Someone Loves Angie

Before I dig in, please have a little faith that this is not a nostalgia piece. This isn't about boyhood lost, or the paving over of some memory.

Live in the now, Fat Kid, live in the now.

So anyway, if the beginning of this story smacks of sentimentality, bear with me.

Ready?

A building just outside of Sonoma was recently torn down.

What was the chipped facade of an old hotel is now rubble. A pile of bricks enclosed by a chain link fence.

I don't know its full history. I never touched it or went inside. The only thing I know about this once majestic heap of trash is one little fact:

Some how, somewhere, once upon a time, someone loved Angie.

I know this because written sloppily in spray paint just below the second story window was this:

"I [Picture of a heart] angie"

Who was Angie? I don't know.

Who loved Angie? Was it a drunk teenager, or a mildly retarded janitor? No idea.

Doesn't matter. But in order to make sense of this little diatribe I have to flashback a few days.

Went to see an interview with Stephen Sondheim this past weekend. And aside from the fact that I got to be in the room with one of the most staggeringly genius songwriters of the twentieth century (along with 1700 of his closest admirerers) I didn't really learn anything new.

Sure there were a few anecdotes that I had never heard before, but the real education came in the form of reaffirmation.

His process is my process. His approach is my approach. He is a songwriter. I am a songwriter. We live, we learn, we fail, we succeed.

He told the story of a married woman who was involved in a tempestuous affair, and though it broke her heart to do so, she broke it off for the sake of her marriage. Then one night the phone rang and she heard her ex-lover's voice on the other end of the line,

"not a day goes by"

Song!

Eventually, of course, he was asked where his ideas come from. But its an impossible question. No writer can tell you where they get their ideas. But everyone can tell you where they got "that" idea.

It's the waiter who asked Billy Joel if he wanted a "bottle of red, a bottle of white." Or the couple sitting next to Sting who noticed a "little black spot on the sun today" In fact, Castle Park is all about those little moments that send the creative juices a-whirling.

But to get moving forward I have to flashback about eight years.

I was at work when the phone rang. A dear friend had fallen from a ladder and broke his neck. He was laid up in a hospital bed and couldn't move.

When people you love are in pain, you go through many different reactions all at once. Panic, fear, who do you call to get this gossip off your chest, will my boss think this is important enough to let me go home early, what the hell can I do, what the hell does he need, should I be the rational cool guy or just freak the fuck out.

That's the first few seconds.

But then I backed off the initial reaction. I made few phone calls, covered the next few of my shifts and the shifts of his girlfriend who worked for me, went home to pick up a few CD's and a few books, gassed up the car and got on the road.

It was a long drive. And I had a lot of time to think about my life. A lot of time to freak out. Jon had the presense of mind to know that his life was a life of the theater. I had quit the theater and was adrift in my metaphorical sea. My friend was hurt, and I was as helpless in life as he was in that gurney.

The radio became a source of irritation so I flipped it off.

Alone with my thoughts. Waiting for the light to turn green.

Then I looked up.

I looked at the cracked facade of a brick building.

It was one of those V-shaped buildings on the corner of an intersection where the two streets meet at a very non-perpendicular angle. It was obviously abandoned. A fire had scorched the inside. All the windows had been shattered by rocks and there were scattered bits of graffiti along the wall.

But when I looked up I saw another trashy bit of graffiti below the second story window.

"I [picture of a heart] angie"

Song!

All the questions were mine to answer. Or not. It could be about a moment in time that has been forgotten by everyone. The possibilities were freaking endless!

And the possibility of me being anything other than a songwriter was at an end.

Jon recovered.

I look back at theater fondly but without regret.

The building was torn down by the city and the owner is currently looking for some one to buy those old bricks.

I have never written that song and maybe never will.

but somehow

somewhere

once upon a time

Someone loved Angie.

An Ode to the Song Hole

To write or not to write. That is the question.

