You Should Read Joyce Maynard

Text from my roommate: "I just finished reading Labor Day. Wow."

Exactly.

This book not only blows your hair back, it's one of those where you immediately want to tell anyone who will listen to put the trash they're reading aside and pick up something worthwhile.  Bonus if you've never read Maynard before (I hadn't) because you're discovering a voice you'll want to hear again.

Turnaround

Nine beautiful hours of sleep last night, so rare and effective I realize I forgot to put on deodorant yesterday. I’m thinking, it’s going to be a good day.

Hop on my bike to get to the Gables, sun’s coming up, roads are slick. It’s dark and it’s early and I’m probably taking the turn too quickly. The bike slips from under me, erasing skin from my elbow, dinging my hip, dunking me in puddled rainwater and muck. I’m thinking, what the fuck?

When I’m impressively happy, part of me anticipates the other shoe dropping. Is this because that’s been how my life has been, or is it self-fulfilling sabotage?

I stand up, looking like an egg dipped partially in some new Paas color, Muddy Grey Depression. Blood drips down my elbow. If I wait a few hours for the mud to dry, I’d have a perfect cast of my right foot. I’m slightly more than halfway to work, so the question becomes whether to turn around and clean up or do a shift looking like I just came from shooting a Miller Lite commercial where the men are playing pick-up football in the rain.

By the time I get home for a second shower, the blood on my elbow is dry. To get the mud off, I need to scrub the scabs away as well. On the plus side, I don’t need coffee to wake up. I throw my muddy clothes and some darks in the washer, put on a lesser outfit, and climb on the bike again. Heavy morning commute traffic, sun blazing because of the lateness of the hour. It’s twenty minutes to nine and my morning is shot. There will be no writing. The whole day will feel slightly off.

The second shower doesn’t take. I’m sitting in the buying office at Books & Books, dripping sweat on my keyboard. My elbow is raw and stinging. My thoughts are white noise because I didn’t get to push them into my laptap.

I sigh, and resign myself to working a full day like a normal person.

Thanks, Henry

Everyone loves Susie Horgan’s photograph of Ian MacKaye’s brother. He’s slumped on some stairs, exhausted, shaved head resting on arms folded over bended knees, wearing a jacket and jeans and boots, bottles and party detritus at his feet. It’s a great shot. Minor Threat used it as their album cover. Nike liked it enough to copy it exactly, apart from the footwear.

My favorite picture Susie took of her future famous co-workers is the shot of Henry Rollins standing there wearing a Haagen Dazs t-shit, hat in hands, withering look on his face.
Henry Rollins is not wearing the t-shirt ironically, or because the Salvation Army was selling it on the cheap. He’s wearing it because his boss told him to. He’s wearing it because it’s the uniform. He’s wearing it because he has to, because he’s at work and it’s part of his stupid job to wear a Haagen Dazs t-shirt.  Beyond the composition, I love this picture for the message it sends to me and to all creative types toiling in service jobs – you can make it. You can do your art for a living. It gives me hope.

It’s my desktop background at work. His expression goads me to leave every time I see it. “Really, Aaron, you’re still here?” Henry sighs. “Is this is how you want to spend your time, Aaron? Seriously?”

No, Henry, it’s not.

You’re right, Henry, it’s time to leave for the day. There’s dinner to make, books to read, movies to watch. Life to live.


(thanks, Susie, for letting me use the picture)

How Could I Forget

Whenever I leave my house I get the feeling I've forgotten something important but easily fixable. My keys or wallet, maybe turning the oven off or calling someone back. Then I remember my marriage is crumbling.

Oh, yeah. Now I remember.

It's like realizing on the way to work that the dream you had last night was just a dream.

Cyber Stalking

Poring over the yearbook during summer break, I’d look at the pictures of the girls in our class and imagine their camera-pasted smiles directed toward me. Bonus if I found a candid shot of Tiffany Hile hanging out in the cafeteria or Ellen Hemmerlein bumping a volleyball. How these girls felt about me in real life didn’t matter; rendered in two dimensions, they found a home in my imagination.

Now it’s online. Everyone is a friend of a friend, someone Facebook thinks you should get to know. You read their profile, learn about the best version of themselves. You tag their pictures, wondering how you could have missed them at this or that party. You check their Twitter and their Blog, you Google them and find out they ran a 5K fundraiser for AIDS research.  You don’t need junior high gossip about how so-and-so is easy or has a psycho older brother or only dates blondes, you get virtual truth instead. 

This digital image is compelling, filled with friends, fun, inside jokes, and witty banter. Even the sweaty, lazy-eyed, drunken shots she begs her friends to delete are oddly charming. Click the mouse and imagine whole relationships with near strangers.

I’ve regressed to seventh grade.