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Stiff Little Fingers

December 12, 2006

It has been awhile since I last listened to Stiff Little Fingers. Can it be that I haven't really listened to them since I lived in Chicago?

They remind me of my first apartment on Clifton Street, shared with 3-5 other people, the numbers varying according to who among our friends happened to be in need of a place to crash.

And it's not just that I listened to them a lot back than, although I did. It's also the quality of the music. The crisp guitars like the icy air that always managed to penetrate our thin walls, and the vocals, tinny as the neighbors who argued in the apartment underneath ours, muffled as attempts at conversation with chattering teeth bundled in thick scarves iced over from breath condensation.

This is why it makes me shiver to listen to Stiff Little fingers this morning. This is why it warms me.

(Sample Track: Wasted Life)

Posted at 11:02 AM • Comments (0) • TrackBack

Swimming in memories.

August 25, 2003

I'd like to start this post by announcing that I swam 32 laps today. They're just 25 yard laps, I think, but that's still pretty good for my second time out in over 10 years or so. I haven't had a good workout in about 4 years, either...other than walking...so I'm pretty pleased with myself.

I definitely still prefer breast stroke (shut UP!) over freestyle. Is this typical? I can't tell if I'm being a wimp because breast stroke is such an easy stroke, or if it's just my preference due to my past life as a breast-stroker. I definitely feel more of a workout in my triceps when I do breast stroke, but it's not nearly as tiring for me as freestyle, so I don't know. I'm also way better, formwise, at breast stroke. I feel like a flopping fish swimming freestyle, and I always have. I am so jealous of people who just slice through the water swimming freestyle. I have no idea what I look like when I swim, but i'm just certain that I look awkward.

At any rate, I'm remembering swim team when I was younger. Swimming every day at Olympic Pool, the indoor pool in my neighborhood. Laughing about my "indoor pool tan" of pasty white skin. Showing off on the diving boards for the cute lifeguards.

My best friend's brothers were always our swim team coaches, and I need to write to their mom and tell her that I hear their voices to this day whenever I am swimming. They remind me to look through the triangular window I'm making as I pull my breathing arm out of the water. To look back towards my armpit, rather than directly to the right. I remember the hours and hours we spend on the edge of the pool, out of the water, with them moving my legs to the correct positions for the breaststroke kick. Over and over. Flex, point, flex point. And as the legs kick, the arms thrust. Again and again. It's totally engraved in my brain. I think Mrs. H would appreciate hearing that.

I remember, too, walking home from swim team practice with J, and always being super hungry for the same thing...every single time. A salami sandwich with extra mayo. That, or hot pizza from Wayne's. I remember the special way those things tasted after swimming, the smell of chlorine still all over my clothes, body, and hair.

I remember the competition, too. The sick feeling in my stomach when I had to wake up at 5 in the morning to get myself to the competing pool. The annual city meet and all of the people. The warm up laps. The shock of cold water. The Jell-0 that we used to eat right out of the package, fingers red or purple or orange from spooning the sugar from package to mouth over and over and over again. To give us energy.

It's good to be swimming again. I felt so apprehensive when I jumped in the water today, knowing I only had about half an hour to spend and not feeling like there was going to be any benefit in that half an hour. The first couple of laps were nice, then it got torturous for a few laps, then I concentrated on taking it easy, doing the stroke the way it was most relaxing and comfortable for me...trying to go as slowly as possible. And I got a second wind at one point and thought I could maybe swim forever.

But then it started thundering and we all had to get out of the pool. I felt weaker when I got out of the water. More tired than I had been while I was swimming. And I'm certain that I will sleep well tonight.

Posted at 5:04 PM • Comments (1) • TrackBack

Heat of the Moment

May 29, 2003

I was at the grocery store today, and the song "Heat of the Moment" by Asia came on the loudspeaker. I was hurled back in time to the summer of my first kiss, and I've been meaning to share the story ever since it came up the other night during my gab session with Chris and k8

I think it was actually the summer of 1983 or 1984, and that song was popular at the swimming pools I haunted. I met Craig at Frontier Days, which is (still) an annual carnival that is held at Recreation Park in my hometown of Arlington Heights, IL. Craig. Ah, Craig. He was absolutely gorgeous, and he had a southern accent, he was just visiting from all the way down south in, um, SOUTHERN Illinois, and rumor had it that he had a girlfriend back home that he did IT with on Wednesday nights. I still, to this day, have no idea what was implied by "it" - but, you know, I know at the time I was sure it meant he went ALL THE WAY.

I had absolutely no idea why on earth Craig might be interested in me. I was gangly and awkward, having just entered puberty. My hair was goofy looking. I had absolutely no fashion sense. My teeth were crooked, and I'm sure I smelled funny. I haven't changed much.

I have mentioned, of course, that I spent most of my teenage years steadfastly refusing sex. Craig was certainly not going to go "all the way" with me.

Craig, however, was either desperate to try, or saw something in me that I did not see. He spotted me at the drinking fountain in the activity building while I was waiting for my friend Claire to use the bathroom. Or maybe I spotted him. Or, more likely, his cousin, Kip, spotted Claire, and I was just someone who had to be dragged along for the ride.

At any rate, Craig spent the day riding rides with me. He held my hand on the zipper (the RIDE called the Zipper, you perv! Not his ACTUAL zipper) and he shared his cotton candy with me on the ferris wheel. I have absolutely no recollection of what we might have talked about, but as the day drew to a close, we agreed to meet up again that evening. Frontier days was a day and night affair, and I pretty much spent the bulk of the three day weekend there at the park, where Claire and I could ogle the Tilt-a-Whirl operator (who also had an amusingly appealing southern accent and who we thought was flirting with us and giving us extra long and "extra spinny" rides. He did give us this handy tip about the Tilt-a-Whirl for those of you who enjoy a good dizzy spell: The metal bar you use as a sort of seatbelt for the ride is also a brake when lifted up, so the further down you can hold it, the more you are apt to spin.)

