and call your friend."
"I don't need y'all's money. I'm making...two Gs a week! Fuck y'all's money!"
After what may have been twenty minutes, he stumbled out of the car, coins and lighters spilling out onto the street, cash everywhere, his jacket dipping into a puddle. Once he had lurched ten feet towards the phone booth, we u-turned and hightailed it back to my house. The ride home was eerily silent. When we got back, I apologized to the English teacher for putting her life in danger on our first date. She said it had been "interesting" and sped off in her little teacher car.
The next morning I found Nick's Boost phone in my back seat. I searched through the contacts for a "mom" or "dad" or "Delicious." Though there were plenty of exotic female names, none seemed promising. There was, however, a number for The Cadillac Lounge, one of the grimier strip clubs in RI. The solution was obvious.
I drove to the Cadillac Lounge at about two in the afternoon (an experience I cannot describe without violent hand gestures) and left his phone with a reluctant bouncer. I assured him that Nick would be by to pick it up shortly, as I had laboriously texted everyone in his contact list the following message:
"Nick left his phone at the Cadillac Lounge. Please tell him to come get it."
The drive home was dry to say the least. Like any caring educator, I kept trying to review the shortcomings in her game that had brought her to this embarrassing outcome, but she didn't want to grow from the experience. I imagine she was also agitated that each of the Sox's points was scored in sync with one of mine, so oftentimes it was unclear whether the entire D&Bs was erupting over my acrobatic performance or the Sox's (I made sure to thank the crowd graciously, just to be sure).
When we arrived at my house, which is situated on a long winding old-towny road with no sidewalk, there was a baggily-dressed youth ambling around the dirt patch that used to be my front lawn. As we got out of my car, he approached, calling me "sir" and explaining his situation. I braced myself for an abdominal wound, but he appeared unarmed and unconventionally honest:
"I was at this party, and I got real drunk... I had to leave. Can y’all give me a ride home?"
This was one of those times in my life where I recognize the response conventional wisdom would prompt one to give and then immediately contradict it: "Sure, hop in."
Not two minutes into the drive, Nick started bragging about the oodles of money he was making selling cocaine. He took my response ("Cool, man") as a vote of disbelief and began to spill money and contraband onto the back seat. He told us that he’d opted not to leave the party with his friends because “shit was going to go down.”
"That was smart," said the English teacher.
Possibly thinking intelligence a sign of weakness, he digressed, "I ain't afraid of that shit. I do what I have to do in Pawtucket. Shit is crazy. My uncle shot a dude in front of me when I was fourteen so I would know what the deal."
"That's awful," said the English teacher.
"We don't fuck around in Pawtucket."
"Hey Nick, where am I taking you?" I asked.
"You don't know where I'm going, man?"
"No, you said you were headed to Pawtucket, but where in Pawtucket?"
"You live in Pawtucket?"
"No, Nick. You were just at my house remember? We were in Lincoln...we're going to Pawtucket now but I need to know where you want me to leave you."
"Oh, maaaaaan. You know Delicious?"
"No. I don't know who that is. Is that where you want to go? Can you call and ask his address?"
"Ay, yo," he said to the teacher, "Is he ya man?"
"Nick," she replies, "We're trying to help you but you've got to tell us where you live."
He leaned forward to whisper something lewd in my ear, but ended up kind of licking it instead and I jerked my head forward. "What are you doing?!"
Disoriented, "Did y'all take my phone? Where's my muthafuckin phone?!"
"Nick, I've been driving. How would I take your phone?"
"You sure you didn't take my phone?" I expected to feel the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head, but it didn’t come. This could be that snap moment that comes with certain coke-heads and drunkards when they suddenly and inexplicably turn violent.
"Look, Nick. You asked me for a ride, and I'm happy to help. But you've got to figure out where you want to go."
"Ay-yo, don't be mad, son. I ain't mean nothing. Don't be mad. Don't hate."
"I don't hate, Nick, I'm just tired. We gotta get back home, and you're not helping."
"Oh, aight. I got you. Y’all in a rush. Y'all want money? I got shit loads. Here's a hundred." He attempted to pass forward a hundred dollar bill.
"Nick, I don't want your money, it's not like that. Look, you gotta call someone and get directions."
“Give me your phone. Yous got a phone?”
