The thrill of the hunt

This evening, I saw a splash ad for Napster that said, "Download a decade," and it completely sent me back to 1987. That's the year that Peter and I decided that we had to own the 1970s: a decade that formed us, with some of the oddest, most exhuberant, cheesiest, most excessive music ever. In 1987, we were really poor, and that dovetailed with something fortuitous: the rise of the compact disc.

Yup, I'm one of those people who can actually say I remember the first time I ever heard a CD. I think it was Bryan Adams, and it really sounded funny. I can't explain that now—years later, with hundreds of CDs on my shelf—but back then, music on CDs sounded tinnier, more distant and clinical. But that may well have been due to the lack of 1) a large paperboard cover and 2) dust. We looked at CD covers, those click-y clear plastic inventions, and they seemed so micro, so literally square, and just a tad obsessive. What do you think's gonna happen to the thing, you know? Aren't those freaky rainbow mirror circles supposedly indestructible?! (That was one of the media selling points, actually.)

And thenceforth, the rise of CDs led to a flood of vinyl. Some of it was actually still shrink-wrapped in the familiar large, alphabetical bins of a record store: marked down. Way to get my blood flowing. (We used to call all chain record stores "Record Orgasm," in homage to all the "Sound Explosion," "Record World," "Music City" kind of names.) At any rate, given our fiscal challenges, most of the vinyl that Peter and I set out to acquire was humble, used, and greyish with dust. In 1987 we began haunting Goodwills, Salvation Armys, yard sales, and anywhere else that vinyl was being shunted by the uncaring listening public. We became aces at cleaning layers of dust, excavating jewels from everyday filth. A little popping and scratchiness just enhanced the audio joy, we convinced ourselves.

I can still remember the palpable thrill one afternoon at the Goodwill in Bath, Maine. They had a bin crammed with outcast records. Stuck in amongst the LPs was a homemade spindle, some kind of long broomstick attached to a wooden disc as a base. That day, the spindle was stacked unbelievably high with 45s. I'm sure we let out some girly utterance in our excitement, like "Aaaaah!" or "Ooooh!" Then we commenced to pulling a handful off the stack and flipping through the coverless 45s—carefully; why scratch them any worse than they were—and setting aside all the ones we wanted. "Walking in Rhythm," by the Blackbyrds. "Back Off Boogaloo" by Ringo Starr. "Get Up and Boogie" by Silver Convention. "Clair" by Gilbert O'Sullivan. (You know, I could rave on, but that's the gist. Semi-obscurities that sent us back in time as soon as the first chords sounded through the needle.)

So what we were doing, really? We were reconstructing our childhoods and teen years, that's what. Because when we were kids, our parents weren't doling out sufficient dough to feed our music heads. I literally used to have to sneak LPs into my house underneath my coat, whenever I'd gathered/scammed enough money for records. I was skinnier then; it was tough to get my arms to fall naturally around a big squared-off chest as I rushed into the house past my stepfather. My mother was a musician, and yet if I asked her, "Can I have money to buy an album?" she'd retort, "You already have enough records, Nessa." Like what was that supposed to mean?! (She said the same thing about books when I came home forlornly clutching the Scholastic Book Club form. "I've read all those books!" I'd say. "Read them again," she'd intone with a profound lack of logic.)

Peter's parents, by contrast, were frugal Quakers. Not musicians, but not rock appreciators either. So his only album holdings, when he got to college, were from the Columbia House "Pick 20 albums for 1 cent" deal. That ran in every magazine any kid ever touched back then. I never could have gotten that box into the house under my coat.

What was the grail, you might wonder, the serious catch that Peter and I pursued so diligently in the musty Goodwill, under the buzzing fluorescent lights? That would be: K-Tels. We worshipped them, those splashy collections of every single that mattered in a five-month time period. They used to jam some 30 songs on one of those K-Tels! The sound quality suffered from the narrower grooves on the vinyl, but who cared? Now we had "You and Me," by Alice Cooper, and "Do You Wanna Make Love" by Peter McCann, and "Flash Light" by Parliament. (Reinsert raving comment here.)

1987 is a generation ago. Peter and I, still together, still fanatics, own thousands of LPs—most of them used. We own hundreds of K-Tels, fetish objects that they are. We love singles, too, and have more than 1000 of them. In many cases, we had to fashion sleeves out of flat paper bags from a bookstore. Their numbers increased significantly when jukeboxes switched over to digital; we ended up buying scores of cast-off singles from a local antiques shop. Those 45s had played in restaurants, bars, and bowling alleys all over Maine--we know, because the sleeves on the records had a handwritten note as to where they had been.

