It happens. Old houses are weird and sometimes things spring a leak while you are gone for five hours. Never mind that you work from home and are kind of a hermit these days (comparatively) so OF COURSE something like this is going to happen during the only consecutive five hours you are gone THE ENTIRE WEEK.
So, your water intake hose for the toilet in the master bathroom sprung a leak. No big deal. When you get home from your five hours (your only five fucking hours) out dancing and drinking to find yourself squish-squishing across your bathroom floor, you're gonna wanna miraculously think to turn the water off and then throw three towels and the thinnest bedsheet you own at the problem and deal with it the next day.
Alright. Now you're going to Google some shit. You're going to learn the name of the piece that is leaking and learn how to measure different things so you can buy a new one. You're gonna be smart and take the part with you to Lowe's so you make sure to get the right thing but also you're going to leave it right on the kitchen counter instead. You'll say "fuck it" because you read that there are only two possible options to buy (7/8 and something else because you suck at fractions) so you just think you'll buy both parts and return the one that doesn't fit. If you're lucky like me, you only roll into stores three deep these days because you are usually with your sister and her boyfriend, so you'll confidently trade "I think this looks right" words of affirmation with Sister's Boyfriend and get on your way. Don't forget to buy a ceiling fan on the way out because that is definitely something you need to do right then.
Sister's Boyfriend will replace the leaky hose for you because he is sweet and mechanically inclined and you asked him nicely. He is also good at replacing doorknobs, which you found out a few weeks ago.
Okie dokie, now that that's done, you'll notice that the lake you unwittingly created and left in your bathroom overnight has caused some of the decades-old caulk to come loose around the base of the toilet. NO BIG DEAL, my friend. It's easy to replace yourself and I'm going to lay some caulk-strong knowledge on you right now.
1. Timing is everything so make sure to start at a convenient time like, oh, less than 12 hours before you're hosting a family gathering at your house. 2 AM is what worked for me, but you can be flexible here.
2. Watch one and a half YouTube videos and read a WikiHow article. Congrats. You're an expert.
3. Gather your tools. This includes your beer (you've already had a few, let's be honest) and your phone charger because your phone is dying and you need music for this project. Struggle with getting it to play via casting to your tv because despite being good at your technology job you suck at technology.
4. Choose the right caulk for the job. I chose the caulk and caulk gun that my mom left on her front porch for me to pick up because I don't own any of those things.
5. Okay, so after cleaning the area thoroughly (because why not, you've been cleaning all day) you may notice that the bolts on either side of the toilet are loose. Use a wrench to tighten. Oh, did I say wrench? I meant pliers that are ill-equipped but efficient enough to do the damn thing because you used to own several wrenches but they all mysteriously vanished a few months ago when someone moved out. And while it happens less and less often, you still occasionally reach for something you know was there only to find it missing. Stuff like dish soap and your Grandmother's cookbook. It's the shittiest Easter egg hunt ever.
6. Remember all the expert knowledge you learned from your one and a half videos and that article you skimmed? Disregard anything that seems inconvenient or too time-consuming. The Science Fair is tomorrow and we need to get started on this volcano!
7. Immediately regret not putting tape on the floor. Fuck.
8. No, no, it's okay. You got this. It's oddly like icing a cake except you can't eat the frosting and licking the bowl would be disgusting. Slather way to much caulk around and then use one of the seven old washcloths you brought in with you to clean up as you go. It's really not that bad.
9. Realize you are wiping up excess caulk with a Scooby Doo washcloth and get sad. Why didn't this get packed up with the wrench? Quick, think about something else.
10. Hey remember the time your Grandmother fell in this very bathroom and you were the one to find her and you had to call 911? Remember how that was sort of the beginning of the end and she died three months later?
11. What's worse? When someone dies or when someone is dead to you?
12. Don't forget to smooth out any weird lumps or air bubbles.
13. The cider you are drinking is way too sweet for this job so I recommend switching back to Mich Ultra here. Just kidding, you drank all the Ultra while you were mopping earlier.
14. Okay that should do it. And if not, remember: you don't have to let people use this bathroom tomorrow. Sure, the caulk may not be dry but also because your bedroom is a visual disaster that pretty accurately represents how you are fighting tooth and nail to keep your depression at bay.
15. Blog about it because you need to laugh. Don't proofread because you are a DIY rebel.
16. Fuck you, Bob Vila.
Sunday, February 10, 2019
Wednesday, December 5, 2018
I found a place
I found a place.
