Godspeed, Kenny Cos

Kenny Costello.  December 5, 1967 - June 24, 2012

This is the saddest of times. This is a gaping, empty void. This is silence where there was once never ending laughter, tears where once there were nothing but ear-to-ear smiles. This is what we all feel missing Kenny.

My personal memories of Kenny are highlighted by our trip to London back in February of 1995. Never saw so much rain or Guinness in my life. Maybe it was raining Guinness.

Other memories include being his band mate in the Young Elastic Idiots (YEI) along with Chopper and Teddy; all those softball games with the Widdis Wisenheimers; and one side-splitting night in Ocean Grove with Geoff and John where Kenny’s alter ego, Fred Zeppelin, told us the ways of the world.

I could go on for pages, but Kenny would probably want me to stop so everyone could get a beer.

Kenny, you are a missed, mourned, adored and immortal man.

Growing Roots

Lynn, in her always good-natured manner, has been telling me that I spend so much time in my apartment that I’m growing roots.

In a way, though, I feel like I’m growing wings. We’ll get to that in a minute.

I spent the weekend in front of the TV and a book (Chronic City, by Jonathan Lethem) watching the Red Sox and Mets get swept by their respective opponents, and watching Mad Men and Breaking Bad reruns on Netflix streaming. I believe that during one particular 5-hour spell, my ass did fuse with the couch in a non-emetic way.  Anyway, I barely left my apartment. Hence the, “growing roots” implication.

But today was a big day. I had to go all the way downtown to see my neurologist and, then, my dentist.

My neurologist—a delightful man with a sing song Yiddish accent and an amusing way of summing things up in a word (he called my white blood cell count, “impressive,” while reading my nearly deadly meningitis results)—didn’t have me on his schedule. So I had no choice but to hit the streets.

To kill time I bought a wicked cool pair of Tiger slip-on track shoes and a way cool red Nadal Nike bandanna at Paragon Sports on 18^th St. Then found a hard-to-find MacBook book at the gigantic Barnes & Nobel. I found a stylus for my Nook, too.

Went to the dentist and got a pretty good health approval. They took pictures of my teeth with an intraoral camera. They asked that I slow down on the acidic fruits (pineapple.) My dentist and hygienist kept asking  how much pineapple I eat. I told them, a lot, along with a lot of oranges. Why they were intrigued, I don’t know. I think it had something to do with a loss of enamel. My dentist is a tall, skinny, statuesque, Eastern European woman. She likes to hear of my adventures, then use insanely gauged needles to numb my gums. There's probably videos of that kind of thing on 4chan.

I later found out that my health insurance policy had been terminated. I’m fucked. But I’ll at least have cool sneakers in the casket. The pair I bought today seem not to have obvious wings, but definitely have wing like things woven into the seams. Hopefully, they’ll be light enough to help me float away someday soon. In a good way. Like a tree turning into a bird.

On the Radio (same day as the Mets first no-hitter)

There are special days and there are days that just suck. Today was a special day. A big red letter day.


(If Lefty were here to see me he'd be looking at me like the pic over there.)

It began with a backwards segue into yesterday on account of my insomnia. I needed to be awake, alert, and articulate at 9:00 AM for the first time in months to be on Meryl’s radio show.

I twisted and turned in bed trying to sleep with little luck. Too much heat, too many blankets, too many pajamas. I turned on the air and pretty much did away with all else. Next thing I knew, it was 7:30 AM and time to wake up from no sleep. You’ve been there. It’s unpleasant.

Lynn and I made it to her office so that I could call in on a land line to “Let’s Get Organized” on Voice America.com. We got there with time to spare, so I had time for a cup of coffee. Lynn set me up in an unoccupied conference room and I drank the coffee. I called in. The interview went well. If you want, you can listen to it. I was her her first guest on her very first show. She's Fran Dresher's cousin. Very cool person. 

http://www.voiceamerica.com/episode/62097/time-to-get-organized

After the interview, I took a cab back to the west side to get some errands done. Came home and made tacos. Listened to the show and bristled at the number of times I said the word, “ummm….” I went to the gym and worked off my frustration. I came home and felt strong. I ate tacos.

Then I turned on the Mets. On the radio. The team across the bridge.

Johan Santana was on his game. You could tell from the first inning. Then the second inning. Then a buzz started. Then the buzz became audible and text and phone calls started flying. Then, after 8 innings and no hits, I called my dad. He’s an old Brooklyn Dodger fan and a Met guy since 1962, two years before he married my mom. The Mets have never had a no-hitter in 8,019 games. My dad has seen 8,000 of them. Dad was locked in. We decided to talk after the game, for better or worse. Almost as if not to jinx anything.

Fifteen minutes later we were talking. My father was as lucid as I’ve heard him in almost two years. He was elated. Santana had done what Seaver, Ryan, Gooden, Koosman, and Cone couldn’t. He threw a no-no.  This is history. This is fun. This is happy. This is the contrast to what Lynn told me last week: bad things always happen, get used to it.

I refuse to get used to it. I liked today.