Download a decade? Nah. Search it out like a quest, clutch it to your chest (under your coat, if you must), share it with a beloved, and cherish it always.

She's Leaving Home

I'm standing at the sink by the window, filling a pot for pasta. As the water swirls against its silver interior, I realize how shiny and new-looking it is—that's because it was my mom's. I immediately think how grateful I am to have it...and then I realize that Mom's pots were cleaner than mine because I left home, and she didn't cook so much after that. And then my brain perceives the song that's just started playing on our stereo: "Matte Kudasai," by King Crimson. Lyrics:

Stand by the windowpane,
Pain, like the rain that's falling.
She waits in the air, Matte Kudasai.
She sleeps in a chair, in her sad America.
When, when was the night so long,
Long, like the notes I'm sending.
She waits in the air, Matte Kudasai.
She sleeps in a chair, in her sad America.

This song is mournful, plaintive, meditative, just nails everything I was feeling at that moment. And even more so, in that King Crimson's Discipline album is a total relic of the year I left home for college. It was the music of that autumn, thumping out of every stereo in the co-ed fraternity I joined. And there again, the frat was my first real break from the tumultuous home life I'd known before. I found acceptance as just me, not New York City me. I actually forged a more comfortable identity because I had that place and those amazing friends to guide me. It was not a typical frat: we were largely brainiacs with a thick streak of partyer woven in. Many science geeks (who were really cool underneath that stereotype, and I bagged a few besides); a couple of disaffected jocks; at least half a dozen writers; a significant number of Mainers; people who could discourse for hours about the plight of Wile E. Coyote or what made James Joyce's Ulysses worth reading.

Astonishing how music yanks you right to a time, place, and set of feelings, whether you knew that journey was pending or not. In fact, Pete put the Crimson on before I started cooking, so I was unwitting. And BTW, if you're dismissive of the notion of prog-rock, if it seems stegasaurean and ponderous...well, it's a lot more rhythmic and emotionally accessible than it seems. I wouldn't have gotten through my teen years without it.

Tuesday muse

I wrote a poem today, which is noteworthy ('s been awhile), so here it is:

November, Kebo

The gulls have retaken the golf course.
Against the fairway—still verdant, just a hint of rust—
they convene, white as doves.
Above them, black geese depart in the distant V.
The gulls bunch together—audience, tribe,
a town meeting, with something to decide.

NBR 11/29/05

I started writing poetry when I was 11. These things just surge up from some muse-mediated place, and I transcribe them—that's what it feels like. I decided today that this blog would be a good vehicle for the poetry that languishes unread on my hard drive. Here's hoping it doesn't scare people away [insert nervous laughter...poets are anxious beings.]

This is the year of the slippery catalogs. Somehow, the mailing lists have found us in droves...every day, our mailbox is stuffed fuller than a butterball. I weed out the overly outdoorsy, old-lady, or sporty ones, but somehow I feel compelled to flip through the others, even though I've no intention of purchasing their goods!! I guess I never let go of the years when a magazine felt like an extravagance (I made a cool $8000 a year in my first job). So free reading with colorful pics seems like a good deal, somewhere deep in my psyche. Ultimately, though, reading through them dulls the senses—they make everyday life even more banal, like looking through a window where nothing ever happens.

Turkey Grease

This was a week with much thanks to give. My father-in-law is recovering from major (mostly successful) heart surgery—and my mother-in-law is recovering too, in her way, from the shake-up of her partner's illness and reemergence. Meanwhile, Pete, the kids and I met our newest family member: 3-month-old Alex, son of Pete's older brother Dave. Then Pete and I saw a hottttt John Mayer Trio show at the Bowery Ballroom, two years to the very day since our first JM show at Madison Square Garden—and got to hang out with JoAnn, Jocelyn, and other friends old and new. We spent Turkey Day with my brother's family in NJ, and his m-i-l cooked a feast for the 7 kids and 8 adults in attendance (it even included octopus and ham!). I was immersed in city life for a few days, which is a great reminder of who I am fully (since I am of NY), as well as why I have embraced the northlands. I mean, America! All those lights ablaze at all hours! Multitude of vehicles, bigass stores and restaurants everywhere, crisscrossing routes all to get you from A to B, constant flow of people on the sidewalk! And Asian cuisine abounding, which I ate at every opportunity. (Fave restaurant name on this trip: Yum Mee.) Maine is radically not like that.

