Christmas Day, 2013. Never thought I'd be writing posts from my cell phone, but this is the age of instant communication, when we don't need a laptop to write down our thoughts. What an amazing time. As much as some people bemoan the way our children are fixated with their mobile devices, I really marvel at the way we can all communicate so easily. We''re visiting Julie's family in Ohio and it has, so far, been a warm and lovely holiday. I'm so blessed to be a part of this family, and to have been loved by them for over 20 years.
I hope that anyone reading this is having wonderful day. I hope that anyone reading this is able to spend time with their own family. I hope that you all are creating new memories that have significance, just like the stories I wrote about in Basement Songs.
Lou Reed died today, at the age of 71. I can't claim to be the world's biggest Reed fan, but several of his works are favorites. Transformer and New York receive regular plays on my iPod, while the Velvet Underground's "Sweet Jane," and Reed's moderate hit single, "I Love You, Suzanne," are songs I can't go very long without listening to. In 2009, I wrote about a memorable night in North Olmsted, driving around and listening "Walk on the Wild Side." I do believe this was the first time I heard this song and it was my introduction to Transformer, one of the best albums of the 70s.
We huddled outside the North Olmsted recreation center waiting for
the rest of the spirit band to
arrive. On this cold December night, we
were supposed to be energizing high school
hockey fans, but when not enough kids showed up, we were presented with
a three-hour window to spend the rest of the night. Our foursome
included Dan, a junior, cool, laid back (like most trombone players) and
the one with the car. There was Mark, a stocky, sophomore coronet
player who was the epitome of band geek (really nice guy, though). Mark
often wore a t-shirt that asked the question, "Why be normal?" He
liked to smoke pot. Jay was a fellow freshman drummer, one of those guys
who bled talent, and a close friend at the time. He was an emotional
firecracker, calm and fun-loving most of the time and then- BAM! -- an
explosion of anger. Finally, I rounded out the group, the dorky son of
the band director. I wore big '80s-style glasses, had poofy hair (I'd
yet to learn what gel was), and dressed in god-awful sweatpants that
covered the knee brace of my right knee, which was recovering from ACL
surgery. With nowhere to be and nothing in particular to do, we piled
into Dan's car and drove away. Cruising through the hometown seems
like a time-honored rite of passage for most young men. You get the
keys to the car, you don't want to be stuck at home, so you hit the road
and just drive, listening to whatever music is on the radio and killing
time until you have to roll into bed and sleep away the weekend. On
that night, navigating the slick streets of a Saturday night, with the
melted snow sloshing around in the tire wells making that sound like
water running, we owned this city. With a swagger you only have as a
teenager, we felt like kings, invincible; nothing could hurt us. The
neon signs from the fast food joints, the banks and the gas stations
beckoned us, but we drove on, searching for what I don't know.
Camaraderie, I suppose. Isn't that what we all want when we're trying to
figure out who we are? I was in low mood; my girlfriend had
broken up with me the night before. Somehow, even though I'd only
spoken to a couple people about the break up, everyone knew. This was my
first experience of gossip traveling faster than the tears can hit the
pillow. These three guys, boys I hardly hung out with before that
night, decided to comfort me in the same manner they knew adults handled
pain and loss: by scoring some beer. Meanwhile, the radio dial was
tuned to the venerable Cleveland station, WMMS, and their new weekend
program, Classic Rock Saturday Night.
The deep voice of one of Cleveland's legendary DJs (I swear it was Len
"Boom Boom" Goldberg, but more likely it was the equally great
"Spaceman" Scott Hughes) spoke to us through the speakers in Dan's car,
as he introduced music from the early 70s by the artists who had shaped
rock and roll. We were a generation raised on new wave and MTV and in
1984 if we'd heard the music of Led Zeppelin, Cream, The Who or Pink
Floyd, it was because of our older siblings who had passed the music
down. I hadn't received that passing of the torch, so listening to MMS
and the songs they played opened up a new world to me. In
a parking lot behind a second-run movie theater we received our
contraband, a 12-pack of Michelob, bought by one of the guys' older
brothers. I look back on what we did next with a sense of fondness, but
also a realization of how fucking stupid we were. Back then, when you
wanted to discreetly drink and drive, the Valley was the place to go.
Our next destination was the Cleveland Metroparks, also known as the Valley because of the steep descent you took getting into the park.
An entire night could be spent looping around on the twisting and
winding roads that passed through several neighboring cities for over 20
miles. On that night the sky was clear without a moon ad the Valley was
pitch black, save for the headlight beams from Dan's car. Occasionally
we passed fellow wanderers or even parked cars with steamed-up windows.
Otherwise, we were alone, in a separate universe, with Classic Rock
Saturday Night as our soundtrack. Lou Reed's "Walk on the Wild Side" came on, with its dual bass lines, jazzy brushes on the snare, and Reed singing endearingly about the transvestites and drug addicts
he knew; we all quieted and listened, letting the music sweep over us.