I lied, “I don’t have a phone. We’ll stop at this pay phone and you can call a friend.”
I pulled over a few feet away from a pay phone and gave him a quarter. At this point, the entire illegal contents of his pockets were scattered across my back seat and his nose was dripping brown stuff.
"Yo, y'all took my phone!"
"NICK, WE DID NOT TAKE YOUR PHONE. HERE'S A QUARTER. MAKE THE CALL."
"Hey, you guys need some weed?" he pushed a baggie towards the rear view mirror where my eyes were narrowing.
Things were beyond awkward. His door was ajar but aside from one foot on the pavement, he was otherwised planted in the car. We could taste escape but this was starting to resemble the scene in the movie where the girl escapes the mass murderer, flags down the car, and realizes that the driver is the murderer’s inbred brother.
"Nick, we don't need any weed. We need you to make this call." We didn't talk about it, but it was understood that we would peel out of there the minute he was out of the car. He must've known how bad we wanted him out. He was finding every excuse to delay the departure.
"Don't be mad."
"I'm not mad."
"Whose wallet dis?"
"That's your wallet, Nick."
"Aight. Y'all hate me now."
"Nick, please just take the quarter and call your friend."
"I don't need y'all's money. I'm making...two Gs a week! Fuck y'all's money!"
After what may have been twenty minutes, he stumbled out of the car, coins and lighters spilling out onto the street, cash everywhere, his jacket dipping into a puddle. Once he had lurched ten feet towards the phone booth, we u-turned and hightailed it back to my house. The ride home was eerily silent. When we got back, I apologized to the English teacher for putting her life in danger on our first date. She said it had been "interesting" and sped off in her little teacher car.
The next morning I found Nick's Boost phone in my back seat. I searched through the contacts for a "mom" or "dad" or "Delicious." Though there were plenty of exotic female names, none seemed promising. There was, however, a number for The Cadillac Lounge, one of the grimier strip clubs in RI. The solution was obvious.
I drove to the Cadillac Lounge at about two in the afternoon (an experience I cannot describe without violent hand gestures) and left his phone with a reluctant bouncer. I assured him that Nick would be by to pick it up shortly, as I had laboriously texted everyone in his contact list the following message:
"Nick left his phone at the Cadillac Lounge. Please tell him to come get it."
Friday, May 2, 2008
05-02-2022: The Perfect Day
Narratives:
A Bullet A Lever A Key
I had a perfect day on Friday. Perfect Days are quite rare - the last I remember having one was November 15th, 2013, two days into our honeymoon in Phuket (I'd spent the morning feeding monkeys, the afternoon eating Pad Thai, and the evening making olympic love).
Friday morning I wake up too early... my body does that when it's worried about missing an appointment; I will wake up 3 or 4 times, an hour or so before my alarm goes off, each time with the sinking feeling that you get when your alarm has failed. This doesn't sound like a Perfect Day, but it is... due to the Cymbalta I have not felt any anxiety for years and years, so this anticipation is like a warm gush of something to a cold a place. By 8:30 I cannot go back to sleep and we are not scheduled to leave until 9:30, so I sit up, turn on my tablet and do some email. When no one is awake by 9:30, I start to panic a little, and wander into the kitchen to make loud pancakes.
Zoey sneaks up behind me in her red dress with white trim (she calls it her "Christmas dress" even though it was given to her for Easter) and announces, "Good morning, Gavin Caaasselltaaan!"
[This has been going on for two weeks. Sarah thinks it is because she likes the way our last name feels phonetically, but I insist that it is a phase she's going through in which she calls me by my full name in order to assert herself as an equal individual and undermine my authority.] On this Friday morning, with my face full of Pancake Surprise, I am simply too smitten with her to take issue with it.
Zoey has packed a tiny towel, the tiny bikini (yes, Sarah and I fought for an hour over that purchase), several plastic shovels and buckets, and the always necessary Nameless Pink Pony into her Monchichi bag. She is determined to leave for the beach without eating breakfast. We do our Robot Negotiation:
"Robot, " I say, "have you charged your cells?"
"YES," says Zoey in a very mono tone, "ROBOT HAS BEEN CHARGING ALL NIGHT."
"But Robot, your room only provides Lithium charging... what about your potassium, calcium, iron, carbohydrate, and sodium cells? Have they been charged?"
