Just Like Starting Over
Someone asked me the other day what I write. Which is a question, I, as a writer, often get. I can’t remember the context. This mundane part of the profession used to irritate me, though through no fault of my fellow conversationalist. What I mean: if you are a writer, people will ask what you write, and it’s a question that starts out so annoyingly basic, you get mad rehashing versions of elevator speeches. I mean, how can you whittle down your life to a few sentences? Then you really start to think about it. What. Do. You. Write? And it’s kinda soul crushing because you can’t answer. Not really. At least not tonight. Or maybe I’m projecting.
I write about the characters in a Springsteen song after the big game is over, after the all-nite gas station turns off its light. The dinette’s young waitress has finished her shift and is upstairs, under the covers, in her tiny attic apartment, writing her sad poems by the Turnpike’s halogen glow outside. After the mill’s closed down and all the homecoming queens have faded to gray, we … are still here. It’s this idea of, to quote another aged rocker of a certain era, the great Johnny Cougar, “Oh yea life goes on … long after the thrill of living is gone.”
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I’ve heard that goddamn song a million times. Why did this lyric stick its landing on repeated listening No. 1066? Beats me. Why do I instantly equate “1066” with the Battle of Hastings? Like I’ll be awarded some “skip this shitty event” card in the game of Life. Fuck, I don’t think they even asked me about the goddamn Battle of Hastings when I took my GREs (and that test pretty much covers all of history). My head is crammed with useless shit like that.
We were watching a family movie the other night, probably some archaic gem from the Forgotten Times on the ’80s, and I might’ve known some obscure actress’s name, because that’s what I do: I make connections. And my son probably asked, “How the hell do you know that?” I shrugged. I can’t explain the rest answer is because Daddy can’t hold down a day job, balance a checkbook (yes, I still use checks), or answer the simple saluation “How’s it going?” any way other than 100% truthful, however fabricated. (“Me? I’m doing REALLY good!” That’s my new one. Kinda funny. Like firing off a single line of text to your dude friends: i miss u. [Kills me.](kinda like the multi-parenthetical)].)
I realized today that I’ve—not to quote da Vinci—but fuck it, let’s go full Leonardo—I have wasted my years. My work has offended God and mankind! (Okay, maybe that’s a bit dramatic in my case. But ol’ Leo? I’ll just come out and say it: Best. Human. Being. Ever. (Slightly ahead of my best friend Rich. Nothing personal, Rich, it’s just, y’know, helicopters, philosophy, art and shit.)
There are many divergences in a piece. I could, for instance, become a carpenter, sort of working backward (because Harrison Ford not Jesus). To bring it back to meta, I could make this an essay exploring how Mellencamp connects to Springsteen, which reminds me of the time me and my friend Dan were looking for new musicians and found an ad for “Hazy Blue,” whose bio stated could be found “somewhere between R.E.M. and 10,000 Manics.” Between R.E.M. and 10,000 Maniacs—y’know, that vacuous chasm between forefinger, smidge and Trickle-Down Economics.
Yes, I am drawn to Americana. The Boss. John Mellencamp. Petty. Young. All the descendants down to my buddy Micah and Two Cow Garage.
“I swear I lost everything I ever loved or feared.”
Bruce Springsteen, “Growing Up.”
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I, of course, understood the first part. An East Coast, All-American hungry-tonight boy, I was raised on Springsteen. His empathy for the working class (despite never having worked a day job) is wormed down to a cellular level, integral in my make up, character, and beliefs. I was wrong about the second part.
“I swear I lost everything I ever loved or feared.” It’s not about the shit that scares you—it’s about the shit that once had the power to scare you but doesn’t anymore. It’s a subtle distinction, but, man, I’ve been thinking about that all day. Maybe that’s the secret. Since I can’t stop the racing thoughts, maybe we just try and make the neighborhood upstairs a little more pleasant. Instead of self-talk, like, “What’s wrong with you you stupid piece of shit?” How about we don’t sound like dad and and remember … “There’s a good man inside…” Why not try? 53 years the other way have sucked.
My first wife used to say I was the “master of the profoundly obvious.”
She had a point. Rudimentary basics slip my understanding. I don’t get how you people do it. I’m just a caveman. Your world frightens and confuses me.
You reach a certain age, and because life is such a race, it stops being competitive. I’m not finishing first, second, or even in the Top 100. I’ll end up where I always have, solidly middle of the pack. (I believe our deepest fears eventually come true—I’ve always worried that I was nothing special, an ordinary [wait for it] Joe. If all this pain, suffering and woes hasn’t been for greatness, what’s the fucking point? Like my friend Tom say,“I don’t want the money back; I want the time.”)
Beat them, kick them, whip them, lose them. What does it matter? As one of my favorite rock anthems from the ’90s (I sing as I’m falling, falling, falling) laments, “No one asks where the time goes … just so long as it’s gone.”
OR
I don’t care what you do. Just don’t do it in my backyard. #mannycoon
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