It was cold there, colder than I expected. I don't think that's typical, though. I'm not really sure; I'm not good at weather or geography. It was a new place, but it felt familiar. It felt like Sister's college town. It felt relaxed and peaceful like I was when I used to visit her there. How strange that a town can feel like a time.
I barely made it to the place. All I had to do was get to the airport. I checked in to my flight and then checked out almost completely. There are days that I can do my job in my sleep and there are days that I forgo sleep in order to work. The night before my flight was the latter. Sometimes things come up and you just have to put out fires. Even if they aren't your fires. I saw an "All My Sons" moving truck on the highway. I get that. They were all my fires.
Someone told me recently that I make references no one gets. Well, if you didn't get it, it wasn't for you.
All I had to do was get to the airport. It's weird to have so little responsibility these days, to just take care of myself and not much else. I swear I used to take care of other people, and I even think I was good at it. After I got off the plane I barely had to take care of myself. I was given coffee and spoonfuls of peanut butter with bananas and tissues and space.
Not like space space. Just space. I had a space where I put my clothes and a place where I put my jewelry and a room where I set up a workstation and I was more comfortable and productive in that environment than I have been in ages. I did get space space too. I didn't even have to ask for it, I just walked outside and stared at the rosebushes, and when that got too hard I turned the other way and stared at the bricks. Seems like I'm always in between a rose and hard place these days.
I only needed tissues once; I had lots of peanut butter and bananas.
The place has a bar because there's always a bar. And the bartenders were amazing and the patrons were stock characters and all of it was perfect. All bars can be kind of the same if you let them. Hey, how's it going? Oh just one after work. Just one before work. Did you see the game? Someone's salty ex was lurking in the corner. Someone was mourning. Someone was celebrating. Someone was rattling on excitedly while new friends hung on to every Jameson-flavored word.
I got lost in the place. It came over me suddenly, standing in the middle of the street I didn't know the name of on the way to an address I don't think I ever knew sober, much less could remember tipsy. I laughed so hard that the cold air hurt my lungs as I tried to calm down and make sense to my bewildered guide. I am so useless here. I can't do anything. I can't rescue anyone, I can't save anyone, I can't even get us home. And I am so, so grateful. I laughed the rest of the way home, void of responsibility and full of trust. I don't remember the last time I felt either of those things, much less at the same time.
I drank so much coffee at the place. I drink it at home now, too. I think I am probably trying to recapture the rush, but it's not quite the same. Because it wasn't just the caffeine, was it?
I was lost long before I found the place. I've shed identities and reworked images and curated a collection of sound bytes designed to answer questions without triggering new ones. I like my status reports at work because I don't have to answer things like "how are you doing?" and the equally terrible "oh my god, are you okay?"
I'm fine. All I had to do was get to the airport.
There's a difference between just being lost and knowing without a doubt that you are lost, and I'm so thankful that being lost was shoved in my face that night as we walked home. I never realized how much walking on eggshells can screw up your internal compass. No wonder I wandered so far off track.
By the way, when you imagine walking on eggshells, do you imagine that the eggs are still whole and you're trying not to break them or do you see jagged eggshells pieces that you're trying not to make worse? I mean, at that point the eggs are already cracked. Who are you trying to protect? If you say yourself you are lying, because the answer is to get away from the eggshells or put some fucking shoes on. Maybe that's not fair. Maybe you had a good reason to tread and retread something so broken that used to hold so much promise. I guess there's no right answer.
There are two things I miss. Only two. But I do not miss the eggshells. I do not miss the drama. I do not miss being afraid.
There was drama at the place, too. Because there is always drama. But it wasn't mine, I just got to watch it unfold for someone else. I felt bad about it. Responsible even, but I think that's just the eggshells talking. I don't think it was really my fault.
I was able to reset my nerves in the place. I got jumpy once. I flinched over something stupid, but we talked about it and I immediately felt okay. Safe. Heard. Validated.
I didn't make any decisions in the place. I made suggestions. I vetoed options. But I chose very little. I did come to some conclusions. Some undeniably healthy and some that are a little scary. But I'll think about it a little more each day in a way that is manageable and not my usual method of manic hurriedness. I am really working on breaking my bad habit of trying to solve problems that don't exist yet.