Whether it is nobler in the mind to pen rhymes on scattered shopping lists strewn about the house and suffer the slings and Legos of a complacent four year old in his outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of accumulated junk piled six feet high and ten feet deep.

And by opposing the pack rat tendencies of an indecisive wife, end them.

To write, to think.

To think, perchance to dream.

Aye, there's the rub.

For in that dream of life, what songs may come?

When I have shuffled off those ill fitting clothes, broken toys, and Ikea furniture and finally have time for pause.

There's the respect that makes calamity of such a messy garage.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of a sixteen year old boy who only wants to sing and dance, even if it means totally destroying my ability to compose a melody without the infectious groove of Lady Gaga sneaking her off key harmonies into my middle eight?

 Alas, the song hole is emptied of most of it's clutter. The space is open, the door is closed, there are pens with ink, and countless spiral notebooks waiting to be filled. There are musical instruments of every kind.

 And a leather chair that leans back.

 But I digress.

 Some of the best songwriting advice I've ever been given came from a book.

 That's right, a book.

 Not one of those "Learn How to Write a Top Ten Hit!" kind of books, but a large paperback written by songwriter Jimmy Webb simply called "Tunesmith"

 This book should be required reading for anyone who puts words to music.

 Yeah, its a little outdated now. And some of it is too technical for a dilitante. And my personal copy has broken bindings and dog eared pages, and more than one coffee stain, but its such a nurturing manual for the art and craft of songwriting that I'll probably make Calvin read it as soon as he graduates from Dr. Suess.

 More to the point however is that the book insists that the writer absolutely must create a safe place for themselves.

 A physical space that can't be corrupted by ringing telephones, fights over video games, and the disney channel.

 I have had such spaces in my past. In my single years, it was my room. In my college years it was the space beneath the main stage that housed the old velvet curtains. Just before my nephew was born it was a guest bedroom at my soon to be in-laws house down the street. 

 Since then, however, my song hole has existed only in the quiet of the late evening, or the peace before school lets out. My song hole was always at the mercy of a family schedule.

 My garage is the perfect space.

 But it's not a studio. Even though the door to the house is weather sealed, the outside noises are crystal clear. Any microphone would pick up cars and dogs several blocks away. The water heater and washing machine are constantly battling over "most noisy appliance. And it's simply not breathable during the summer when the styfling heat sucks the life out of me. But when the rain begins to fall and the air begins to clear, I can feel my whole universe slip back into focus. Melodies rise easily from the din of white noise, and lyrics guide themselves as I hold the pen to the paper. Even though I may never use it to record a tune, the song hole is a place for creation.

However, it fills up with clutter so fast that when I go in there to write, I can't even wheel my chair from the desk to the piano. Squeezed by so much clutter I feel claustrophobic and writing becomes a violent act of fighting compression.

 So yesterday I cleaned it out.

 An entire truck load of junk.

 And now I have my space again.  

 And today it begins to rain.

Go bird go!

Today was the first day of preschool.

Not some hippie lets roll around in the mud and talk about our feelings kind of preschool, but the kind of preschool that is in a square little room covered in boxes and flash cards and toys. The kind of preschool where the teachers have seen three generations pass, they drive American cars with fake wood paneling and probably need to sneak off for a quick smoke during free play time.

Not that I'm knocking on the modern, open minded, high energy, exploratory experience that my over anxious contemporaries swear by . . . 

. . . no wait, I'm totally gonna talk some smack.

two years ago, a customer of mine convinced me to take a tour of a world renowned local preschool that was the "cats meow" of modern childhood development.

It cost $300 a month.

For two days a week.

And parent participation once a week.

But I was (and still sorta am) a bit anxious about making sure that my demon seed had all the advantages I could possibly pave.

