Let it be known that at 9:18 p.m., I am the last remaining person in this household standing. New Orleans keeps scoring, and everyone around here keeps snoring. The two little ones went down with a fight about 15 minutes ago. The big one went down without a peep, although he squawked when I tried to wake him to rejoin me watching the game. For the record, so far the Betty White commercial is winning hands down.

We had a fairly impromptu Super Bowl party, which ended early as little people had to get to bed. I whipped up some jambalaya in honor of the Saints, made some homemade turtles, which I should say, taste as good if not better than any I've had in New Orleans, and got the annual football cake from Wilson Farms.

Ah, 78-yard touchdown. And Adam's asleep. Sucks to be Adam.

But forget Adam and football. Let's talk about the Who. What was that? Oh my, who let those old men who can't sing on stage? Does Pete Townsend really think he still looks rocking with those windmills? And what was on Roger Daltry's head?

Me: Keith Moon was their drummer who died right?
Adam: No. Keith Moon played for the Rolling Stones.
Me: Are you sure? I'm pretty sure Keith Moon was with the Who.
Adam: No. Definitely not. Definitely the Stones.
Me: Hey, Dan, who was the drummer for the Who who died?
Dan: Keith Moon.

In 1981, I begged my parents to let me see the Rolling Stones on their Tattoo You tour. My parents refused. The were playing at Folsom Field during my Colorado years and I wanted to go so badly but, no, my parents said absolutely not.

It wasn't long after this that I did get to go to a concert. My friend Karin and I really wanted to see the Go-Go's at Red Rocks, which my father told me I could go to only if I found an adult to take me. "What's an adult?" I asked him. "Someone over twenty-one," he told me. That summer I worked as a Water Safety Assistant at the Boulder Rec. I was friendly with one of the lifeguards. I was 14. She was 23. My father had to let me go. The lifeguard introduced me to Seven and Sevens, which the guys in the row behind us had smuggled in.

In October of 1982, the Who were playing at Folsom Field--it was their Farewell Tour. (Everyone please note the last lines of this article: "One has to applaud their decision to call it quits now. But that doesn't mean they won't be missed." Um, yeah. I missed them tonight.) Jethro Tull and John Cougar (and I mean John Cougar--this was a few years before he became Mellencamp) opened. For the life of me, I can't remember two things: one, with whom I went to the concert and two, why the hell my parents let me go to this concert. What were they thinking? I'm positive there were no adults with us--I remember sitting in the row in front of the delinquent of my ninth grade class. I loved the concert--whatever happened to my Who concert T-shirt? I'm almost positive it was a baseball shirt, because baseball shirts were so cool and they went perfectly with my braided hair barrettes.

Oh, look who came back just in time to see the game being over? Yea, Saints (Me, to Doodles today, "Who are you going to root for? The Saints or the Colts?" Doodles: "What's a Saint?" Me: "Uh... someone who's dead who in some religions is considered is really important. Everyone will be rooting for the Saints tonight." Doodles: "Okay, then I'll root for the Colts"). It's been a long time since I've been to New Orleans--that last two trips I was pregnant with a Brown Brown, although I didn't know it on the first one (I was better behaved on the second one)--but I'm happy they won. If it can't be my Dolphins, the Saints are a good second best.

And once again, I'm the last one awake (that man can sleep anywhere, anytime. I'm jealous). Time to fix that problem. Good night.

Labels: football, memories

I recognize that this is a very introspective (read: masturbatory) blog--the outside world doesn't generally intervene here unless it relates to something amusing/maddening/strange a family member did.

And in a sense this is also a self-indulgent post. Because it's all about how it relates to me. But for a few moments, we shall turn to the world outside of Adam, Doodles, and Pie.

Once upon a time I was a graduate student. I studied creative writing at the University of Washington. It was a magical two years when the only thing I had to do was write. And read. And write some more. My whole life revolved around writing. I read slush for the Seattle Review. I helped bring authors to come read at the university. I dated poets and fiction writers and English lit Ph.Ders. And I wrote, if not well, at least prolifically.

Every year, Seattle has the most marvelous of festivals, Bumbershoot. Bumbershoot is this amazing amalgamation of music, art, film, literature, food, and general fun. Bumbershoot, to me, is the epitome of Seattle. In my day, that meant putting on your Carharts, flannel shirt, and Tevas and heading out for a day of hearing "the coolest band" and mocking that "total sell-out" on the next stage. Of course, no one ever agreed which was which.

My second year in Seattle, two of us grad students, me and a poet, Laura, were offered jobs at Bumbershoot. And what a job it was. "Literary Escort." Yes, it sounds like something out of a Woody Allen story. And, frankly, I thought it sounded kind of hot. I'd read the line-up of authors coming. "What, I get to sleep with Exene Cervenka?" No, I was told. I got to drive her around. Well, okay. That would be a close second.

So I took the job. It was just for the weekend. I was one of a team of escorts. We picked up literary greats at the airport, brought them to their hotels. Took them from their hotels to their readings at Bumbershoot. Take them back. Drive them to the airport again. We could attend the parties. We had backstage passes. We got walkie talkies to use. We got paid. Pretty f'ing sweet.

On my list? Exene Cervenka. Tobias Wolff. Patti Smith. Jim Carroll. A few others you probably haven't heard of.

They were quite nice. I got into a car accident with Tobias Wolff. Actually, a bus sideswiped my van, but it suitably freaked me out, and Tobias had to calm me down, assuring me it was in no way my fault; I was stopped at a traffic light. Patti Smith was way more domestic than I would have guessed. Exene Cervenka was as cool as you'd think she'd be.

And Jim Carroll? Jim Carroll can only be described as a trip. From the moment I picked him up at the airport, he was high maintenance.

"Hello, Mr. Carroll, I'm Jenny. I'll be driving you around this weekend."

