A man doesn’t go out into the world quite like he used to. …All’s unfair in love and Disney.
My friend and I used to fall asleep to the flicker of the TV in our high school years. Every night we would stay up late and watch the first segments of the Late Late Show with Craig Kilborn until we could no longer muster the energy to keep the weight of our eyelids up. And thus, we soundly and securely fell asleep. If you asked us why we felt this affinity to Craiggers – I doubt we could articulate in words, but perhaps we could draw you a picture to help explain it. It was like a warm blanket covering over us as we drifted off to sleep only to wake up the next AM to head into the
The Beach Boys - "God Only Knows" I’m a sucker. Sitting on the curb in front of a record shop. Pet Sounds seeping out of the outwardly prominent speakers just at the soffit, in all it's vintage nostalgic glory. This is the most commercially-bent indie record shop in the industry, now inhabited by a Cold Stone Creamery, or a Baskin Robbins. In any case, now a polar opposite in the grand scheme. Sweet products, but offensive. Like some infuriated toddler, denied a treat or a toy. Screaming while maturity, the tortured mother of adulthood, looks on in dismay. Its closing time, the night is deep and boiling over with seasonal appeal, illuminated partially by the fluorescent lights within. Its companion; the soft red glow of
In 2007, a much younger me sits silently, perched on a black-lacquered stool in an awkward pose. His legs extend upward towards his chest, because, you see, the rungs of the stool are set a little too high, forcing the young man into a most un-flattering semi-squat. Refuge from tortured soles maybe, but most totally grotesque and unattractive. This particular furnishing is an antique, but uncharmingly so. Chips in the shiny black coating, reflecting in panes of silky even light, only to be broken apart by harsh chip marks, solid evidence of heavy usage and abuse, and apropos obviously, for the human condition. This skinny memory is the security guard for one of the many Madison Avenue Upper-East Side fashion-peddling installations.
I've written this same piece more than a few times. A couple versions existed in my head when I have had the great privilege of an hour car ride all by my lonesome – time to think – a rarity in your 30s. Other occasions I have put pen to paper (hands to keyboard) regarding this and the inevitability of what comes out is almost laughable. See: kicking stones forward while looking at your feet with headphones on and a hoodie up, coupled with a longing for a time that was entirely devoted to feeding the fire of feelings – right or wrong. And of course it involves the soundtrack that can bring you right back there - whether you