Anyway, back to Craig. Evening fell and I dreamily drifted back to the park for my rendezvous with Craig. I had no idea what was going to happen, but I had some sense that my life would never be the same after that evening. When I met Craig by the flying bobs, he held my hand and looked into my eyes with a strange expression that was unfamiliar to me. I was nervous. As we got into our seats and he put his arm around me, I moved my arm to put it around him, too, and I ended up punching him in the mouth. Those of you who read my autobiography will discover that accidentally punching people in the mouth at intimate moments is a continuing theme throughout my history.

At any rate, Craig forgave me. After riding some of the carny rides and playing some of the carny games and eating some of the carny food, Craig led me out onto the darkened tennis courts, adjacent to where the old folks (you know, parents) were listening to live music. I remember it was dark, and I could see the outline of Craig's head as he held me at arm's length, with his arms resting on my shoulders and his hands dangling down, barely touching my upper back. He had curly hair and white, white teeth that caught the carnival lights as he smiled.

He moved his head closer to me, and tilted it to one side. I kind of worked by intuition, as I had no clue how this kissing stuff went down. I just put my mouth on his and allowed him to persuade my lips apart with his tongue. I guess I figured it out and explored his mouth, too...because I remember distinctly that I tasted blood. (Thus, k8 suggests, explains the name "dru blood").

I think we kissed for a good long time. And I have pleasant memories of his tenderness towards me in those moments. I don't remember any words being spoken and I don't remember if I ever saw Craig again after that night. I'm certain that I didn't kiss him again. He either went home to SOUTHERN Illinois and talked about his girlfriend up north who he did IT with, or I was such a bad kisser that he didn't even want to try it again. It would be many many years before I would kiss another boy, but that was OK. My first kiss was pretty decent, and I'm thankful for that.

Claire dated Kip for what seemed to be an eternity. I'm not sure if they ever "did it."

I wonder if I should attempt to do a retrospective of all of the people I have kissed in my lifetime, since I seem to be on a makeout kick. Dunno that I can recall them all, but I'm not averse to making shit up. hahahahhaa

Posted at 11:31 PM • Comments (1) • TrackBack

How Very Cool

May 17, 2003

So, i e-mailed the guy from Cool Beans to see if I could get the track listing of that CD, and he promptly e-mailed me back with way more information than I asked for.

I found out that the singer I'm crushing on is the singer for Queen Cobra. She is, in fact, a woman. Which is fine and everything, but I feel bad for thinking (assuming) it was a man.

AND. I found out that the Matt Kelly who puts out Cool Beans is in fact the very same Matt Kelly I knew back when, you guessed it, I was in high school. What is the deal with this stuff lately? I mean, I had always kind of wondered if he was the same Matt Kelly (because I've read cool beans for years and years) but...there are so many Matt Kelly's out there I thought it would be dumb to assume.

Still, I think it's very cool to be able to talk to him again...I'm looking forward to the update. He said he came to my blog and couldn't figure out who I was. Hahahaha. The joys of a pseudonym. I should have strung him along a little longer before telling him who I am, but I came right out with it like a big dork.

So, it's nice to know that people I liked way back when are still doing cool shit now. Cheers, Matt Kelly. Good ta know ya.

Posted at 10:08 PM • Comments (6) • TrackBack

ode to a boy with a name like mine

April 19, 2003

Tonight I wrap my mind around you like I wrapped the phone cord around the fingerof my 17 year old self the night you called I was reading Dante's Inferno and really not getting it but I pretended I was when we spoke and equally mysterious words rolled off your tongue.

I told you to rescue me, and suddenly you arrived. Taller than I remembered. Leaner. You were the quintessential punk with a shock of mohawked hair...or were you bald? Or had your hair grown out then? I misremember. It's a blur. But that night my mother offered to feed you and you told her "That's OK, I don't eat food." and we skipped off to the park in the gazebo where you sang more words to me and I think we kissed but I was careful to keep you away from my neck...

...because I remember you and A and the millions of hickeys. The year of bandanas to cover your love bites...

And I remember when I first met you you were taller than I could imagine. Tall and lean and the quintessential punk rocker because I'm sure then was when you wore the shock of a mohawk at the top of your head and I thought we should be together because you were a boy with a name like mine.

And I remember we did not get together, and that was OK because A was your aesthetic opposite, and you were perfect together. And me and S danced alone on the dancefloor the day we invaded McGreevies on a holiday and no one was there but us.

And I remember you called me from somewhere surprising. Was it a military camp? Were you staying with a brother or relative? You quoted whole scenes from It's a Wonderful Life. You told me you were going to lasso the moon, and I had no fucking idea what you were talking about until years later when I actually sat down and watched the movie for the first time.

I always underestimated you. Perhaps it was because I was certain that skinheads didn't write poetry. But you were poetry, and that confused me. I don't think I understood any of the people I knew then, they and you were fantastic dreams too soon unfolded. I didn't have the capacity to fully appreciate.

Did we kiss that night in the gazebo, or am I applying a patina of romance to an evening of pleasant befuddlement and humor? Was I dreaming the rings of hell and the ring of the telephone?

You disappeared that night and faded into eternity. And I never did finish reading that book.

Posted at 6:46 PM • Comments (1) • TrackBack