Still, America's a nice place to visit, and we all did, happily. 

 

BTW, hooray for hotels with floaty down pillows and duvets. Ahhhhhh. I don't even have those at home!
 

Came home tonight to relieved cats, crusty snow on the lawn, and a cranking furnace (another thing to be thankful for). Not to mention the excitement of getting back on the 'net after a week—where I found that one of my cousins had sent me precious scanned images of my mom as a girl, pics I'd never seen before. I received them on what would have been Mom's 73rd birthday.

And that was the other blessing about being in the city—I felt Mom's presence there, in the glittery, boxy buildings at night and walking the sidewalks of Herald Square in the wan sunshine. One night last week, actually, I dreamt I saw her again...I was incredulous, and she was nonplussed (classic Mom). We talked, I took her hand, and I really felt her clutching my hand in the dream. God, it felt good, familiar—reassuring.
 

Yes, thanks. And thanks again.

Eulogy: Daniel D'Antonio, Jr.

I am honored to tell you about my closest friend, D.J., and his extraordinary life. First and foremost, he loved, fiercely and protectively.

He was outrageous and mischievous, yet in his heart, he was traditional and old-world, his father’s son.

D.J. was devoted: as a son, as a brother, as a father, and as a friend. He was generous in every way.

Time and time again, he willed me to believe in myself—and I’m not the only person for whom he did that.

I marveled over the years of our friendship at how strong and positive he was. Even when he was young, he was an advocate and a guide to his friends.

He was an incredible hair stylist—and a great listener while he practiced his craft. You could rely on him to make you over and lift your spirits.

He could make a donut shop feel glamorous, a place to see and be seen.

I can think of no better way to while away an afternoon than in his company, eating pizza, drinking soda, half-watching TV, and talking about everything.

D.J. was a magical writer, and no matter how many times I told him that, he waved me off. But he was. His writing was all heart, all honesty.

He was also a savvy observer of Hollywood, with an amazing head for trivia and pop culture. He’s the only other person I’ve ever known who could sing every word of every Partridge Family song. Proudly.

His all-time favorite movie was Xanadu. It’s improbable, glossy…a time capsule from our teen years. Mostly, though, that movie is about the timelessness of love. One of the songs says, “I only have to close my eyes, dear, and suddenly I’m where you are.” It’s always reminded me of D.J., always made me cry. Now I really know what it means.

I refuse to stop missing him, ever. And I will not say goodbye. He will be here with us, part of us, unforgettable. Because love is timeless, and he knew that.

Hooked

Last night, I bought you your first bra. Correction: I bought you three of them, all different styles and fabrics—because my first bra was just that, one bra, and I always wished I could have had more of a choice.

In my day, Queens girls went to an old-fashioned lingerie store to get the momentous first bra. In the window of the store would be translucent plastic legs modeling pantyhose, headless shoulders with bustlines in nighties (both daring and demure), quilty bathrobes and stretchy girdles. The door would be heavy, all glass, like you were pushing to get into some brightly-lit tomb. The store was invariably staffed by older ladies who wore bifocals on a chain around their necks, called you "dawling" and asked "Isn't this one beauty-ful?" in a raspy smoker's voice.

Before you actually tried a bra on, you had to submit to a mortifying tape-measure around the chest—two times, once right across, and the second underneath your swelling shape. Then the saleslady would retreat behind the glass counter, pulling a big box down from a shelf that was labeled "32AA" in BIG black letters (this felt really embarrassing, as though everyone now knew you'd be wearing the smallest possible size). She'd then fish around inside the box and bring out a bra. The box was too high to see into, so you had no idea if there was some other style in there you might have liked...no, there it was: your assigned bra.

The white trifle felt lightweight and silly in your hands as you headed for the dressing room. Like this is gonna make a difference, you'd think, recalling the ouchy feeling you were now getting whenever you ran down the sidewalk playing tag, or when you took the stairs at a gallop. Regardless, you pulled a little curtain across the dressing room doorway and struggled out of your T-shirt. The bra was alien to the touch, and the straps dug right into your shoulder as you reached behind you--how the hell do they do this?!—trying to hook the closure. It felt like minutes were ticking away as your mom stood patiently at the glass counter, waiting.