I miss the place for its weather and its quaintness and the quirks of the house but much more than that I miss the person. And the cat, if I'm being completely honest. I miss watching movies and listening to music and making plans and quickly abandoning them to do nothing. I miss talking about work to someone outside of work who shows a genuine interest in what I do. I miss a thousand little things that I keep to myself because they are mine alone to treasure, but are undoubtedly written across my face when I tell stories about the place. I preemptively missed them so much at the end of my five-day trip that I stayed for two weeks instead. It worked out because I got to stay through Thanksgiving and the anniversary of Roland's death, and it was hands down the best Thanksgiving I've had since he died. So yes, I miss the place, but for someone to give me that safe space and encouragement and patience and the drinks and the tissues during The One Good Cry without asking for literally anything in return... well, I owe you forever, I guess.
But really it's not just that person. I appreciate every person who allowed me to check out as soon as I got to the airport. Some people took care of my house and some people left me alone and some people called to catch up and I think generally everyone just understood. It's nice to be unapologetically yourself and have other people try their best to understand.
"Logic only gives a man what he needs. Magic gives him what he wants."
The trip made a lot of sense, but the time was magical.
I found a place. I'm in a good place.
It was cold there, colder than I expected. I don't think that's typical, though. I'm not really sure; I'm not good at weather or geography. It was a new place, but it felt familiar. It felt like Sister's college town. It felt relaxed and peaceful like I was when I used to visit her there. How strange that a town can feel like a time.
I barely made it to the place. All I had to do was get to the airport. I checked in to my flight and then checked out almost completely. There are days that I can do my job in my sleep and there are days that I forgo sleep in order to work. The night before my flight was the latter. Sometimes things come up and you just have to put out fires. Even if they aren't your fires. I saw an "All My Sons" moving truck on the highway. I get that. They were all my fires.
Someone told me recently that I make references no one gets. Well, if you didn't get it, it wasn't for you.
All I had to do was get to the airport. It's weird to have so little responsibility these days, to just take care of myself and not much else. I swear I used to take care of other people, and I even think I was good at it. After I got off the plane I barely had to take care of myself. I was given coffee and spoonfuls of peanut butter with bananas and tissues and space.
Not like space space. Just space. I had a space where I put my clothes and a place where I put my jewelry and a room where I set up a workstation and I was more comfortable and productive in that environment than I have been in ages. I did get space space too. I didn't even have to ask for it, I just walked outside and stared at the rosebushes, and when that got too hard I turned the other way and stared at the bricks. Seems like I'm always in between a rose and hard place these days.
I only needed tissues once; I had lots of peanut butter and bananas.
The place has a bar because there's always a bar. And the bartenders were amazing and the patrons were stock characters and all of it was perfect. All bars can be kind of the same if you let them. Hey, how's it going? Oh just one after work. Just one before work. Did you see the game? Someone's salty ex was lurking in the corner. Someone was mourning. Someone was celebrating. Someone was rattling on excitedly while new friends hung on to every Jameson-flavored word.
I drank so much coffee at the place. I drink it at home now, too. I think I am probably trying to recapture the rush, but it's not quite the same. Because it wasn't just the caffeine, was it?
I was lost long before I found the place. I've shed identities and reworked images and curated a collection of sound bytes designed to answer questions without triggering new ones. I like my status reports at work because I don't have to answer things like "how are you doing?" and the equally terrible "oh my god, are you okay?"
I'm fine. All I had to do was get to the airport.
There's a difference between just being lost and knowing without a doubt that you are lost, and I'm so thankful that being lost was shoved in my face that night as we walked home. I never realized how much walking on eggshells can screw up your internal compass. No wonder I wandered so far off track.
By the way, when you imagine walking on eggshells, do you imagine that the eggs are still whole and you're trying not to break them or do you see jagged eggshells pieces that you're trying not to make worse? I mean, at that point the eggs are already cracked. Who are you trying to protect? If you say yourself you are lying, because the answer is to get away from the eggshells or put some fucking shoes on. Maybe that's not fair. Maybe you had a good reason to tread and retread something so broken that used to hold so much promise. I guess there's no right answer.
There are two things I miss. Only two. But I do not miss the eggshells. I do not miss the drama. I do not miss being afraid.
There was drama at the place, too. Because there is always drama. But it wasn't mine, I just got to watch it unfold for someone else. I felt bad about it. Responsible even, but I think that's just the eggshells talking. I don't think it was really my fault.
I was able to reset my nerves in the place. I got jumpy once. I flinched over something stupid, but we talked about it and I immediately felt okay. Safe. Heard. Validated.
