weeks 1 – 4. hey, you have nothing to do (no job, no girlfriend, no money), so you start a blog. it’s great. every day you post funny little stories about how crazy and unique your life is. like that ridiculous thing that happened at starbucks with that guy and the ridiculous thing that guy did. you’re immortal!
weeks 5 – 7. you start mixing in links to political articles from the new yorker and atlantic monthly to seem more intellectual and “with it.” maybe even a gawker or salon article. definitely an interview from the av club.
weeks 8 – 9. your stories about jerks on the freeway are getting repetitive so you start embedding youtube videos. isn’t “frustrated super mario bros. player” hilarious?! and i think this “gangnam style” business could really catch on!
weeks 10 – 12. your favorite sports team in the playoffs. unless people (a) care about sports and (b) care about your favorite sports team, they couldn’t give a crap about your blog during this period of time. and let’s face it, even if they fit both (a) and (b) they still have trouble mustering up the enthusiasm.
weeks 13 – 16. you finally got a job and have very little time during the day to post and less interest in doing it at night. now you’re posting once a week if you even remember to post at all and it’s generally something horribly mundane like “happy veterans’ day.” (no disrespect to our veterans. only disrespect to your lazy ass.)
weeks 17 – 22. you putter along at this pace, occasionally tossing up a stupid video, link to your equally sucky podcast, or a funny-but-sadly-accurate history of your blog.
weeks 23 – 25. it’s the holidays. who has time to post? if you’re lucky, you remember to post a “merry christmas” up just in time to make the midnight deadline.
weeks 26 – 34. your blog remains untouched until you either (a) shut it down, (b) remember to post something about your favorite sports team starting training camp or (c) lose your job.
weeks 35 – the rest of your life. hey, you never got that girlfriend. whatever happened with that?
We get it, you love leaves. You love jumping
into piles of them—red, brown, orange, gold—
it doesn’t matter. You love dry humping
the green off of them. It never gets old
to you, but listen: please find a new note.
You’ve been blaring this one for centuries,
and it bores me to tears. It’s time you wrote
poems that are less obsessed with the trees
you miraculously find in your yard
every morning, like it’s a surprise:
“Wow! Look at those leaves! It’s like a postcard
right outside my window!” Shoot me now. Try
something original; forget this shit
about foliage. No one’s reading it.
My favorite memory of Scotty was in 2005, the summer after my freshman year of college. I was 19 years old then, and there was a band I wanted to see that was playing at Rudy’s that night (I think it was the Plus Ones, but I’m not entirely sure). I was walking around downtown New Haven with a friend, and we decided to see if we could get into the bar to watch the show, even though neither one of us was of legal drinking age. We over-rationalized a complicated scheme, as you tend to do when you’re not yet 21 and trying to get into a bar: “I heard Rudy’s doesn’t really card anyway” “Plus it’s a week day, they definitely won’t be carding” “I bet they card at the bar, so let’s not buy any drinks and just watch the band instead” etc.
As we approach the patio in front of the bar, who else but Scotty Lucca bursts through the door, drunk as drunk can be and fumbling with a cigarette and lighter in his hand. Of course he sees me immediately. “Thom Dunn! Holy shit!” he shouts as he runs over to give me one of those great big Scotty bearhugs. I introduce him to my friend, whom he embraces with just as much enthusiasm. In turn, he introduces us to the doorman at the bar — because it’s New Haven, and Scotty may as well be the mayor of this town with all the people that he knows. The doorman lets us follow us follow Scotty back onto the patio, no questions asked.
We stand there chatting for a bit, catching up while Scotty has a smoke. He finishes the cigarette, stomps it out, then turns to me and says (at a delightfully drunken volume), “So what are you up to tonight, man? You’re not 21!”
…at which point my friend and I look at one another and try mumble an excuse about, oh, well, we’re just hangin’ out, just kinda walking around…
And almost immediately, Scotty realizes what he’d done. “Oh. Fuck. I just totally blew your cover didn’t I?” My other friend and I (I don’t even remember who I was with) look back to the bouncer, with that awkward-nervous smile and wave that never covers anything up, and abruptly leave the bar.
Thanks for that, man.
A year and a half later, it’s my first night home in New Haven since turning 21, and I end up hanging out at Rudy’s with some friends. I start to tell them this very same story, when sure enough, Scotty shows up. He brings me a beer and apologizes profusely for that night, but we just laugh it off and catch up on each others’ lives. I think pretty much every time I saw him after that, he’d apologize for that night as well. We never saw each other all the often, but it become our kind of running joke whenever we did.
Rest In Peace, Scott Lucca
11/10/78 – 10/18/12
Posted in memoir, nonfiction, prose
Tagged alcohol, asbestos records, beer, death, monday, new haven, obituary, Punk Rock, rest in peace, rip, rock and roll, rudy's, scott lucca, scotty, the plus ones, toads, underage drinking
Slide your palm across my throat
and flex your fingers
around my pulse. Press your lifeline
to my windpipe and feel me
swallow against your skin. It’s good
when my eyes roll back. I’m in control,
but you don’t have to know
I like this more than I like you.
In the middle of the third song we hit the opening act tipping point. The crowd had done the respectful thing, but now they started to chatter and laugh, showing each other photos and ringtones. Some shuffled down the rows to go buy tiny plastic cups of red wine. A few wafts of weed floated over the bleachers.
The trio clustered in the center of the large stage, bent over their instruments, seeming to play for each other more than anyone else. Perhaps they were nervous, forehead sweat leaking from more than the aggressive lights. The crowd couldn’t tell. Or didn’t even try to; attention was gone. They had lasted as long as they could.
There was a crutch.
A sort of desperation
to the days that
never quite yielded
Clothing in perpetual
need of reinforcement,
until the thread was
more durable than
the fabric it secured.
I might have seen
this, processed it,
decided that cheer
was the only way
to navigate it.
These memories are
spectres; they do
not confront, not in
the way that
Uncle – to his dying
day – insisted. They
float lazily in as
I am reviewing the
the bottom line.
I feel as if I have
only known intervention,
There was a crutch,
and then there wasn’t.
A Blue Jay hops
In my autumn garden
From the fence
To the red wood chips
Don’t photograph me
He says among the green
I’m not in the lens
I’m the tail feathers I preen
You can’t capture
The summer song I sing
The way I hop
So the spots
Of colors blend
And the white
Winters I’ve seen
And with each picture
I am forever
A machine thing
I am forever
Blue and white
Don’t photograph me
Until the spring.
Posted in poetry
Tagged birds, Blue Jays, Canada, colors, colours, nature, nature poems, nature poetry, photographs, poetry, Pueblos, Seasons, The Writer, thursday