I have a picture on my bulletin board taken in 1998 in Sarasota Florida. It's a picture of me and my nephew Chris sitting in front of a fountain near the harbor. In the picture, I look about the same as I do now -- in fact as I sit here typing this, I am wearing the same shirt and glasses as I am in the photo. But Chris looks a lot different. In the picture he's eleven; today he turned eighteen.
I guess we've both been through a lot of changes since that picture was taken, but while I have mainly changed addresses and waist sizes, Chris has changed from a boy into a young man. When I talked to him today he was sitting in his dorm room in Boston preparing to go out for the evening to hear some live music with some friends. He has mid-terms and political discussions and girlfriend problems. He's beginning his life on his own and really seems to have a handle on things. Much more so than I did. When I was his age I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. Still don't.
After I called him I started thinking about the trip we took to Florida together. See, that year Chris's Mom had to work the week Chris had spring break. All his friends were going on these cool trips somewhere and poor Chris had to stay home and do nothing. I thought it might be fun if he and I went to visit my parents for the week. It didn't seem fair for him to miss out on spring break. He was all for it and had two things he really wanted to do while we were there: visit Disney World and go deep sea fishing. I was really looking forward to having the chance to spend some time with him since I knew that it wouldn't be long before he was all grown up and too old to want to spend time with his boring old uncle.
On the flight down to Sarasota, Chris kept talking about DSF. When are we going DSF? Have you ever DSF'd before? I can't wait til we get to go DSF. What the hell is DSF? Deep Sea Fishing! Of course. Yeah, DSF is going to be pretty cool.
Meanwhile I had done some research on Disney World using one of those trip planning books they publish for compulsive list-making geek vacationers. I had devised a plan whereby we could see all of the major attractions in the morning and afternoon and then have time to go back and revisit Chris's favorites in the evening. The book told you which rides were crowded at which times so you could plan your route through the Magic Kingdom accordingly. I had two or three alternate strategies written down in my notebook and Chris and I discussed the best course of action. This kid was going to have the best spring break ever.
As it turns out, Chris really didn't know that much about deep sea fishing. He had a friend who had done it and come back with tall tales. It sure sounded like a lot of fun. And on a calm day, it might not have been too bad. But on the day we went out the sea was medium choppy with swells from 3-5 feet. Now for a good-sized fishing boat that's no real problem, but you are going to get a certain amount of pitching and rolling. And apparently the old Viking genes that my sisters and I inherited from our parents didn't quite filter down to the current generation. About ten minutes out of the harbor Chris started looking pale. After twenty he was queasy. And by the time we reached our destination and weighed anchor Chris was below decks throwing up. He wasn't the only one, mind you. About two-thirds of the boat was down there with him. Bunch of landlubbers I guess. I figured he'd just puke a couple times and he'd be O.K. You know how kids are.
A couple of times he did venture up onto the deck to see how I was doing. I felt guilty leaving him down there with a bunch of seasick tourists while I was sitting in the sun eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and hauling in red snapper like nobody's business. But Chris wanted me to keep fishing. He said I was fishing for us both. What a great kid.
That night at my parents house, we had a red snapper feast, prepared with my special garlic, lime and ginger sauce. Man they were tasty. Poor Chris wouldn't touch them though. I guess they reminded him too much of the four hours he spent puking.
Thank God for Disney World. We followed my plan to a "t" and it worked perfectly. We got to all of the big-ticket rides early and figured out which ones we wanted to go back to. We had lunch right on schedule at a place recommended in the book as having the shortest lines. We got the advanced reservations for the long lines so we could back later and bypass the poor suckers who didn't read the book and cut right to the head of the lines. We saw everything we wanted and even finished ahead of schedule so we had plenty of time to go back and ride our favorite rides again.
Chris knew exactly which ride he wanted to go back to, the one called Splash Mountain. And that was the only one he wanted to go back to. Not Space Mountain. Not Pirates of the Caribbean. Not Haunted Mansion. Just Splash Mountain. And we went on it again and again and again. Actually it was kind of nice after along hot day in the sun to just float around in a little boat (no waves) watching animatronic characters like Brer Rabbit and Brer Bear sing "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" and then ending up sliding down a log flume and splashing into a pool of water. On our third or fourth time around we came out of one side of the "mountain" and floated peacefully along with a perfect view of the Cinderella castle just as the fireworks were going off. It was almost as if we had timed it just for that to happen. It was one of those moments I'll never forget.