I didn't make any decisions in the place. I made suggestions. I vetoed options. But I chose very little. I did come to some conclusions. Some undeniably healthy and some that are a little scary. But I'll think about it a little more each day in a way that is manageable and not my usual method of manic hurriedness. I am really working on breaking my bad habit of trying to solve problems that don't exist yet.
I miss the place for its weather and its quaintness and the quirks of the house but much more than that I miss the person. And the cat, if I'm being completely honest. I miss watching movies and listening to music and making plans and quickly abandoning them to do nothing. I miss talking about work to someone outside of work who shows a genuine interest in what I do. I miss a thousand little things that I keep to myself because they are mine alone to treasure, but are undoubtedly written across my face when I tell stories about the place. I preemptively missed them so much at the end of my five-day trip that I stayed for two weeks instead. It worked out because I got to stay through Thanksgiving and the anniversary of Roland's death, and it was hands down the best Thanksgiving I've had since he died. So yes, I miss the place, but for someone to give me that safe space and encouragement and patience and the drinks and the tissues during The One Good Cry without asking for literally anything in return... well, I owe you forever, I guess.
But really it's not just that person. I appreciate every person who allowed me to check out as soon as I got to the airport. Some people took care of my house and some people left me alone and some people called to catch up and I think generally everyone just understood. It's nice to be unapologetically yourself and have other people try their best to understand.
"Logic only gives a man what he needs. Magic gives him what he wants."
The trip made a lot of sense, but the time was magical.
I found a place. I'm in a good place.
Tuesday, October 3, 2017
The Wild One, Forever.
Tom Petty died today. Or maybe he didn't really, the news is still catching up to the truth of things. It's weird how that happens, how there can be a declaration of literal life and death, and then someone can take it back. Retract it. Just kidding, I imagine news sources saying. My bad. Timing is a fickle mistress.
I posted this on Facebook yesterday:
Driving over the Howard Franklin Bridge is beautiful at sunrise. By "sunrise" I mean 8:30 AM. By "beautiful" I mean what am I doing with my life.
I honestly didn't put much thought into it, but sometimes when I blurt out dissonant observations on social media those little snippets of half-cocked snark get lots of reactions. It's weird how that happens, too. It's like other people understand what I meant even if I didn't. I imagine them imagining me driving over the bridge with my windows down and radio up, my sunglasses doing nothing for my tired eyes except to shield the driver next to me from the mascara smeared all over my eyelids. I imagine it's easy for those who know me to imagine it: "Ah yes, there goes Keri. Driving over the bridge she hates more than anything else in the world. She's mildly impressed with the clear sky and easy waters, but she's also wondering what she's doing there to see it. She knows why she's there, of course, but she's still wondering how she got there. Not "how" logistically but "how" emotionally. Yes, they are entirely different questions, especially to someone like Keri. I will give her a "like" to show my solidarity."
I mean, is that not how you imagined it?
I saw Tom Petty in concert once, sort of. I am trying to remember the specifics, but if News Sources can get their facts wrong, maybe I can too and be forgiven. My bad. It's fuzzy. It was some sort of festival or political rally or something other than a headlining tour. He was just performing at some place. And I wasn't really supposed to be there, I just happened to be on the right adventure at the right time with the right people and the right friend of a friend had a thing or knew a person and then before I really knew why or how, I was watching Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
I am an absolute sucker for a good live performance, no matter the artist or genre. Admittedly, I am not a huge Tom Petty fan. I'm not opposed, just apathetic. My favorite thing he ever did was his interview in the documentary Sound City. But what caught me by surprise immediately when I saw Tom was how intimate it was. And how familiar. And how that familiarity fed into the intimacy in a neverending feedback loop.
It was like telling a friend to grab you a drink while they're at the bar and they bring you the exact double-Jameson-and-ginger you wanted because they know you. And you take a big sip expecting some watered down bullshit, but there it is, a manifestation of the relationship you have been knowingly or unknowingly cultivating for nearly a decade. It's refreshing and overtly strong all at once. And it's easy to get drunk on; not just logistically, but emotionally.
It was like an innocuous gesture that turns unexpectedly into a great comfort, like a hand reaching out for yours in the darkness to steady you as you cross the boardwalk down to the beach. It's a kiss on the forehead that doesn't make you uneasy.
It was like how the rule of threes can be somehow comforting until a hack blog writer calls it out and ruins it, much like Jimmy Fallon laughing at his own jokes.
