A Song For Russ
Russ lived across the street in the big yellow house on Mesa School Lane. I’d recently graduated with Honors in Poli Sci and Spanish, gone off to Arizona and dropped out of a brand new grad school program in Comparative Spanish Lit. Now back in Santa Barbara, renting a room from a young lobsterman and his wife. Their dog, Danza, and a hot tub out back. Working for a wholesale women’s shoe importer, blowing harmonica in a band called Last Rites. Our gigs resulted in the venue shutting down permanently, every single time. I’d also started eating again, after five years of practically nothing but fruit, nuts, and an occasional binge on forbidden items like beans, potatoes, bread, or other earthly horrors. The five year body destroying experiment would have lifelong, devastating consequences, a testament to the impact of choices we make.
I don’t recall how many people were living in that big yellow house, but I remember Sky and Russ, and Russ was the coolest surfer dude. The guy with the sandy ‘64 Beatles hair, the grin and the mischievous, sparkling eyes. The one they named “chill” after. He was a reporter for The Santa Barbara Independent, and his circle of friends included writers and editors and photographers and all the other cool people doing cool things that impressed the hell out of me back then. We didn’t hang out at all, he just seemed like he had his shit together and was living his own dream.
We met up again a few years later, when I was working for George, the vengeful God of Typography, at the UCSB staff paper, 93106. George needed a new, younger, hipper editor. He reached out to Russ, who was one of his old colleagues at The Independent. The previous regime at 93106 was, well, shall we say risk-averse? With Russ on board, we got to play and push boundaries and be who we are. We had a column in the original paper called “Gazette,” and we added a parallel universe column called “Baguette” (my idea). Stuff like that.
Russ and I weren’t close friends, but we were good friends. Kindred spirits at 93106, lunch buddies. Around this time, he acquired an old white Falcon with a hole in the floor. He covered it with a serape to make sure you didn't fall through. We were in it, not of it, or maybe just subject to the shifting whims of the university machine. He wore collared shirts and maybe even a tie once or twice, but that's as far as it went, the rest was us bending what we could towards us. Still, there's only so much round a square hole can take. We didn’t bend the rules hard enough to break them, but we did push and poke where we could.
When the budget got sliced, George took me to lunch and cut me loose. I could barely hear what he was saying, and it seemed impossible. I mean, they loved me over there, and who would design the paper every week? I took advantage of the perks and faxed everyone at UCSB the news that soon I’d be good and gone, and to please keep me in mind for any opportunities.
George called a few days later about a temp job at The Independent, filling in for Garvin, the vacationing production manager. Here’s the thing about production manager. In the old newspaper days, you were expected to know how to sling an x-acto knife. When I muscled into graphic design, it was due to my computer chops, not any innate artistic ability. I was a pair of hands for old school art directors who needed a geek to help them execute their vision. X-acto knives scared the hell out of me, with nightmares of bleeding out through sliced fingers. Everyone had horror stories about discarded blades that somehow wound up in their underwear. But now I was the production manager who couldn’t throw an x-acto, working with a color blind art director. I dropped one on my foot the very first day. It went straight through the top of my boot and stood there in that mocking, x-acto knife way.
I don’t think I ever worked so hard in my life or had so much fun. My new friends at The Independent took me in and made sure I didn’t fuck up too badly. There was Franz the color blind art director, and Kim, the stylishly icy staff photographer who smoked cigarettes and taught me not to switch the fork hand after cutting my food. Kim and Garvin were together, and then they weren’t. Or maybe they weren't, and then they were. They're not married or together now, that much I do recall.
Then there's Alex. Alex! Writer, editor, take your breath away beautiful and genius smart, with that wild head of black, curly hair. Everybody was “giiiiiirl!” Our small group of fit and misfit toys hung out when we weren’t working together. Alex had a thing for Russ, yet they were tight like brother and sister. The three of us went out on a night drive and gazed at the stars. We had no idea what the constellations were, so I pointed out the ones I recognized, like “Little Sheba.”
Outside the circle, Denise was 34, with two young boys. I was a mere 32 and utterly irresponsible. I had no real job, no plan, no sense of what it means to barge in on a woman with young kids. Her place was decorated with geese, and she introduced me to classics like “Drop Dead Fred.” I brought her along on a couple of awkward outings with my Independent crowd, and she brought me along to the hospital. There, the doctors sliced her dad open, north to south, all the way. I have no idea how, but he pulled through. Stuff like that brings normal people closer together. Or shatters the whole damn experiment. Me, I was a fly on the wall of a family I had no business in, biding my time, waiting for a clue to latch onto.
What sticks for me that summer are the hours spent with my Independents. I don’t believe my friends approved of the goose motif, and it was an ongoing source of friction between me and my goose-free flock. I am not now nor have I ever been a goose partisan, but I was willing to pull up a chair at the fiasco. Still, a goose woman deserves a goosier sort of gander, and Denise found hers. I eventually found Penny, far better than I deserve, after busting a few more hearts and having my own handed to me, too.
My temp job at The Independent morphed into a stint as art director when Franz ran off on vacation. But he eventually came back, too, and soon I was completely and utterly unemployed. Other than The Unknown Bikers, my bicycle club. “Here today, gone to breakfast.” But that doesn’t count as employment. Those were the days before I’d ever even heard of monetization.