We both had a great time at Disney World and the whole trip worked out as well as I could have imagined. I was really glad to have the chance to spend time with my nephew and hopefully give him some good memories to carry with him. But what I realized today is that I wasn't really doing it just for him. That trip is one of my favorite memories too. And I'm lucky to have such an amazing friend like Chris to share those memories with. I hope we get to spend more time together like that in the future. But for now I just wanted to say thanks, Chris, for such a cool spring break.
And Happy Birthday.
Love Uncle Rich.
Sometimes it's nice to see what you're missing. Maybe the grass really is greener on the other side of the fence. I've been living in the same small apartment ever since I first moved here. There have been times when I didn't think I could stand living there another day -- especially last week when the heat and humidity turned the place into a sweatbox. There's no air conditioner and really no way to install one without knocking a hole in the wall. I've considered it, but I think the landlord might notice the alteration. So, when I saw the ad for the hillside guest house with access to a private swimming pool, I just had to check it out.
I wasn't really looking for an apartment for myself, I was looking for one for my niece, Annie. She was out here last year for the summer and apparently liked it well enough to move out here for real. She arrived last week and has been staying with her former college roomate while looking for a car, a job and a place to live. I've been trying to help out as much as possible since I supposedly am older and wiser and better connected. Of course, she's already been invited to her first Hollywood party and I'm still reading about them in Premiere magazine. Nevertheless, I do know this town pretty well. And this town being L.A., the first order of business was to get her a car. Before she flew out here, she found a car on the internet that she really liked. I went over to check it out for her and thought it was a great deal, so by the time her plane landed at LAX, she already had a car.
Next order of business was finding a place to live. You can only crash at a friend's place for so long. Although, I do know a guy who shall remain nameless (Kevin Osborn) who lived for an entire year in New York City going from couch to couch to couch and never paying rent! And the amazing part of the story is that he remained friends with everyone involved. (Or so he says.)
Annie found a place not too far from me with a very nice young man named John and for a while there it looked like she was going to have the lodging situation all sewed up in record time. Complications arose however and now John is looking for a new place as well. Good luck John.
Meanwhile, I was checking out the local Craigslist for suitable apartments in decent neighborhoods with affordable rents when I stumbled across the hillside guest house with swimming pool. Damn! I have to see this one for myself.
The first drawback is the location. It's a long, stressed-out freeway ride from downtown to the Sepulveda Pass and I do not do well on long commutes. As it turned out, however, the day I went out there it took me exactly the same amount of time as my current commute. Hmmm. Then there's the size of the place. It's not large. In fact it was described in the listing as "compact." I already live in a "small" place, I'm not sure if I can handle "compact." But there's the pool. And it was nice, and you pretty much have it all to yourself since the widow who owns the house never uses it. She and I talked for almost an hour. She's very interesting and maybe a little lonely. I really wanted to like this place -- I mean it has a swimming pool. But for some reason it just wasn't bowling me over.
I drove back to West Hollywood and met Annie at my place. We walked over to the Italian restaurant two blocks from my apartment and had dinner. I realized while were sitting there that as claustrophobic as my place can seem sometimes, it has the three things that any real estate agent will tell you are the most important selling points for any property: location, location, location. I really am right in the middle of things and any time I feel cramped I can get up and walk to any of two dozen cafes, restaurants and bars. Or go to the nearby park or the West Hollywood Pool, or just go for a stroll on the Sunset Strip or catch a movie or even a play at one of the local theaters. So, I think I'm gonna pass on the hillside guest house with swimming pool. I'll keep checking out Craigslist every now and then, though, just in case.
And, as it turns out, a friend at work knows someone who is looking for a roomate. She sounds really nice and the rent is good and it's even closer to my place than the other one we looked at. And it has a pool. So if this works out, I may get to keep my location and still have access to a swimming pool. That is if Annie doesn't mind me coming over to visit every now and then. Hey -- I guess I do have connections after all. Who knew?
