Random Erik

When I first heard Thunder Road, I liked it a lot, but I didn’t feel I’d hit a crucial place in my musical life. The ignorance of youth. I was a young teen listening to the Eagles, Jimmy Buffett and Peter, Paul and Mary (that last one a throwback to albums my parents had played since I was an infant). Musically speaking, it wasn’t anything particularly interesting or deep.

Maybe I heard it when my brother played the album, or maybe it was on the radio. But I’m sure it caught my attention: A solo harmonica followed by bell clear piano. And then that sad sandpaper voice came in:

The screen door slams
Mary’s dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch
As the radio plays

I’d heard Bruce Springsteen before this, I’m sure, but it obviously hadn’t meant much to a boy who’d been listening to the musical equivalent of junk food. Those lines, though, sung slowly and sadly, struck a chord. Mostly, I thought it was pretty, and when the song built to a sudden release of energy with the cry of “roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair,” I could feel the excitement and heartfelt joy of the moment.

But it was repeated exposure that built the song to its place in my life. And it was my growing older, understanding better the emotions and longings behind those lyrics. Song lyrics may not be poetry, but I think Springsteen came as close as any songwriter with this ode to youthful love and yearning for freedom.

And those opening lines affected my early dating experiences. Pulling up in the car, watching a girl come out onto to her porch to meet me, I looked for the feeling evoked by those lyrics. It always led to disappointment: that magical feeling from the song didn’t overwhelm me when these girls appeared. So often they were in jeans. Where were the soft, summery dresses that would catch the breezes and flutter around their legs?

It was the lines that followed directly after that hit me directly:

Roy Orbison’s singing for the lonely
Hey that’s me and I want you only
Don’t turn me home again
I just can’t face myself alone again

I was a lonely teenager, as so many of us were. And to be honest, this part of the song spoke, and speaks, more truly to me than any other part. There weren’t that many times that I watched a girl cross the porch to my car. There were lots when I was on my own and not enjoying the company.

The song also captures that feeling of freedom that a car gives you, especially when you’re young and naive. The ability to “trade in these wings on some wheels.” The loss of innocence is part of gaining freedom, a truth that goes back to Adam and Eve. On the drive to work, I often felt that urge to turn onto I-95 instead, to simply hit the highway without much thought about my destination. A dutiful kid to the end, it remained a fantasy. On the same album, the title song Born to Run addresses these feelings as well, but in my opinion it does so without the same deep understanding of the joys and pitfalls such a run for freedom creates. Even now, I can conjure up a clear image, driving to an evening shift at the pharmacy, the twilight just fading to night and my car crossing the bridge over that huge interstate highway. I was on the razor thin line between responsibility and freedom, and I now regret not making a run for it at least once.

When Springsteen performs this song live, he plays it slowly and sadly throughout. No sudden explosion of energy, just the same quiet tone. It adds a new layer. And though I thought that this was the choice of an older, wiser performer, watching the 1975 concert film that comes with the Born to Run box set revealed that he’s been doing that almost from the beginning. And there is a sadness as you get older, and the youthful energy and idealism fade. The consequences of your choices become clearer, sometimes with a tinge of regret attached. A few years later, the title track to Springsteen’s The River features an unnamed narrator and a girl named Mary. She may not be the girl who, dress waving, ran out to get in the car. I imagine, though, that she is. But the man is remembering picking up Mary and driving her down to the river for the evening. Now they’re married, the result of a young pregnancy, but he still has his memories:

But I remember us riding in my brother’s car
Her body tan and wet down at the reservoir
At night on them banks I’d lie awake
And pull her close just to feel each breath she’d take
Now those memories come back to haunt me
they haunt me like a curse
Is a dream a lie if it don’t come true
Or is it something worse

Hey, I’m almost 40, I’ve done very well for myself, I have a wonderful wife and the sweetest dog on the planet and I get to draw and teach kids how to do fun stuff. I have a Vespa to race around town and out to the lake. I’m as happy as I’ve ever been. But then Thunder Road comes on the radio or on my iPod, and I’m a lonely teenager once again, hopeful about the future, worried about my choices and just wishing for the freedom to hit the highway and roll down the windows. It’s a bittersweet moment every single time.

