Nothing was important anymore

On June 17, 1976 my uncle died. He was 18. It totally weirded me out. My sisters and I arrived home from the last day of school before summer break. I remember feeling incredibly dizzy around noon that day – just about the time they notched his death.

We were eating oven-heated frozen pizza when the phone rang. Katie answered. There was screaming on the other end. Discernibly audible. My mom ran into the kitchen and took the phone from Katie’s hand.

“Your Uncle Bart is dead.”

Nothing was important anymore.

Katie and I had been arguing over the ownership of a sticker declaring, “I am Thumbody”, with a generic thumbprint as the graphic.

Nothing was important anymore.

On my mother’s command, I went downstairs to lock the back door. That’s where I saw the stupid sticker.

Nothing was important anymore.

Mom was on the phone; now with neighbors to see who would look after a 10 year old boy, an 8 year old girl and a 7 year old girl. The Parkers, a family around the corner said they would take us in while mom and dad dealt with hell in Bergenfield. It was a blessing and a curse. I had a mad crush on Sally Parker, she was about to see me at my worse.

We had to stay at the Parker’s for one night. I was mute, torn between desperate sorrow and a desire to see Sally in her pajamas. How stupid 10 year old boys are, right? Push came to shove and I saw her in her underwear as we passed in the hallway. She was not shy. Especially for a 10 year old girl.

Blah, blah, blah, we end up having to go to Pennsylvania. I threw up.

25 years later, they send me back to Pennsylvania, and I escape.

30 years later, they start sending me to an unreasonable client in Pennsylvania.

Thereafter, I quit.

1993 Was a Bad Year

The lamb came to me in a herd, dyed white blonde, with a young, raspy voice, on a New Year’s Night. Like a ghost portending doom and destruction, her apparition disrupted the reverberation of the party.

Charles and Diana had just split. A Few Good Men and Dracula were the hot movies at the time. What was on the tele? Cheers, Murphy Brown, Wings, etc. Smart, funny shows that didn’t pander to the lowest common denominator.

I was starting a new band with my friend Steve. We rehearsed at a house left to a friend of ours after his parents were killed. Actually, it wasn’t really a house. It was more of a three-story weed and LSD den, with spray paint graffiti on all the walls and a shooting range in the backyard.

Our guitar player, Rob, wanted to call the band Chicken as a Gift. I wanted to call the band Cake. We took a vote. Dennis, Steve, Rob and I. Cake won, three to one. I wanted a name that resonated with sweet insulation. I wanted it to be rich, thick and iced. I wanted it to be both pithy and versatile. I got what I wanted.

I was 26 and accustomed to get whatever I wanted, as long as money wasn’t an object. I was persuasive and alpha. I was the alterna-stud who could pound the drums with the likes of Dave Grohl (Nirvana, then) and the drummers from Pearl Jam and Alice in Chains. I could lay down a 2/4 like Bonham, and lash around the skins with a whip like Peart. But I chose the flannel route. A little slower, a little more introspective, a lot more melancholy.

It was as if the world had finally caught up with my visions of music and artistry and lifestyle.

I wanted to date the lamb. There was a problem, however…

For Ann

You no longer own your memory. Or memories. You signed them over to your health insurance so that others would be spared your second-hand disposition of how life happens. Your health insurance mortgaged them to Intel, Google and/or Fox News. Your gray matter can now transform your finances into black or red.

Fix your memory. Make space for the future, or be doomed to endlessly relive the past. Make room for the future and prepare for unimagined delights, laughter, cooking experiments, and unparalleled support from a man who adores you.

Allow time for walks in the park, lunch in your neighborhood, and unlockable body intwinations at all hours of the night.