Atomictumor

She and I saw you a few times, about 10 years ago.

She was a big fan of yours, and I always sorta saw a bit of her in you, what with the long curly hair (kids and age straightened it out some, but the impression was always there).  I have to admit, me, being a punk rocker at the time, wasn’t as into your music, but I was very into her, and I sucked up my oi oi oi attitude and went to a couple of your shows in Knoxville, back in 96.

She could play some of your music on the piano, and sang in your key pretty well.  She loved your music, but we stopped listening to you for reasons I don’t really know, in the year or two after Boys for Pele came out.  We had a kid, and you took a break, and we just never really met up.  We got caught up on a big classic rock thing for a while, Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin and Bowie and whatnot, and passed you by when you started recording again.

Still, she’d listen, every once in a while, to Little Earthquakes or Under the Pink, and sing along.  When it’d come up on the CD shuffle and she wasn’t there, it always brought her to my mind.

After she got sick and left my life, almost a year ago today, I’d hear your music and cry.  I’d see that dark, curly hair in my fingers, or at my chest (she was pretty short), and it’d bring her back to me in ways that pictures, or memories, just can’t do.  She’s still all mixed up with you, Tori, and thats a crazy thing.

I can hear her sing along, if Yes Anastasia comes on the radio or shuffle.  It was unbearable at first, and I’d skip it.  Afterwards, I’d struggle through the song, thinking that if I could finish listening to it, I’d be cleansed, or healed, or reconciled.  Maybe I was, and maybe I wasn’t, I don’t really know.  These days, and for the last few months, I listen to it, and she’s there, but like with all other aspects of my life, she’s fuzzy.  She’s a memory thats more and more distant, the same part of me that, say, my 24th year, or 1996.

Its a beautiful thing, and a thing that made me what I am today, but something that doesn’t pertain to who I am or what I am anymore.

That was a hard realization to make, let me tell you.  By admitting that, in a certain point of view, it could be construed as insensitive, or callous.  It could mean that I’m turning my back on it, that I’m denying all the sweet things I ever said to her, and all the love that I professed for her.  It could mean that I’m giving her the finger, way up in heaven.

I know thats not the case, and you know thats not the case, tho.  I think you knew it all along, and it just took me a lot of time to get there, sorta like getting into a cold swimming pool.

It could be said that I’m releasing her.  That’d be nice too, and that might be closer to the case, but I’m not sure if thats the whole thing.  I still get comfort in her.  I still relish those memories, and if I were releasing her, I’d think I’d be letting that stuff go.  Those were the best years of my life so far, and I want to keep them for all my days.

If I’m releasing anything, its the pain.  The sadness, the guilt (yep, theres guilt.  I couldn’t explain it to you, its as irrational as the day is long, but its there), the trauma.  I’m letting go of the way of life I’ve had over the past year.

I got the idea of writing this letter to you, Tori, when I was driving my girlfriends truck back and forth between my house and hers, hauling lumber and heavy stuff.  I’ve been kinda saying “bye” to that old place, and thats a nice thing.  We put together the kids bunk bed at the lady’s house, and they slept there last night.  They loved it!

I’m digressing, sorry.

Point is, I had the kids and the girlfriend back at her house, and came back to mine for one more load of stuff, when one of your new songs came on.  I hadn’t heard this one, or at least I didn’t think I had, and it was nice.

It was like the little curly headed girl who I gave those years to, saying hello.  Telling me that she’s fine, she’s having fun and doing her thing, and that she’s tickled to see me doing mine. That she can’t wait to watch my new life unfold, wrapped around another lady just like it was wrapped around hers.  That she’s thrilled that her little family is thriving, and that somebody else is good enough to take her place.

That was neat, Tori.  I don’t know if you intended it that way, but it was a thrill.  So that night, as my new old family sat at the time-out, and I watched the woman who’s stepping so gracefully and beautifully into the curly headed girls role chat with my son (the one who was born when you took that break, near 10 years ago), I thought of you.

Thanks.  I hope everythings working out well for you!

MastaG, the car CD guy, chose Is This It? by The Strokes to replace Arcade Fire’s Neon Bible.

A friend was cool enough yesterday to set me up with a copy of it. I had enjoyed what I heard of Arcade Fire’s first CD, but this one just wasn’t clicking with us. We listened to the first three songs entirely on the way to school, and most of the fourth, and it just wasn’t working.

Maybe it was the mixing, but we needed something else.

“Wow G, pulling out the old school, huh?”