I showed up one day for my tour. Baby Calvin in my arms. (He is 1.5 years old at this point and not eligible for another 1.5 years)

I needed to take the tour because the waiting list for this mecca of toddler enhancement was miles long and supposedly if I didn't get my application in by the end of spring, then there would be no hope to Calvin's future success. 

The application came with a $60 fee and the promise that if I didn't sign the check I was relegating my son to a career in slaughter houses, substitute teaching, or god forbid, retail.

As I made my way across the gravel parking lot, I made eye contact with a tired looking old lady sitting on the bench outside the door.

I smiled. She glared

I said hello. She glared harder and cocked her head.

I made my way to the door and the old crone barked at me with both anger and a slight measure of panic.

"What are you here for!?" she said.

Now first of all, I may talk a tough game, but seriously, I'm 5'10". Neatly dressed. I drove into the parking lot in a powder blue Toyota echo, and I'm carrying a one year old in my arms.

The only thing that would make me less threatening would be a kitten in my other arm.

On top of that, I have never, ever, not even once, been barked at while in the company of my son. One of the reasons I take him everywhere is because people just melt at the sight of babies. Especially if they are quiet and relatively cute. And Calvin was quiet as a mouse outside the home, and he's even got a little dimple on one side of his cheek when he smiles. He ruled cute.

It took me a whole beat to catch my breath.

"Um, I'm here to see Leslie for a tour." I fumbled.

"Let me get her." she barked as she sped past me and through the front door.

A few moments later Leslie walks out. She asked me why my wife wasn't there, and I told her that my wife was working. She seemed a little put off, but began the tour in earnest.

Suffice it to say, the place was a wonderland. A summer camp for enriching the information starved minds of a little boys and girls.

I wanted to go there.

Old crone aside, I was totally ready to sign my money and my time on that dotted line.

But Leslie kept talking to me about how much my wife is gonna love this place.

How much fun my wife will have with the other mothers.

How much my wife will be able to learn about young childhood development from "Bev"

"Bev" of course being the gate keeper/attack dog I met outside.

"Bev" of course being a world renowned authority on early childhood development. 

"Bev" an obvious underachiever in basic adult communication skills.

Then it finally dawned on me. Though the application clearly said "parental participation" hidden in the unspoken water mark was this:

"Hey you, yeah you, the one with the post pubescent penis, you're totally not welcome here."

This was summer camp for soccer moms, not daddies. Cool moms who let their children play in the dirt, not men who would tell a four-year old with a skinned knee to "throw some dirt on it"

Now I have related this story to several people who are more familiar with "Bev" than I would ever care to be, and the reaction is usually shock.

They have very fond things to say.

yes, they are all girls.

Be that as it may, I didn't give preschool much thought after that. But for years it has loomed.

And my parental anxiety has shifted to a much more hands off conciliatory response. Let him play with guns, I say. Except I did spend fifteen minutes waiting around the corner just in case he tried to run out and find me, and then the two and a half hours I spent biting my nails and waiting for the phone to ring with tragic news on the other end.

But it's time to push a little society on him. Send him out into the dark world with a flashlight and a juice box.

So as I went to Calvin's first day, I sat filling out paperwork. The teachers made it very clear that they don't encourage parental participation. 

"Makes the children act weird" Gwen says.

I really like Gwen.

Most of the kids were dropped off by dads. Awesome.

(Awesome except for the very real possibility that those dad's recently lost their jobs. To which there is really no good response)

I finished the paperwork and kneeled down next to my son.

"I'm gonna go. Wanna give me a hug?" I said.

"Uh huh. Vrooom." and he sped off to the play area with his blue race car.

I walked out the room hug-less.

And then a truth occurred to me.

The emotional scarring of early childhood development isn't his. It's mine.

There's really nothing "Bev's" childhood wonderland does except ease a parents pain. Makes the wound a little less deep in the beginning. Falsely sets those fears some place else for later review.

But as every man should learn from every father:

"Son . . . measure twice. 

Cut once. 

And throw some dirt on it."