Thursday, May 14, 2015

Lately

It's been a long year since you've been gone
I've been alone here I've grown old
I fell to pieces and I'm still falling
Every time I'm falling down
All alone I fall to pieces

I keep a journal of memories
I'm feeling lonely I can't breathe
I fell to pieces I'm falling
I fell to pieces and I'm still falling

Every time I'm falling down
All alone I fall to pieces

- Velvet Revolver, "Fall to Pieces"

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Game Seven

Last night, watching game 6 with my buddy Adam, I said something along the lines of, "you know if we come back, we'll remember this the rest of our lives". I don't know if he took me seriously or not, but I wasn't exaggerating. I remember each and every Red Wings Game 7 from my lifetime, where I was and who I was with, what it meant at that point in my life. It's hard not to ponder the gravity of a game like this, given my personal history with them. In light of the impending Game 7 against the Lightning on Wednesday, a sampling of some of the Game 7's from throughout my lifetime:




May 16, 1996

I was eight years old in 1996. Watching hockey with my Dad in the living room was the biggest stage in my world -- back when we were buddies, back before we forgot how to talk to each other, in my moody teen years. Dad cancelled bed time altogether that night, bending the rules out of the slight chance that he could share one of those rare sports moments with his firstborn son, the kind of game you never forget. It was Game 7 of the 1996 Western Conference Semi-finals in the Stanley Cup Playoffs. Detroit had gone without winning a Stanley Cup for forty-one seasons, and the ghosts of Red Wings lore seemed to haunt the confines of Joe Louis Arena in the Dead Wings era of the eighties and early nineties, but Steve Yzerman had brought new life to the slumping organization, and the Wings seemed poised to really soar once again. The both of us were on the precipice of something more.

The rest of my family, including the two cats, were tucked inside their beds, dreaming the suburban dreams of their own individual lives, the house stilled in slumber the way suburban houses get past dusk. Outside, a warm Spring gust swept through the pines in the backwoods and rattled the shutters on the upstairs bedroom windows.

Secluded back in the woods, Millwood was a quiet neighborhood, except at the hour when Steve Yzerman brought life back to Hockeytown. My Dad and I both sprang to our feet, instinctively, ecstatically, screaming like banshees with bursts of joy -- like little kids. Steve Yzerman had blasted a sixty-foot slapshot from the blue line over the right shoulder of Blues goaltender Jon Casey with 18:46 remaining in double overtime. "Score! Steve Yzerman! Detroit wins!" the television announcer cried over our cheers; I've watched that replay so many times that I sometimes hear those words in my sleep, or in some drug-induced flashback. Whenever I see a replay of that goal now, I think about Fathers and Sons -- and about the way we were then.

May 12, 2011

It wouldn't have been a big deal if I were still in college. But I had graduated from Michigan a year ago almost to the day, and college seemed a long time ago. On the bus ride back home to Ann Arbor from Chicago, my first year of law school behind me, I stared out the window at the passing Michigan countryside and pondered the implications of another Game 7, another metaphorical chapter in my life about to be written.

I drove up to East Lansing to watch the game with my childhood best friend Steve, thinking that one symbolic Game 7 victory with my best bud would surely wash away the confusion and the regret of the previous year. We chain smoked cigarettes during intermissions on the patio at Harper's, and when the Wings lost, we tried to wash down the sour aftertaste of ashtray with whiskey and beer and whatever else we could get our hands on; this wasn't how it was supposed to end. We decided to drive four hours Up North with our buddy Adam, because we did things like that back then -- when we were young and wild and free.

But I wasn't so young anymore. Driving back the following day, a raging hangover pounding in my head, I had all the time in the world to think about where the time had run off to, about how I was losing my way. When I arrived back to my girlfriend's college house in Ann Arbor, she told me that she had cancelled our dinner plans that evening. "Your hangovers have ruined a lot of our plans," she told me -- her heart broken again -- and then wandered off to some other portion of the house, leaving me lying face down on her bed, alone with my regrets. I heard what she said, that day, but I wouldn't understand her words for at least another year or two. And by then it was too late.