"Call me, Jim," he told me. And so I did.

In the car, he immediately became chatty. And I ate it up. The original name dropper. "Yeah, did you know that last time I was in Seattle, I got a call from Eddie Vedder, wanted to hang out. Asked me to sing. Oh, is Patti here yet? You need to get me in touch with Patti...."

We got to his hotel. "Um, I think I forgot my i.d. Can you come in with me just to make sure I get checked in okay?"

Uh... okay. So I go in with him. And help him solve all his problems. "There's no room service? Well, what's the restaurant down here. Will they deliver to my room? Can someone get the food to me? What do they serve? I don't know if I'll eat that..."

I finally left, promising to call him a half hour before I was to pick him up. "Hi Jim, it's Jenny. I'm leaving now to come get you...." Then I'd call him from the hotel, which in these days before the abundance of cell phones, meant my parking the van on a crowded Seattle downtown street, getting out, going into the lobby and using the hotel phone. "Hi Jim, it's Jenny. I'm downstairs ready for you.... Hi Jim, it's Jenny, I'm still downstairs waiting for...."

I took him to the parties. I took him to his reading. I lent him my Cartoon Network watch to wear onstage because he forgot his. Forget the rest of the other writers. My whole weekend was "Hi Jim, it's Jenny. I'm waiting for you...."

His flight back to New York was at 9 a.m. "I'm always nervous about making my flights," he told me. "I'd like to get there at least two hours early." Note, this is years before 9/11.

"Um, okay."

"And could you call me with a wake-up call? I don't trust the hotel. Call me at 5:30." 5:30. Of course now, 5:30 in the morning is par for the course. But in those days, 5:30 was an hour in which I might be falling asleep.

"Of course," I told him.

So I called him. "Hi Jim," I said, trying to hide the groggy from my voice. "It's Jenny. It's time for you to get up."

"Could you call back in a half hour, make sure I'm still up?"

Half and hour later. "Hi Jim, it's Jenny. I'm heading out now to get you."

The ride to the airport was magical. I asked him all sorts of questions, growing bolder as we spoke. I asked and asked. I asked about the "people who died," about who he dated, about heroin, about his fear of AIDS, about, about, about. All the way to SeaTac we chatted.

We pulled up to the airport. Before he got out, I nervously pulled out my copy of Basketball Diaries. "Would you sign my book?"

He gave me the most charming smile. "Of course!" he said, and he took the book. He signed it. I saw him drawing a tiny picture of the space needle before he handed it back to me. He gave me a great big hug and headed back to New York.

I give you this, my final one: "Hi Jim, this is Jenny."

I still have the book. I'll keep it forever. I look at it now. It's Jim. So Jim. Jim inscribed it as only Jim would. He wrote, "For Laura, with love and all my thanks for your help. Jim Carroll. Seattle '95."

Rest in peace, Jim Carroll.

Labels: memories, self-indulgence, writing

I started to include this in my previous post, but I decided that Bruce deserves a post of his own. I'm sitting here rocking out to one of the idols of my youth as my five-year-younger husband shakes his head because he just doesn't get it. He doesn't get it! How can you not get Bruce? What is to become of this younger generation?

Bruce may not be the stud of my teen years anymore, but he is seriously rocking the Super Bowl out. Give an old guy credit--he's not doing any lip-syncing tonight. My only complaint about tonight's performance is it was way too short.

In 1984, I lied to my parents (just that once, I swear! I would never lie to my parents! Really. That D in chemistry must be a mistake! And of course I didn't miss curfew. Smell? What smell? I don't smell anything sweet!). I told them I was spending the night at Eva's house. Eva told her mom she was spending the night at mine. Instead, we camped out at Vibrations record store at 163rd Street, getting there at about 8 p.m. and tickets for the "Born in the USA" tour were going on sale at in the morning. In those days there were no sophisticated numbering systems--it was first come first serve, so those waiting would write out numbers on scraps of paper and give them to people, so we didn't have to stay in the same spot all night. I was number 79; Eva was 78.

The night was a party scene. Lots of drunk people (and in all seriousness, not us). People dozing on and off. Lots of runs for Burger King. Most of us had our Walkmans and we were trading tapes (yes, tapes). One of the guys in line took a shine to me, and at some point, traded my number 79 for his number 7. I remember his buddies yelling at him, but who was I to argue? I got two tickets, fairly far up in the Orange Bowl; Eva got two pretty far back. I'm pretty sure when my parents asked how I'd gotten the tickets (because I'd obviously done it in person as I didn't have a credit card to use on the phone and it was on the news how fast the concert sold out), I 'fessed up pretty quickly. I believe the consequence of my indiscretion was I had to take my sister to the concert. Eva had to take hers, too. We sat up front. They got the crappy seats. (Sorry, Tweeds, for just ditching you at the concert.)

I had a poster of Bruce over my bed. "Born to Run" was an anthem, something we blasted while driving up Collins Ave or Biscayne Boulevard. One of my high school boyfriends was always befuddled that I couldn't remember the battles of the American Revolution for A.P. American History, but I could sing "Blinded by the Light" forward and backward (still can!).

Of course, I had other phases. I was waaay into Pink Floyd for a while. Rush. The Who (I saw them on their first final tour!). Genesis. The Clash. Toward the end of high school, I definitely segued into New Wave, with Depeche Mode and Yaz topping the list.

Quick digression: Anyone else see that ad for Race to Witch Mountain. I said to Adam, "I'm horrified that they've remade Witch Mountain?" and he said, "What? What's Witch Mountain?" Aaaaaggggggg!!!

Okay, back to the music. Actually, I only have one more thing to say: Bruce. Bruce! Buh-rrrruuuuuucccccceee!

Because tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.

Labels: me, memories