“Yep.” He replied. “Was I born when the Strokes came out, Dad?”

I explained that he was about 4 or 5. We had first heard The Strokes, of all times, on Sept. 11th, 2001. We’d had enough of the play by play of disaster on TV, and wanted something lighter. Like all the other channels, I told him, MTV was broadcasting something out of the ordinary due to the shock of the situation. Videos.

The Strokes were one of them. GAC and I dug the music, a revival of New York rock, and got the CD. It was our first “indie”ish record, and really got us into modern music after about 3 or 4 years of classic rocking. MastaG immediately loved it, and two years later his first concert was a Strokes show, with me, his Mom, Nodbob, and KatyK.

As I explained it, it occured to me how much more relevant the Sept. 11th thing is now, in light of the past year. I mentioned that to G, but as I looked over, his jaw was set, and he was determinedly looking away.

I asked if he was OK, and apologized for ruining the mood. He said he was fine, the stoic brat, but he was quiet.

Today was the last day of elementary school. I was mentioning that to the boy all morning, and it hit me again on the way.

No more elementary school for MastaG. No more preschool for Pigpen.

After I dropped G off (he was smiling again by then, The Strokes are good for easing moods), I drove Pigpen. As I patted his leg in the backseat, it occured to me that no matter what happens later, in all the permutations of things that are to come, this is the last time.

I’m never going to make my common drive, dropping of G at the elementary school, and then coming back to drop Pigpen off at the preschool. Never.

They’re moving on to different things. And the drive that BJ and I did for two years in one way or another, 360 times on average, will not be driven again.

In a year of so many lasts, so many profound and huge conclusions, even the little ones take me aback.

So, I never made that concert.

I had made all the necessary preparations.  Daco and his wife were coming over to put the kids in bed, and I’d take off for N. Knoxville around 7:30 or so.  I was anticipating the freaky surrealness of seeing a one man show of The Robot Ate Me at some weird little residential house that nobody’s ever heard of, and I felt like it was something that I was compelled to do, simply because of the circumstances of finding it, and a couple of points where the music of the band fit into BJ’s life and death in interesting ways for me that’d take too long to explain now.

So, it was almost a kinda pilgrimage for me.  I wasn’t really into the drive down there, and I wasn’t feeling great, kinda worn out like I’ve been a lot lately, but I was determined to do it.

So, we ended up (the boys and I) going to pal’s house to hang out for a few hours before Daco showed, and we all had a great time.  Pigpen was acting sleepy and under the weather, and MastaG’s stomach was hurting.  Another friend or two showed up, and we were sipping beers on the porch.  It was a damn nice time, and it occurred to me that it’d be silly to leave what is a good time for something that only may be a good time.  I wasn’t crazy about ditching the boys, so we stayed.  I called Daco, and met his wife at our house to let em know that we wouldn’t be needing their services.

So, we had some steaks over there, and I missed the show.  I wrote an email to Ryland of the band in appease the compulsion to see the show, which in hindsight seems silly, but hell, why not.

So, we’re sitting out on the back porch, chatting, finishing our steak and beer, and I rolled up a cigarette.  Yes, I’ve been doing a little bit of this, on the sly (I need a vice).  MastaG has some determined opinions vis a vis cigarette smoking, and he ended up sneaking up on us as we were talking and I was smoking.  I tried to play it off, but it didn’t really work, and on the drive home he grilled me.  I gave up the game, and told him “Yes, G, I have been smoking.”

He broke down and cried.  He yelled at me, saying “Don’t you know that’s bad for you????  Why are you doing something bad for you???”

How can I explain?  It reminds me of times gone past, when BJ was here and I was happier?  It eases my stress which is damn near constant these days?  It provides pretty much my only vice (since I’m not, ahem, having nighttime liaisons anymore)?

I thought of those reasons, the justifications for smoking that I give myself, and realized that none of them would pass muster with the 10 year old.  I was irritated.

I was pissed, actually.  I was pissed that I was busted, I was pissed that he was making such a big deal out of it, I was pissed that he’s been hounding me for months trying to find out if I was smoking or not.  I wanted to yell at him, turn it all back on the boy, give him the 3rd degree.  “Boy”, I’d say “do you have any idea what I go through?  If you had a lick of sense, you’d just let this go and let me go on doing what I want to do”

Instead, I gave him the pack of tobacco and rolling papers.  I promised to never smoke a cigarette again.  He banged the pack with his fist a few times, and threw it in the garbage.

Vices are overrated, anyway.