The night I saw Tom Petty somewhat accidentally, I knew every song, or at least some part of every song. It hit me then how pervasive his music was, how deeply ingrained in pop culture he and his music are. Whether I sought it out or not, I had been casually acquainted with Tom Petty, the Heartbreakers and their work for years, possibly forever given my age and the span of their undeniable success. And so, even just being a passive fan, I enjoyed the hell out of that night. We all went back to a bar and someone played twenty dollars worth of Tom Petty songs on the jukebox. But not the same jams we'd just experienced. These songs I didn't know as well, and when I heard "The Wild One, Forever" it really (I can't help it, sorry) struck a chord with me in a big way. It was the last verse that got me.
"Because somethin' I saw in your eyes
Told me right away
That you were gonna have to be mine
The strangest feeling came over me down inside
I knew right away
I'd never get over how good it felt
When you finally kissed me
I will never regret,
Baby, those few hours linger on in my head forever..."
Concerts (or shows as my younger, more pretentious self would insist on saying) are a strange and wonderful phenomenon to me. You have this crazy connection with a band or a singer or the music or the live aspect of the performance or even just the lyrics and you exist on this totally different plane of reality. For a few hours, at least. Someone calls out "I love you," and you say it back and you mean it, but do you really? You're strangers. You aren't going home with them in any sense. You don't commiserate over daily life together. You aren't even friends, really. You don't meet up for drinks or a movie when you have time. You don't even live in the same state. They don't know you at all, but you think they get you. Or you get them. But it's fabricated and coerced, not just logistically but emotionally. And yet, it is still very real somehow. Visceral. Palpable. So you buy into it. Or maybe you already bought into it when you bought the tickets, and now you are just denying that you bought into it all because it makes the lie seem real and that's okay with you. OR MAYBE, on that weird Narnia-esque, Through the Looking Glass plane of reality that you find yourself on at concerts, you really do love them and there is a crazy connection and it is familiar and it is intimate and they feed into each other in a neverending feedback loop. The time-space-music dimension is a fickle mistress.
Waking up in a hotel room always throws me off. It takes a minute to remember where I am (or how or why) but I feel safe and at home even before I have figured out the other answers. Concerts kind of feel the same; it's raw and cathartic and dangerous, but also safe. It's structured. There are boundaries. There are rules. The hotel is not your home, but you can live there. The concert experience is not how you actually or always feel, but you can access those emotions there. For a few hours anyway.
I used to say that certain concerts changed my life. They really didn't. I've never seen a band, even one I really like, and then changed anything even remotely significant about my life or the way I live it. And it makes me a little sad to admit that, honestly. I think that's why "The Wild One, Forever" really gets to me. "I knew right away/ I'd never get over how good it felt/ when you finally kissed me/ I will never regret/ Baby, those few hours linger on in my head forever..."
Man. The speaker has really liked and/or wanted this other person for a while and been patient and been understanding and finally had that Through the Looking Glass moment and experience, it was blissful, but it was only a few hours. And while those few hours will linger on in his head forever IT WAS ONLY A FEW HOURS and from the lyrics I can't tell that anything significant has changed about his life or how he lives it at all. It's like he was at a concert with me. There was this golden moment of familiarity and intimacy and then it was over and life moves on. You wake up in the hotel and you're disoriented and then you feel safe and then you check out.
I told you all of that just to explain how "The Wild One, Forever" ended up being the only Tom Petty song in my music collection, but still a song I reach for at very specific times in my life. I imagine you imagining if there is a point to all of this. Do I ever really make a point? I'm just trying to get used to this kind of writing again. How's it going? Yeah, I'm not sure either.
Driving over the Howard Franklin bridge was actually very pretty the other morning. But it was also quite odd. I had the same feeling I'd felt so many times after really good concerts. Did that happen? Am I the same person in real life as I am in that mosh pit? Will I ever see those people again? I know it really happened, but was it real?
Those are weird rabbit holes to go down. The Night Before The Bridge, when I was in St. Pete visiting an old friend, I overheard this conversation about what a number actually is, if it's real or just some way we impose meaning onto the universe. I thought about contributing a line my friend Derek told me once: "math was not invented, it was discovered." But I don't even know if that's right. What is right? How do you define... something, something etymologically true... burden of proof... words about stuff... reference to a book I never read. The conversation moved so fast and I felt so uninformed and uninteresting and I'll be honest, I was only half listening because I was so focused on the fact that I was drinking some kind of pineapple IPA aberration and it somehow did not taste like garbage. And that is a rabbit hole of which I am really afraid. Sure, numbers are bullshit and language is a fallacy and we are all leading lives full of agony and existential choices that only bring about more suffering. Fine. BUT HOW DOES THIS BEER NOT TASTE LIKE GARBAGE?