But oh, the bitter makes the sweet that much better, and I’m happy and singing along for those four minutes.

And now I have the memory of jumping in the VW Bug with Maggie in February of 2000 and outrunning a blizzard on I-95. Those closing lines of the song were in my head as we began our search for a place to settle and start a new life:

So Mary climb in
It’s a town full of losers
We’re pulling out of here to win

Does anyone else have this fantasy? The one where you’re back somewhere in your past, but you have your current brain? Anybody?

Because I have this fantasy fairly often, especially when I’m dwelling needlessly on something from my childhood or going through a bout of depression. “I should have done this, I should have said that, I should have reached out to one person and not allowed another person into my life.” That sort of thing. This goes beyond wishing you had known something that would have helped you: it’s a dream of reliving your life with full knowledge of what’s coming and with a lot of experience to help reshape that life.

Plus, wouldn’t it be cool to have the brain of an (almost) 40-year-old in an 8-year-old’s body? IQ is determined by dividing mental age by chronological age and mutliplying by 100. 100 is the average IQ, where your mental and chronological ages are equal. Now I pride myself on being a bit smart, so I like to think that my mental age is actually above my current chronological one. But even if you assume 40 as my mental age, Li’l Erik would be the proud owner of a 500 IQ. It wouldn’t take long for my parents and teachers to realize that, just maybe, I’m too advanced for the third grade. They’d stamp “prodigy” all over my permanent record using a specially made “prodigy” stamp. They’d probably send someone over to the stationery store at lunch break to pick it up. College graduate by 11? Masters degree by 13, maybe? Not a Ph.D., though, I never liked school that much and I’d be content to await the honorary degree earmarked for me. And I’m betting on a full scholarship, since I’d be a point of pride for the university lucky enough to score my attendance.

And the people. I may not remember everyone at first, but I’d quickly remember who the real snakes are. With the maturity, knowledge, and wit accumulated through the years, the bullies of my childhood wouldn’t find the easy target that I presented before. Nope, I’m betting that I’d be able to psychologically scar an 8-year-old bully if I put my mind to it. And there are a few names from my past that come to mind: I’d have no qualms about using my 500 IQ brain to find a special hell for those guys.

Do you get the feeling that I’ve put a lot of thought into this? Does anyone else have this fantasy? Hello?

Being who I am, though, I’ve also run into the dark side of this dream. That’s my way, looking for the possible negatives in any situation. The glass may be half full, but would I want to drink the contents?

Let’s start with the impact on my parents. I magically implant my older, smarter brain into my dimwitted and naive 8-year-old self. Overnight, I’m suddenly a mental grown-up (well, sort of). So my parents miss out on watching me grow gradually from childhood to a (they hope) mature, responsible, and delightful person. My parents like to think their children are capable of genius, but to be saddled little Mr. 500 IQ might be more than they wanted to deal with.

Then there’s my social life. Hanging with people my age wouldn’t be much fun for long. Not that I don’t enjoy being around kids, but being thrust back into their society isn’t exactly enticing. I think the conversation would dry up pretty fast. Meanwhile, hanging out with my mental peers wouldn’t be much better, since they’d probably have a hard time dealing with little me as an equal. Besides, who’d let me sit with them and discuss things over a glass of wine? Maybe I’d have to move to France for that. Where would I find suitable dating partners. At least until I hit 18, it would be hard to find a relationship that wouldn’t seem creepy (I won’t elaborate… you can work that out for yourself if you are so inclined).

But the biggest question of all, at least for me, is whether the results of this trip into the past would make my life better or worse when I finally caught up to 40 again. Would I have met the people who really matter to me, and would they have responded to me in the same way? Would I be richer or poorer? Happier or more depressed? More, or less, satisfied with my life overall? Suppose all I do is make things worse and begin a fantasy about never having had that other stupid fantasy in the first place. And the worm continues to eat it’s own tail. Our experiences make us who we are: would I like the person formed by such unusual experiences? Would I like him better?