—

Last night, just after tucking in a very, very sleepy Pigpen and a now appeased (but still somewhat distrustful) MastaG, Pigpen woke up and puked all over the place.  He had a fever.  I cleaned him up, while he sobbed, and tucked him into a cozy bed on the living room couch.  All of us ended up staying home today, because G said he wasn’t feeling good either, and I’m just waiting for him to pop up with a fever.  Pigpen hasn’t puked since last night, and his fever went away (without medicine) an hour ago or so, but he’s still worn out.

The first few drops of rain are hitting the quiet roof in my bedroom.  Its dark outside, and it occurs to me how lucky I am, and how much I love.

Well, things are looking good.

Rhino is back home with an exhausted mom and dad, and doing better.  It terrifies me to think of a little guy in the hospital with IVs and whatnot.

Thanks for all your well-wishes, even tho its not as much my place to thank you people as it is Sumgirls, it is great to see.  You people are the best.

Well, most of you.

—

Yes, its been four months since we lost GAC.  And thats OK.  I didn’t even realize it until later in the morning.

Don’t know if you noticed or not, but I’ve moved away from putting the personal stuff on the ‘tumor, in an attempt to move back to what it was.  My life has gotten back to normal, along with this dumb little website.  I much prefer it this way.

Its funny, looking at the evolution of the website.  GAC and I started it off in Sept of 05, and got Bos and Eaves on board before we launched it, in an attempt to make a place for locals to chat.  It became that, but it became more of a sounding board for us.  Sure, we did local stuff, but we also did stuff about school, or work, or kids, or just whatever.  I called us quasi-anonymous, because anybody who tried hard enough could figure out who I was, even from the beginning, but by using a super secret codename it was easier to do things like accuse public figures of pig-shenanigans, or just speak my mind in general.

When BJ got sick, it became a lot more personal, and I had to have an outlet for what was going on.  It very likely kept me sane, both the outlet, and the fact that all of you gluttons for punishment kept coming back saying nice things.

I ran out of things to say, and you still kept coming back.  Its humbling.

Life is good.

—

This morning was full of coincidences, but I don’t know if I believe in coincidences anymore. Lemme tell you about it, and then I’ll ramble about other things on other days.

—

So, today the plan was for Bisc and Damama to come up with my grandmother (who has never been to Casatuma) and spend a bit of time before heading off to drop her off.  I totally forgot to clean the house.

So, I got up about 8 (or was it 9?  Still haven’t gotten the hang of the new time thing yet) and cleaned the dump up.  By the time we were done, I was in no mood to cook breakfast, so we decided to spring for Hardees.  I called Damama to make sure they wouldn’t be here for another little while, and we took off.

On the way to Hardees, we passed Applebees, which had some signs advertising a pancake breakfast.

Now, I can’t pass up a pancake breakfast.  I went to one a few weeks ago (the morning before I ‘upgraded’ the WP, which went completely backwards) and man, those things are dyno-mite. 5 bucks, all you can eat pancakes and sausage links, and it goes to some charity or another.  That first time, it was the Oak Ridge High Orchestra. I wasn’t sure who it was for this time, but I knew I needed some pancakes.

So, we parked and headed in.

Turns out, it was for Methodist Medical Center, something about their hospitality house or some such thing, but as soon as we went in there, we bumped into Dr. Joe, who was BJs anesthesiologist for her surgeries back in November.  He had a mom in the CCU at the same time as BJ, and his Dad was somebody that I mentioned way back in those days, that seem so long ago.

Dr. Joe is one in a million.  I never mentioned him, because he wasn’t one of the guys that I was hanging on for scraps of hope, he wouldn’t be able to tell me what her white blood count was, or her brain activity.  However, he was somebody who always remembered my name, who always looked genuinely sad and shocked that my wife was stricken.   He was the only doc (to my knowledge, correct me if I’m wrong) who came to BJs funeral with his family.

He served me pancakes this morning.  We chatted for a while (his Mom’s home and better).  It was when I saw him that I realized that it’d been 4 months.  Amazing.

What an incredible thing.

Thanks, Dr. Joe, for being who you are.  Thanks for remembering me and the boys.  Thanks for your unfailing kindness and optimism.

And that makes a difference.

Life is good.  A 4 year old boy is OK.  KatyK is spending the night, and the kids are tucked in the beds, quietly squawking at each other (except Pigpen, who I think has passed out).  I close my eyes, and reach out my arms, and I feel BJ all around us.

It can’t get any better than this.