The rest of the night was full of weird rabbit holes and that concert-going feeling. Safely dangerous. Dangerously safe. And it was incongruous in many neat but functional ways--like a quilt stitched out of cotton and plastic bags--awkward but it worked. It was undeniably fun, even down to the Britney Spears karaoke song that I really enjoyed and was judged for enjoying. (How can you not love a lost man-child with an affinity for obscure metal trying his absolute best to sing "Toxic?" Isn't that why karaoke exists?) I met new people that felt like old friends right off the bat. The beach bar had this weird crowd that liked all kinds of music and this lady (there's always one) danced to EVERY song. She danced to music between songs. She danced while she sang her own song. And then there was the bartender, a cute girl who had exactly zero time for people's bullshit. And there was the guy who sprayed his beer like a total dickbag from the stage and got shitty Budweiser all over the dancefloor, which put the Dancing Lady in actual danger. And then there was Willie, the security guy who came to clean it up and tell Tool Bag to knock it off. But the karaoke lady was already giving him the business for cursing into her microphone. She doesn't like cursing into her microphone. And then there was last call, that magical time where some people can finish up, cash out and move on and other people are relentless in trying to get that last, wholly unnecessary drink and stand around, 100% in the way. All bars can be really similar if you let them. Familiar. Intimate.
I went to St. Pete to live deliberately, and I gotta tell you, I think I nailed it. But I stayed because I felt like garbage. (Maybe that's why the pineapple IPA didn't taste like garbage?! Oh man, I have to Scientific Method the hell out of this. You know, for science.) I'd been running a fever and fighting with my sinuses, unsuccessfully. The decision to stay was the right one for safety and a thousand other reasons. And when I woke up in the hotel I felt disoriented and then I felt safe and then I left.
And driving over the bridge that morning was actually very pretty. But it was also quite odd. So I reached for my phone and played "The Wild One, Forever." I played it over and over as I made my way home, my sunglasses doing nothing to help my tired eyes except shield the driver next to me from the mascara smeared across my eyelids. Windows down, radio up, I sang the words confidently and knowingly and a little sadly, already mourning the night that was but wasn't. The stage was empty, the Dancing Lady was gone, the footprints I'd left in the sand under a bright half moon were undoubtedly washed away by now. And even if they were still there, I'd already left.
The night was amazing and scary and familiar and new and fun and safe and out of my comfort zone and unexpected and somehow already written all at the same time. It was vulnerability gift-wrapped with a pretty bow of boundaries. It was unforgettable, if only mostly remembered.
That night, however, did not change my life, even if I wanted it to, even though it had the power to do so. That many commas can't be right. But that night has changed a part of me, and maybe that will be enough to somehow upheave my life somewhere down the road if it needs it. When I need it. Timing is a fickle mistress.
And if nothing else, "I will never regret... those few hours linger on in my head forever."
I posted this on Facebook yesterday:
Driving over the Howard Franklin Bridge is beautiful at sunrise. By "sunrise" I mean 8:30 AM. By "beautiful" I mean what am I doing with my life.
I honestly didn't put much thought into it, but sometimes when I blurt out dissonant observations on social media those little snippets of half-cocked snark get lots of reactions. It's weird how that happens, too. It's like other people understand what I meant even if I didn't. I imagine them imagining me driving over the bridge with my windows down and radio up, my sunglasses doing nothing for my tired eyes except to shield the driver next to me from the mascara smeared all over my eyelids. I imagine it's easy for those who know me to imagine it: "Ah yes, there goes Keri. Driving over the bridge she hates more than anything else in the world. She's mildly impressed with the clear sky and easy waters, but she's also wondering what she's doing there to see it. She knows why she's there, of course, but she's still wondering how she got there. Not "how" logistically but "how" emotionally. Yes, they are entirely different questions, especially to someone like Keri. I will give her a "like" to show my solidarity."
I mean, is that not how you imagined it?
I saw Tom Petty in concert once, sort of. I am trying to remember the specifics, but if News Sources can get their facts wrong, maybe I can too and be forgiven. My bad. It's fuzzy. It was some sort of festival or political rally or something other than a headlining tour. He was just performing at some place. And I wasn't really supposed to be there, I just happened to be on the right adventure at the right time with the right people and the right friend of a friend had a thing or knew a person and then before I really knew why or how, I was watching Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.