Rich
I often joke that while some people may have "emotional baggage," I have an emotional storage space where I keep everything locked away and pretend it doesn't exist. This isn't really a joke, however, I do have a storage space up in Maine near my parents summer retreat on Frye Island and it does contain an inventory of my past, packed up and labeled in boxes and crates. Or it did until last week when I finally undertook the soul-searching task of clearing it out.
When I decided to move to California, I had to stash my stuff somewhere. I came out here with only a couple of suticases and a box or two of scripts. I was starting a new life and had to leave the trappings of my former self behind. I decide to haul everything up to Maine because A) the rent was cheap and B) I had a fantasy of buying my own cottage on Frye Island someday. So in addition to boxes of books, tapes, videos and files filled with songs, stories, scripts, plays, letters, essays and articles, I also stored furniture and gadgets and clothes and kitchenware and tons of miscellaneous crap that I thought might be useful or cool to have in my imagined future home.
All that stuff has been sitting there collecting dust for the past six years while I've been busy generating and accumulating more crap out here on the West Coast. Recently my Dad built a new storage shed on the property in Maine and he suggested I sort through my stuff and figure out what I really want to keep. I could then store it in the shed instead of paying rent on it. It seemed like a reasonable idea.
To make things easier on myself I made an executive decision to give away all of the clothes and furniture. It doesn't look like I'll be buying that lakefront property anytime soon and if I do, I'll probably want nice new furniture instead of the junk I picked up off the sidewalks of Brooklyn. The one piece we will hang onto is a massive desk that my Dad got from GE about fifty years ago. The rest goes to the Salvation Army. That left me with about twenty boxes of material to go through.
Books were easy, most of the paperbacks got donated to the Frye Island library. They scored a bunch of Sherlock Holmes, James Bond, Ross MacDonald, and Robert Ludlum. The keepers got shelved in a cabinet in the back bedroom at my folks house. I had a couple of milk crates full of video tapes as well. Eventually some of those will go to the library too, but many of them, such as the Elvis concert videos, had to be retained as part of my musical archive. Cassette tapes were tough. What do you do with them? I'm buying only CDs now and my car doesn't even have a tape deck anymore. I suppose I could give them away, but there are so many of them and some of them haven't come out on CD yet. Besides about half of the cassettes are rare concert recordings, including my bootleg Dylan collection and then of course there are all of the tapes of my old rock bands and my short-lived solo career. These must be retained. They went up in the loft.
Now comes the hard part: the files. I saved everything. Every draft. Every note. Every copy. Every map, brochure, movie ticket, playbill, concert poster, resume, rejection letter, list, outline. I saved receipts, postcards, birthday cards, thank-you notes, phone numbers, bank statements, bills, invoices, foreign currency...
And every single little scrap of paper held a memory, an attachment, a piece of me. Some were easier to throw away than others. And some I could not throw away at all. A thank-you note from my niece when she was eight years old. An egyptian coin. My ticket stub from the Springsteen concert in '78. I put them in an old wooden cigar box.
As for the files containing all of my written output, I tried to get rid of as much as possible, keeping only the essentials. But there was just too much of it. I realized that for whatever reason, I have to keep writing. Whatever else I do, I will always do that. I found songs I had completely forgotten about. Stories and plays and poems and ideas for movies. Color-coded notecards with jokes for my short-lived stand-up career. Pages and pages and pages of words. Words.
Eventually I had to give up and just put the remaining boxes up into the loft with the videos and cassette tapes. Next summer I'll take another stab at it. But I did make a little progress. I no longer have that emotional storage space where my past is locked away and gathering dust. What I have now is a trove of memories and a body of work. Every now and then it's good to cast off some of the old baggage that's weighing you down. But it's also good to know where you come from and what you're made of. Maybe someday I'll get that cottage by the lake where I can preserve my store of memories. Maybe not. Maybe I'll just keep a few special items in an old wooden cigar box.
Meanwhile, I've got a whole new collection of junk to go through in my apartment in L.A. I'd better get a jump on it before I have to rent another storage space.HWD