When I tried to explain to Mark that the entire moment felt like a movie
and wouldn't let up about what I was feeling, he nudged me and said,
"Shut up and enjoy the movie." The background singers came in with
their "doo da doo da doos" and the four of us began singing,
uninhibited, at the top of our lungs,
until our laughter was louder than the radio. It was one of those
strange, mystical nights that only happens in the movies: Four guys,
friends, but not best friends, spend the night driving around talking
about the things that only guys talk about. In the course of the
evening, they discover that they are not alone. They discover that
everyone suffers heartbreak and wants to go out with the pretty girl and
wants to get good grades and wants to impress their parents and wants
to get a hug from their dad on occasion and wants to be the cool kid in
school and wants to have a lot of friends and wants to lose their
virginity and just wants to be loved. And they discover that everyone
wants to escape from the place where they grew up, at least for a little
while. I've often questioned why this particular event in my life
has stuck with me. Of all the pointless times aimlessly cruising
through the Valley, of all the irresponsible incidents of my
adolescence, why does this one event remain so vivid? Perhaps because on
that night, free of the pressures and expectations of our peers, the
four of us let our guard down and allowed other humans
to glimpse at our souls. Or perhaps it was just stupid fun that I was
never able to replicate in the remaining four years of high school. Dan,
Mark, Jay and I never hung out that way ever again. We remained
friendly, but it was like after that night, the universe we lived in
realigned and the four of us slipped back into our old selves. Still,
there would be times when we saw each other in the hall and a simple nod
or knowing smile would draw a laugh and we'd recall our walk on the
wild side.
Last weekend my friend, Brett, turned 43. I've known him since high school, where we began our association with each other as enemies. I can't tell you why we didn't like each other. I was the band director's kid, so maybe that had something to do with it. I recall an incident with an Eagles LP, which could've been the source of my anger. It was the hastily compiled "Greatest Hits, Vol. 2" which I received from the Columbia Record Club. In other words, cheap vinyl that I got for a penny. Hardly a reason to get pissed at a guy. Then again, I was 14/15 at the time, so I wasn't very logical.
The strange thing about the animosity between the two of us was that we had the same mutual friends: Alex, Tom, John, Phil, Sally, Kathy and Kerry. We all hung out together. At some point Brett and I buried the hatchet (probably over a couple of North Olmsted Coolers, a primitive version of a Shandy) and became good buddies.
During my high school senior year emotional void, when I thought the world would end because my heart was broken, I took a memorable camping trip with my friends Tom, James and Brett. We drove out into the middle of nowhere, parked our car and hiked down the side of a forest hill to pitch a tent. It was a fun adventure until the rain began. We wound up crashing at Brett's house the next morning, laughing about the complete failure of the trip. From that point on, Brett and I hung out more frequently.
After high school and into college, the same group of us saw each other during winter and summer breaks. There were never any "plans" to do stuff. Someone would show up at another person's house and we'd just hang out. At this point, Matt was a part of the gang. Man, Matt and Brett together were a pair. One particular night, Brett was over to the house and I began expounding on the brilliance of "My Sharona." Brett laughed as I went on and on about the musicality of the song; I even jammed it on the drums for him.
Later in the night, while the two of us were in the Malchus family room, shooting the shit over a couple of beers, my father entered the room. At that moment, Brett set his beer on the wood arm rest of the couch, or maybe it was an end table, I'm unclear. Wood was involved.
My father flipped.
"Sir, now you've upset me," he snarled at Brett. It was the most irrationally response I'd ever heard my dad direct at one of my friends. He spoke to Brett as if the guy was one of those punks that get under his skin during each school year. But he liked Brett (still does, as far as I know). The look on Brett's face was priceless. Utter shock. Once my dad left the room, we both shared a WTF look and went about our business.
After Julie and I got married and moved to California, I never thought I'd see Brett again. Through mutual friends I learned that he was married and living in Colorado. The, sometime in the early 2000s, Brett contacted me to say he was going to be in LA for a couple of days. We had dinner, got caught up on each others lives, and suddenly the friendship was renewed. He's been to LA a few more times, and he happened to be in Ohio a couple of summer's ago while we were also visiting Julie's family. In a period of five years, I believe I've seen him more that any of the old gang. Pretty funny considering we used to hate each other.
This past December I finally met his lovely wife, Leah. At the fundrasier held in the memory of Seann, Brett and Leah showed up, along with the Koziols. Although we all only got to spend about an hour together, it was one of the best parts of an emotional evening.
Throughout the years, Brett and his family have supported Great Strides and my marathon fundraisers, which makes them extra special in my book. This year I was shocked to learn that Brett is battling Leukemia. He's been in chemo throughout the spring and I can only imagine the emotional toll it is taking on Leah and their two beautiful children. If anyone I know can kick this disease's ass, it's Brett. He's always been one of the fiercest people I know, a quality I truly admire.
There's not much I can do for my old friend except send my prayers and support his way. Oh, and I can remind him how fucking awesome "My Sharona" is and why it should always be cranked up on the radio.
2 weeks until the book is released. Are you excited? I am.
It was around this time in 1987 that the Whomobile, the car I drove
throughout high school, gave out and died in the middle of Lorain Road
in North Olmsted. In honor of that noble beast (I think my memory is a
little cloudy), here are the Who and one of the greatest rock songs of
all time.