I am an absolute sucker for a good live performance, no matter the artist or genre. Admittedly, I am not a huge Tom Petty fan. I'm not opposed, just apathetic. My favorite thing he ever did was his interview in the documentary Sound City. But what caught me by surprise immediately when I saw Tom was how intimate it was. And how familiar. And how that familiarity fed into the intimacy in a neverending feedback loop.
It was like telling a friend to grab you a drink while they're at the bar and they bring you the exact double-Jameson-and-ginger you wanted because they know you. And you take a big sip expecting some watered down bullshit, but there it is, a manifestation of the relationship you have been knowingly or unknowingly cultivating for nearly a decade. It's refreshing and overtly strong all at once. And it's easy to get drunk on; not just logistically, but emotionally.
It was like an innocuous gesture that turns unexpectedly into a great comfort, like a hand reaching out for yours in the darkness to steady you as you cross the boardwalk down to the beach. It's a kiss on the forehead that doesn't make you uneasy.
It was like how the rule of threes can be somehow comforting until a hack blog writer calls it out and ruins it, much like Jimmy Fallon laughing at his own jokes.
The night I saw Tom Petty somewhat accidentally, I knew every song, or at least some part of every song. It hit me then how pervasive his music was, how deeply ingrained in pop culture he and his music are. Whether I sought it out or not, I had been casually acquainted with Tom Petty, the Heartbreakers and their work for years, possibly forever given my age and the span of their undeniable success. And so, even just being a passive fan, I enjoyed the hell out of that night. We all went back to a bar and someone played twenty dollars worth of Tom Petty songs on the jukebox. But not the same jams we'd just experienced. These songs I didn't know as well, and when I heard "The Wild One, Forever" it really (I can't help it, sorry) struck a chord with me in a big way. It was the last verse that got me.
"Because somethin' I saw in your eyes
Told me right away
That you were gonna have to be mine
The strangest feeling came over me down inside
I knew right away
I'd never get over how good it felt
When you finally kissed me
I will never regret,
Baby, those few hours linger on in my head forever..."
Concerts (or shows as my younger, more pretentious self would insist on saying) are a strange and wonderful phenomenon to me. You have this crazy connection with a band or a singer or the music or the live aspect of the performance or even just the lyrics and you exist on this totally different plane of reality. For a few hours, at least. Someone calls out "I love you," and you say it back and you mean it, but do you really? You're strangers. You aren't going home with them in any sense. You don't commiserate over daily life together. You aren't even friends, really. You don't meet up for drinks or a movie when you have time. You don't even live in the same state. They don't know you at all, but you think they get you. Or you get them. But it's fabricated and coerced, not just logistically but emotionally. And yet, it is still very real somehow. Visceral. Palpable. So you buy into it. Or maybe you already bought into it when you bought the tickets, and now you are just denying that you bought into it all because it makes the lie seem real and that's okay with you. OR MAYBE, on that weird Narnia-esque, Through the Looking Glass plane of reality that you find yourself on at concerts, you really do love them and there is a crazy connection and it is familiar and it is intimate and they feed into each other in a neverending feedback loop. The time-space-music dimension is a fickle mistress.
Waking up in a hotel room always throws me off. It takes a minute to remember where I am (or how or why) but I feel safe and at home even before I have figured out the other answers. Concerts kind of feel the same; it's raw and cathartic and dangerous, but also safe. It's structured. There are boundaries. There are rules. The hotel is not your home, but you can live there. The concert experience is not how you actually or always feel, but you can access those emotions there. For a few hours anyway.
I used to say that certain concerts changed my life. They really didn't. I've never seen a band, even one I really like, and then changed anything even remotely significant about my life or the way I live it. And it makes me a little sad to admit that, honestly. I think that's why "The Wild One, Forever" really gets to me. "I knew right away/ I'd never get over how good it felt/ when you finally kissed me/ I will never regret/ Baby, those few hours linger on in my head forever..."
Man. The speaker has really liked and/or wanted this other person for a while and been patient and been understanding and finally had that Through the Looking Glass moment and experience, it was blissful, but it was only a few hours. And while those few hours will linger on in his head forever IT WAS ONLY A FEW HOURS and from the lyrics I can't tell that anything significant has changed about his life or how he lives it at all. It's like he was at a concert with me. There was this golden moment of familiarity and intimacy and then it was over and life moves on. You wake up in the hotel and you're disoriented and then you feel safe and then you check out.