[This is my favorite part - I've taught her that computers can never lie or miscalculate, that any error in technology is human-bourne. So, rather than lie, she feigns malfunction.]
"DOES NOT COMPUTE. DOES NOT COMPUTE."
"Rooooobot [in a patronizing tone]... you will need an ample supply of Carbohydrate fuel if you want to maintain equilibrium at the beach today."
A long hesitation, and then she marches stiffly to the table.
"QUICKLY. QUICKLY THEN."
She has prodigy wit, myZo.
One hour later at the pier she tip-toes out onto the sand as if it is the surface of Mars. I stare until Sarah looks at me crooked. Every time I see her do something new, I fall in love with her all over again. It is the most exasperating part of child-rearing. I worry that her tiny feet will burn but thankfully the sun is not too large yet and the sand is still somewhat cool. I race her to the water. I take a huge dramatic fall just before I get there so that she can win and also so that she will put her concerned face close to mine and call me "Daddy" again.
For the next hour we play Blast Off, a game we invented in which she counts down the seconds until a big wave crashes into us and I swing her by her bird-bone wrists up and over it and then around and around until the wave has subsided. Then I beg her to put her feet down and stand up (which she subsequently refuses to do over and over, assuming the lotus position mid-air until I dip her little butt in the surf). I tell her that we are approaching reentry and she has to land in order to prep for the next launch, but truthfully I just want to rest my aching shoulders before the next wave hits. I wonder what they look like from where Sarah is sitting. Does she see the youth in them, flexed and dependable for our flying daughter? Does she realize how strong I am? Is she even watching or is she just worried about how the sunblock is interacting with her mascara?
Thankfully Zoey decides to chase seagulls for a while and I'm able to lay down near Sarah's feet. I try to ignore what the sand is doing in my shorts. Zoey is always in my peripheral.
"We made that," I say, pointing to the monster.
"Yes," she answers sun-dazed.
"She is her own planet," I say, shading my eyes.
"She is her own galaxy," she corrects.
I try to build a sand castle for Zoey, but she pours so much water on it that instead of fortifying my towers, she just melts them. I am somewhat relieved because I don't believe I've ever made one and the exotic and massive palace I saw in my head was not manifesting itself through my soft hands.
She buries Sarah's feet, then mine. Then we both bury her up to her neck, and make her into a mermaid.
As I drag the sand over her she giggles, cackles and eventually her heaving buddha-belly upsets the smooth scaly surface that we've sculpted. We take pictures and then watch while she breaks out of it with a roar.
By three she is near collapse; everything sets her off. She develops an exaggerated fear of seaweed. The sun is too bright. The water is too cold. The sand is too sandy. Sarah strips her completely naked and sticks her under the public shower.
She wails like the puppy we won't let her have. The way she's standing, a pitiful pile of a child clinging to her naked ribs as if the water were below freezing, makes me think of the Holocaust. I turn away. I turn away and try to shield her with my growing gut so that child molesters won't see her private parts. I turn away so that no one will think I'm a child molester. Sarah's response to the fit is a well-honed verbal marriage of scolding, down-playing, humoring, and coddling. I am in love with her again because of the spell she has cast over our daughter.
The episode ends with my little Zoey swaddled in a towel
whimpering into my neck while I rattle her bird bones
turning her legato into vibrato,
and whispering,
to the tune of The Eagles' Desperado,
always whispering,
"Tiny Robot, why don't you come to your senses?
You've been out building castles
but your hard drive has crashed"
Friday morning I wake up too early... my body does that when it's worried about missing an appointment; I will wake up 3 or 4 times, an hour or so before my alarm goes off, each time with the sinking feeling that you get when your alarm has failed. This doesn't sound like a Perfect Day, but it is... due to the Cymbalta I have not felt any anxiety for years and years, so this anticipation is like a warm gush of something to a cold a place. By 8:30 I cannot go back to sleep and we are not scheduled to leave until 9:30, so I sit up, turn on my tablet and do some email. When no one is awake by 9:30, I start to panic a little, and wander into the kitchen to make loud pancakes.
Zoey sneaks up behind me in her red dress with white trim (she calls it her "Christmas dress" even though it was given to her for Easter) and announces, "Good morning, Gavin Caaasselltaaan!"