Of course I realize it’s just a fantasy. If I thought I could really do such a thing, my 8-year-old self would have a lunatic streak that he simply doesn’t need. I couldn’t do that to him. He has enough trouble. But sometimes it’s fun to think about it. And sometimes it’s not very much fun, but I do it anyway. And I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s thought about these things.

I’m not, am I?

“It was Christmas Eve, babe, in the drunk tank…”

That’s how the greatest Christmas song ever recorded by a rock group, pop group or country group begins. Don’t even think to argue. It’s a song that captures the melancholy, hope and passion that surrounds this holiday. The album, If I Should Fall From Grace with God, was the high-water mark for The Pogues, and the water was pretty high already. And in that shimmering, rollicking, rough and beautiful collection, you’ll find that heartbreaking classic, Fairytale of New York.

What makes the song especially wonderful is the presence of a non-Pogue: Kirsty MacColl. She became a sort of unofficial member, singing with them often, and what a match it was. Shane MacGowan’s slurry, drunken and charming growl mixed with MacColl’s clear, full voice; sandpaper and silk. The music was a force, Irish traditional played with abandon by people with punk sensibilities, as if the Sex Pistols had stolen the instruments from a bunch of guys in wooly sweaters.

MacColl brought her own magic. She was a popster, but one with such street cred that she got to hang out with the cool guys of 80s music: Billy Bragg, the Smiths, Bono. Her music instantly stood out. Pop melodies, sometimes with lush arrangements, but sung with brio and the sense of fun that you don’t hear from the manufactured pop girls of today.

People who think that the 80s were a musical wasteland were not paying attention. If you were ready to look beneath the vapid MTV crap, things were stronger than they’ve been in the past decade. I was fortunate to live within receiving distance of WHFS, back then a no-playlist station helmed by DJs who knew where the good stuff was hidden. I liked a lot of it, hated some of it, and twisted the volume dial way up on the car stereo for a very few. One was Billy Bragg’s A New England. Another was Kirsty MacColl’s cover of Billy Bragg’s A New England. And Kirsty’s barrelhouse rocker There’s a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Swears He’s Elvis. Some of you are wondering what I’m talking about. But I’m hoping that some of you are smiling, remembering when you first heard these songs. If you haven’t, check them out (99 cents a song on iTunes, skip that Starbuck’s today and try the ones they have).

But back to the point. Kirsty MacColl seems to loom large this Christmas. At a play the other night, the singer who did numbers between the acts performed In These Shoes?, a minor hit for Kirsty a few years back and a song that’s also been performed by (shudder) Bette Midler. The next morning, I turned on the radio to hear the wonderful original version (No le gusta caminar. No puede montar a caballo. Como se puede bailar? Es un escandolo!). Of course, our local alternative station is playing Fairytale of New York.

And Maggie pointed out an article on the British newspaper The Mirror web site. The man who killed Kirsty MacColl still hasn’t been punished.

She was in Cozumel, on a dive with her sons. They were in the National Marine Park, which is limited to divers, swimmers and their support boats. When she surfaced, she was cut in half by a 31 foot powerboat. Witnesses say that the boat was travelling at around 18 to 20 knots, not the single knot that the boat’s occupants claimed. One knot: Almost certainly a lie considering the eyewitness accounts and the seriousness of the injuries. But the boat’s owner is a powerful man in Mexico, and despite more eyewitness accounts of his son being at the helm, a deckhand took the blame, was convicted of culpable homicide and escaped prison by paying the equivalent of $100.

Kirsty’s mother is still battling for real justice, though. The Pogues have re-released Fairytale to raise money for the Justice for Kirsty campaign. And this week, after 5 years, the boat’s owner and two of his relatives have been subpoenaed for perjury in the case. Somehow, I don’t feel hopeful that anything will come out of this.

She died on December 18th, 2001. Only a month before, Maggie had seen her live in London. It was a fantastic show with the old favorites and her new, Cuban-influenced, songs.

There have only been a few times I’ve cried when hearing about the death of someone I don’t actually know. Jim Henson. Dr. Seuss. And Kirsty MacColl.

