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.
Everyone loved Angie, often.
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