[This has been going on for two weeks. Sarah thinks it is because she likes the way our last name feels phonetically, but I insist that it is a phase she's going through in which she calls me by my full name in order to assert herself as an equal individual and undermine my authority.] On this Friday morning, with my face full of Pancake Surprise, I am simply too smitten with her to take issue with it.
Zoey has packed a tiny towel, the tiny bikini (yes, Sarah and I fought for an hour over that purchase), several plastic shovels and buckets, and the always necessary Nameless Pink Pony into her Monchichi bag. She is determined to leave for the beach without eating breakfast. We do our Robot Negotiation:
"Robot, " I say, "have you charged your cells?"
"YES," says Zoey in a very mono tone, "ROBOT HAS BEEN CHARGING ALL NIGHT."
"But Robot, your room only provides Lithium charging... what about your potassium, calcium, iron, carbohydrate, and sodium cells? Have they been charged?"
[This is my favorite part - I've taught her that computers can never lie or miscalculate, that any error in technology is human-bourne. So, rather than lie, she feigns malfunction.]
"DOES NOT COMPUTE. DOES NOT COMPUTE."
"Rooooobot [in a patronizing tone]... you will need an ample supply of Carbohydrate fuel if you want to maintain equilibrium at the beach today."
A long hesitation, and then she marches stiffly to the table.
"QUICKLY. QUICKLY THEN."
She has prodigy wit, myZo.
One hour later at the pier she tip-toes out onto the sand as if it is the surface of Mars. I stare until Sarah looks at me crooked. Every time I see her do something new, I fall in love with her all over again. It is the most exasperating part of child-rearing. I worry that her tiny feet will burn but thankfully the sun is not too large yet and the sand is still somewhat cool. I race her to the water. I take a huge dramatic fall just before I get there so that she can win and also so that she will put her concerned face close to mine and call me "Daddy" again.
For the next hour we play Blast Off, a game we invented in which she counts down the seconds until a big wave crashes into us and I swing her by her bird-bone wrists up and over it and then around and around until the wave has subsided. Then I beg her to put her feet down and stand up (which she subsequently refuses to do over and over, assuming the lotus position mid-air until I dip her little butt in the surf). I tell her that we are approaching reentry and she has to land in order to prep for the next launch, but truthfully I just want to rest my aching shoulders before the next wave hits. I wonder what they look like from where Sarah is sitting. Does she see the youth in them, flexed and dependable for our flying daughter? Does she realize how strong I am? Is she even watching or is she just worried about how the sunblock is interacting with her mascara?
Thankfully Zoey decides to chase seagulls for a while and I'm able to lay down near Sarah's feet. I try to ignore what the sand is doing in my shorts. Zoey is always in my peripheral.
"We made that," I say, pointing to the monster.
"Yes," she answers sun-dazed.
"She is her own planet," I say, shading my eyes.
"She is her own galaxy," she corrects.
I try to build a sand castle for Zoey, but she pours so much water on it that instead of fortifying my towers, she just melts them. I am somewhat relieved because I don't believe I've ever made one and the exotic and massive palace I saw in my head was not manifesting itself through my soft hands.
She buries Sarah's feet, then mine. Then we both bury her up to her neck, and make her into a mermaid.
As I drag the sand over her she giggles, cackles and eventually her heaving buddha-belly upsets the smooth scaly surface that we've sculpted. We take pictures and then watch while she breaks out of it with a roar.
By three she is near collapse; everything sets her off. She develops an exaggerated fear of seaweed. The sun is too bright. The water is too cold. The sand is too sandy. Sarah strips her completely naked and sticks her under the public shower.
She wails like the puppy we won't let her have. The way she's standing, a pitiful pile of a child clinging to her naked ribs as if the water were below freezing, makes me think of the Holocaust. I turn away. I turn away and try to shield her with my growing gut so that child molesters won't see her private parts. I turn away so that no one will think I'm a child molester. Sarah's response to the fit is a well-honed verbal marriage of scolding, down-playing, humoring, and coddling. I am in love with her again because of the spell she has cast over our daughter.
The episode ends with my little Zoey swaddled in a towel
whimpering into my neck while I rattle her bird bones
turning her legato into vibrato,
and whispering,
to the tune of The Eagles' Desperado,
always whispering,
"Tiny Robot, why don't you come to your senses?
You've been out building castles
but your hard drive has crashed"
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