So for me, Kirsty adds more emotion to this time of the year. That sense of joy when I hear the opening strains of that Pogues song. And that melancholy that seems to get a bit stronger every year at this time, as I think it does for most adults. But now I’ll focus on that wave of joy that comes over me when her part of the song starts:

“When you first took my hand on that cold Christmas Eve,
You promised me Broadway was waiting for me”

I really miss her.

Blizzard has a lot to answer for. For those of you not in the geeky know, Blizzard publishes the Warcraft series of games including World of Warcraft, the massively multi-player time vacuum. You know how it is (well, some of you know how it is): You sign on “just for a little bit” to finish some quests and kill some of those annoying pansy Alliance players. The creepy little elves and nasty nasty humans, death to them all.

Four hours later, when the bladder has filled up, you consider getting up. “How desperate am I,” you ask. “Another half an hour? Can I find a place to hide where one of those creepy, nasty, smelly, deviate Alliance players won’t find me and slaughter me while I answer nature’s call?”. Each and every one of us can relate to that, I’m sure.

Anyway, I think the comic speaks for itself. It’s a good thing that all the good stuff has been invented and created by now, because if Isaac Newton or Jonas Salk or William Shakespeare were able to sign on to World of Warcraft, our world (the real one) would be a very different place.

See you online. And if you’re one of those dirty double-dealing scumbag Alliance players, you better hope you see me first. For the Horde!!

Second place. Not too bad, really. 18 classes over 7 days, and that’s accounting for my zero classes on Saturday. So an average of 3 classes a day. It’s little wonder that I’m exhausted. If you haven’t read my previous blog on this, you may better understand what I’m talking about by reading that one first.

There were no more fart- and hippie-laden Yoga classes. I don’t know if the other Yoga classes are better than the one I took since I didn’t bother showing up for any more. I have no other horrible yet funny stories of that magnitude for the rest of the week. There was a cycle spin class with a heavy metal soundtrack, played to a volume that left my ears ringing (and no, it’s not just because I’m getting older… this was the crap from my teenage years and the volume was extreme to the point that the loose folds in my clothing were bouncing to the bass vibrations). Then there was the retro class which turned out to be step aerobics. The gym performed an act of sheer genius for that one by snatching an instructor straight out of 1986. The technology involved must have been awesome, and I hope to see it used for the betterment of mankind. The only things lacking were leg warmers and a side pony-tail.

But I made it through both of those classes: No walking out, no hideous odors, no terrible readings from mushy “spiritual” books.

The final party was okay, and Maggie and I had a good time talking with some of the people we’d met over the week. Some of those actual connections I had hoped for, and that made me happy. They served tacos and margaritas, though I wisely avoided the latter having learned that tequila and I don’t get along. I guess you do get just a bit smarter as you age.

And they announced the winners.

The women made a very strong showing, and a woman I’d seen in almost every class I took came in third for her gender with 9 classes more than I managed. The overall women’s winner wasn’t there to accept her prize as she was TAKING A CLASS!!! Now that’s an in your face.

The men were pathetic by comparison. Our winner did very well, with around 30 classes. I met him the day before the finale, and he had already established an unbridgeable gap in our numbers. Then he went all out on the last day and added seven more to his total. The fact that I came in second with 18 shows how poorly our sex performed. Though I’d seen very few men in the classes, I kept thinking that they must be in secret Y chromosome classes not open to my type of guy. Maybe most men were just too busy pumping iron to do something as girly as taking exercise classes.

So what did I win for my glorious silver-medal performance? Nothing. The winners got big gift certificates to a nice local restaurant. Bupkus for me and my fellow also-rans. Not even a t-shirt or a free smoothie at the gym’s smoothie bar. Not even a keychain. While I know that they were under no obligation to reward me, I still felt a bit dejected by this turn of events. When the British call someone “mean,” they are saying the person is a cheapskate. Somehow, being rewarded for my performance with only a quick mention of my name seemed mean to me, in both the British and American senses.

But Maggie is proud of me, I’m proud of me and coming in second felt like a real accomplishment after my weekend crisis of faith. So that’s it. No real moral, just an exhausting experience that showed me I can still hack it, physically speaking.

And here is my class card, though I scanned it earlier in the week so it shows far fewer courses completed than it did when I turned it in. Just for the historical record, you understand.

The card, halfway through the contest