*Other notable Game 7's: 1994 Red Wings-Sharks Round 1(my first ever sports memory, a rookie Chris Osgood cried in his locker stall following the game after the upset-minded San Jose Sharks derailed the heavily-favored Red Wings); 2009 Red Wings-Penguins Stanley Cup (in Chicago, I went on a personal bar crawl and got lost in the city following the Game 7 defeat, the Stanley Cup having seemed so close I could taste it). I'm covering these others in depth in the current writing project.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

The Old Days




"It seemed normal enough, at the time, just another weird rainy night out there on the high desert. . . What the hell? We were younger then. It was a Different Time. People were Friendly. We trusted each other. Hell, you could afford to get mixed up with wild strangers in those days -- without fearing for your life, or your eyes, or your organs, or all of your money, or even getting locked up in prison forever. There was a sense of possibility. People were not so afraid, as they are now. You could run around naked without getting shot. You could check into a roadside motel on the outskirts of Ely or Winnemucca or Elko where you were lost in a midnight rainstorm -- and nobody called the police on you, just to check out your credit and your employment history and your medical records and how many parking tickets you owed in California.

There were Laws, but they were not feared. There were Rules, but they were not worshipped. . . like Laws and Rules and Cops and Informants are feared and worshipped today."

- Hunter S. Thompson
"Fear and Loathing in Elko"

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

In the Stars

I was born under the star Nekkar, of the constellation Beta Bootes.



The Herdsman

"Bootes is identified with Icarius, who was killed by some shepherds he had made drunk with a flagon of wine given him by Bacchus/Dionysus. In consideration of the grief of his daughter Erigone and their hound Maera, Jupiter placed her father in heaven as Bootes, together with herself as Virgo and the hound became one of the Dogs; some say Canis Minor, others say Canis Major.


According to Ptolemy the influence of the constellation is like that of Mercury and Saturn, though the star Arcturus is like Mars and Jupiter. It is said to give prosperity from work, strong desires, a tendency to excess, a fondness for rural pursuits, together with some liking for occultism. The Kabalists associate it with the Hebrew letter Teth and the 9th Tarot Trump, "The Hermit". [Robson*, p.32.]"



Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Boots of Spanish Leather

[an excerpt from the current writing project]:

2012

But I dream of her. I dream of her all the time. 

It's weird. The dreams are usually about the stuff we used to do together. Like when we drove her Jeep Up North for Fall Break that autumn of my senior year. We bought our lunch from our favorite deli in downtown Petoskey and brought it to the beach where we had a picnic on the shores of Lake Michigan. I sat there silently watching the waves, hoping she wouldn't bring up my hangover. I watched the lake and the line of the beach and noticed that the tide had changed and the sea gulls were working busily well down the slope of new wet sand. The red and white buoys out in the distance were diminishing as they receded. You could smell the lake in the October winds, and the white caps crashing against the pier foretold of winter. 

In another dream, we are camping out in the woods at her cabin on Sugar Island. Right before I wake up, she turns the ignition on her family's speedboat. I'm on shore, and she's kind of waving good bye. I'm standing on a beach of washed up pine needles and she's going off into the Lake Superior sunset, into another life. I've had that dream so many times I've lost count. 

Sometimes I wake from those dreams convinced it is the Fall of 2009 all over again, but it's never real. The ticking of the clock reminds me that she is gone and those days of my Indian summer were a long time ago. I lay awake in bed, wishing I had asked her to send boots of spanish leather. I got rid of her letters a long time ago, but you can't get rid of dreams. 

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Twenty-Seven


Their ghosts have been hounding me since the stroke of midnight. They know my weaknesses all too well. Some days your flush and some days your bust.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Moon


"Favorite food? Blues (speed). Miscellaneous likes? Birds. Professional ambition? To smash one hundred drum kits. Personal ambition? To stay young forever. There you have it, the world of Keith Moon effectively encapsulated in a few choice words. Straightforward hedonistic pleasures, cheerfully destructive tendencies, and an unattainable goal, except in the words that Townshend had just written and which Moon alone would live up to/down to: 'Hope I die before I get old.'"

Tony Fletcher, Moon: The Life and Death of a Rock Legend