I told you all of that just to explain how "The Wild One, Forever" ended up being the only Tom Petty song in my music collection, but still a song I reach for at very specific times in my life. I imagine you imagining if there is a point to all of this. Do I ever really make a point? I'm just trying to get used to this kind of writing again. How's it going? Yeah, I'm not sure either.
Driving over the Howard Franklin bridge was actually very pretty the other morning. But it was also quite odd. I had the same feeling I'd felt so many times after really good concerts. Did that happen? Am I the same person in real life as I am in that mosh pit? Will I ever see those people again? I know it really happened, but was it real?
Those are weird rabbit holes to go down. The Night Before The Bridge, when I was in St. Pete visiting an old friend, I overheard this conversation about what a number actually is, if it's real or just some way we impose meaning onto the universe. I thought about contributing a line my friend Derek told me once: "math was not invented, it was discovered." But I don't even know if that's right. What is right? How do you define... something, something etymologically true... burden of proof... words about stuff... reference to a book I never read. The conversation moved so fast and I felt so uninformed and uninteresting and I'll be honest, I was only half listening because I was so focused on the fact that I was drinking some kind of pineapple IPA aberration and it somehow did not taste like garbage. And that is a rabbit hole of which I am really afraid. Sure, numbers are bullshit and language is a fallacy and we are all leading lives full of agony and existential choices that only bring about more suffering. Fine. BUT HOW DOES THIS BEER NOT TASTE LIKE GARBAGE?
The rest of the night was full of weird rabbit holes and that concert-going feeling. Safely dangerous. Dangerously safe. And it was incongruous in many neat but functional ways--like a quilt stitched out of cotton and plastic bags--awkward but it worked. It was undeniably fun, even down to the Britney Spears karaoke song that I really enjoyed and was judged for enjoying. (How can you not love a lost man-child with an affinity for obscure metal trying his absolute best to sing "Toxic?" Isn't that why karaoke exists?) I met new people that felt like old friends right off the bat. The beach bar had this weird crowd that liked all kinds of music and this lady (there's always one) danced to EVERY song. She danced to music between songs. She danced while she sang her own song. And then there was the bartender, a cute girl who had exactly zero time for people's bullshit. And there was the guy who sprayed his beer like a total dickbag from the stage and got shitty Budweiser all over the dancefloor, which put the Dancing Lady in actual danger. And then there was Willie, the security guy who came to clean it up and tell Tool Bag to knock it off. But the karaoke lady was already giving him the business for cursing into her microphone. She doesn't like cursing into her microphone. And then there was last call, that magical time where some people can finish up, cash out and move on and other people are relentless in trying to get that last, wholly unnecessary drink and stand around, 100% in the way. All bars can be really similar if you let them. Familiar. Intimate.
I went to St. Pete to live deliberately, and I gotta tell you, I think I nailed it. But I stayed because I felt like garbage. (Maybe that's why the pineapple IPA didn't taste like garbage?! Oh man, I have to Scientific Method the hell out of this. You know, for science.) I'd been running a fever and fighting with my sinuses, unsuccessfully. The decision to stay was the right one for safety and a thousand other reasons. And when I woke up in the hotel I felt disoriented and then I felt safe and then I left.
And driving over the bridge that morning was actually very pretty. But it was also quite odd. So I reached for my phone and played "The Wild One, Forever." I played it over and over as I made my way home, my sunglasses doing nothing to help my tired eyes except shield the driver next to me from the mascara smeared across my eyelids. Windows down, radio up, I sang the words confidently and knowingly and a little sadly, already mourning the night that was but wasn't. The stage was empty, the Dancing Lady was gone, the footprints I'd left in the sand under a bright half moon were undoubtedly washed away by now. And even if they were still there, I'd already left.
The night was amazing and scary and familiar and new and fun and safe and out of my comfort zone and unexpected and somehow already written all at the same time. It was vulnerability gift-wrapped with a pretty bow of boundaries. It was unforgettable, if only mostly remembered.
That night, however, did not change my life, even if I wanted it to, even though it had the power to do so. That many commas can't be right. But that night has changed a part of me, and maybe that will be enough to somehow upheave my life somewhere down the road if it needs it. When I need it. Timing is a fickle mistress.
And if nothing else, "I will never regret... those few hours linger on in my head forever."
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