Finally...hooked. In the mirror, you turned and contemplated this new shape on your body. The cups of this bra were thickly lined with synthetic batting; alas, the stuffing was too dented-looking to actually improve on your slender shape. In between your breasts (breasts! still an absurd new word), there was a tiny white satin bow with a tinier white fake flower in its center. You'd shrug around then, trying to stop that digging sensation on your shoulders. And then you'd jump in place (just a teeny bit, so that the ladies in the store wouldn't think you'd lost your mind)..and whaddya know? they didn't bounce and ouch! Whew, you'd think,that decides it.

You'd poke your head into the corner of the curtain then, and multiple women (including Mom) would turn to look at you. "This one's good," you'd say. "Can I, um, wear it home?"

"Sure," said the saleslady. Mom nodded. Back in the dressing room, you reached for your T-shirt and tugged it back over your head. And then, the first womanly thing you'd really ever done in your life: you tucked your shirt into your jeans, pulled taut; stood up straight with shoulders back, and checked out your bustline side-to.

Still you.

Neveromance

What would I really say if I could? That your face, on the edge of sadness always--even through a supremely goofy smile--never left my mind? That I can still feel the damp press of your hand on my back, slow-dancing to the Beatles? I can still feel the belly-whop in my stomach, the times when I thought that maybe now, now was the time, tonight was the night that you would turn to me and look in my eyes, and instead of a fond smile, it would be a knowing gaze. We would connect, and all the imaginings would be more than that, and better than that too. Maybe I never realized that your need was probably deeper than mine. Mine was all over my sleeve, yeah, and scary enough to send legions running--but yours was an unanswered call, a lock without a key. All my trying was never going to open that door and relieve that tinged sadness.

 

I wanted to make you happy because I knew it would make me happy. And it was a bob-and-weave proposition--couldn't get too close; you'd go the other way. But when I lessened up on the tension, when I just gave in and danced those wild dances at your high school with you--the Doors, the Beatles, the Stones (how can they say these songs aren't danceable?!)--we were electric together. Afterwards, we'd all walk in a teenage clump towards our NYC bar-hangout, and you'd pull an icicle off an awning and give it to me, and I'd just naturally suck on it, the greatest gift I ever got. Or in the bar, our crowd commanding the jukebox and the laughs and hoots swirling around us, you'd lean in and say to me, "Come here often?" in a low tone.

 

(Never, ever often enough.)

 

How sensible is it that sixteen years later, I still wonder what it would have been like to kiss you. We touched plenty...one night your hand rested on my neck for a long time, massaging while I cried--still wrestling my home demons, and the insecurity ones too. You were there when I lost my boyfriend, too, hugging me and encouraging me. "Turn It On Again" always makes me think of you and that night--because his action made me persona non grata with everyone else, yet you didn't drop me that easily.

 

But we never kissed. That might have turned the tides--either that, or you still would not have wanted to get involved with me, and I would have been destroyed.

 

That may well be why you never followed up. But I remain unconvinced that we were hopeless. I am nothing if not faithful to a dream.

 

You were that: a dream. Blond wavy hair, wry smile, amazing sarcastic wit, rich dramatic talent--but unassuming. Lankier than anyone else I can think of. And teenage-hot when we danced close, chests just-touching, to "Because" and "Sun King".

 

A kiss would have been unbelievably intimate between us. I have to believe, dear one, that doors would have flown open. That's why I replay this memory record sometimes--not because I've never known such intimacy; no, truly, I have been blessed to know and love deeply in the intervening years. But because we just will never know.

 

So the only other thing I can say that I didn't say is thank you. Thank you for the fruit and the walk through Central Park when my speech contest bombed, and the yearbook signings that made my heart sing, and your opening monologue in "Godspell"--riveting and moving; our quiet moments during teenage wild parties; sharing the Chartreuse buzz with me; the touch of your hand on my neck; and finally, all the Italian ices in lower Manhattan, summer of 1983, when we both worked at the base of the great city. Cool and sweet, tasty and tactile, they gave me a great excuse to hang around with you while you sold them from your white-cold cart. Because even when I had someone else in my life (and that summer, I juggled two in desperate, ecstatic misery), you represented a swooping hope, a purer thing.

 

Here's how I wrote it in December of 1981, after watching dusk glow in the sky over Central Park with you, seeing a diamond-chip star:

 

you flicker ever, a Paschal candle in my heart...

yet still ever now