Having printed a couple of thousand four-color posters to promote my graphic design skills, I sent them out in large envelopes to design studios all over the country. I eventually landed back where I started from, which is LA, where I grew incredibly homesick for Santa Barbara. So I moved again. To Honolulu.
I used to call Russ from Hawaii on occasion. He’d lived there, too, in a past life. I’d tell him how I missed the smell of the mountains, or ask him how much smoke rising from under the hood is considered normal (the answer, of course, is none). Or how it was finally getting cold in Makiki, and that I had to sleep under the sheet.
The next time our paths crossed was about a year after I'd moved to Oahu. I flew in to LA and drove to SB for a quick visit, and Russ put me up on his couch. He was working that night, so I wandered off to the roasting company. There, I met my fate. Aimee. Crazy Aimee. The one who was dropped on her head as a child. The one after whom I broke decisively with my childlike, wandering past, and my deep Santa Barbara ties. It was not one of those whirlwind romances, it was a warning shot to run like hell from bold, wrong moves. Aimee was my excuse to end the Honolulu escapade, but she was also the off-ramp to my new life.
My visits to Santa Barbara became less and less frequent as I grew to finally love LA. Still spinning, but stabilizing somehow, putting down roots amongst the angels. Hardly talking to old friends after a while. I met Penny and fell deeply in love, the kind of love that leads us home, to purpose, to the fulfillment of our destiny in life. Away from our past and our ghosts. Away from old friends and fond memories, into the daily grind that defines and deepens and makes us strong.
I didn’t speak to or hear from Russ for many years after that. We all got busy, or maybe we didn’t care. Plenty of time to pick up the pieces someday.
George died in 2013, having lived HIV positive for 20+ years. Cigarettes and cheeseburgers did him in. Some of the old gang reappeared at the memorial, wizened and perhaps wiser. Certainly older. Russ didn’t look so good, and I don’t recall if we even spoke much more than say “hello.” He asked me to take down a photo I’d posted afterwards. I don’t blame him. He looked sad or drunk or off. Beyond blue, out of reach, gone from where we used to stomp. Just as quickly as they'd reappeared, the old gang disappeared.
We all keep secrets. From each other, from ourselves. We hide in our hobbies, in our families, in our lives. Dark places get buried and sometimes forgotten. We have no idea what our friends are going through, the depth of their despair. Sometimes, we know, and we can't do a thing. We're in the car, gunning south, ninety miles an hour in the dark. We catch a glimpse of something in the corner of our eye.
He stepped out or jumped onto the freeway. Nobody knows. Like I said, we were good but not close friends. Traffic was snarled for hours, but word got out, and soon there were calls and texts and posts, shock, disbelief, the gamut of death-spun emotions, the woulda coulda shoulda’s, the realization I had no idea who the hell my friend was. I wasn’t the only one caught completely off guard. Closer friends tried but couldn’t reach him. Terrible voices filled his head, and all we could do was cry.
I skipped the gathering to spend time with my family. We hadn’t done anything together in a while.
Back at George’s memorial, Russ was alone. Many of us waited a long time before settling down, and some of us never did. I felt bad that he must have waited too long, but would a wife and family have made a difference? He believed in love, that I know. He stopped us from walking away when walking away would have been easy. Yet he wouldn’t or couldn’t make enduring love happen for himself.
Me and Russ were never close enough for me to witness his demons, and what would I have done? We drift. We lose connection. Our people don’t reach back when we call to ask them about that smoke rising up from under the hood.
We lose a lot of friends, family, hope, and dreams as we creak and crank towards our own graves. We love and laugh and drink date shakes and make babies. We crank up the music and roll down the windows and raise our glasses high. We cry when our friends leave us this way, without a chance to talk them out of it or even say goodbye. We kick ourselves for not being a better friend. We go back to our wives and husbands and children, our pets, our peeves, our passions.
Russ, you freeway surfing son of a bitch, I wish I could save you. I pray you found peace, and that God embraced you on the other side. I hope you're riding a killer wave or driving that Falcon, hands off the wheel, holes in the floorboard, and some Cowboy Junkies flying through the air. I'll catch you up on what happened someday.
We weren’t close, but we were good, and you touched my life with your cool, hip sweetness and light. That night after the earthquake, when Sky crossed the street to see if I was ok, that’s what I should’ve done for you. I would’ve asked you to wait another day, to always wait another day. It might be a better day, it might be a shitty day, just don’t do it today, ok?
Tangled Up In Blue
Early one morning, the sun was shining
I was laying in bed
Wondering if she'd changed it all
If her hair was still red
Her folks, they said our lives together
Sure was gonna be rough
They never did like mama's homemade dress
Papa's bankbook wasn't big enough
And I was standing on the side of the road
Rain falling on my shoes
Heading out for the east coast
Lord knows I've paid some dues getting through
Tangled up in blue
She was married when we first met
Soon to be divorced
I helped her out of a jam, I guess
But I used a little too much force
We drove that car as far as we could
Abandoned it out west
Split up on a dark, sad night
Both agreeing it was best
She turned around to look at me
As I was walking away
I heard her say over my shoulder
"We'll meet again someday on the avenue"
Tangled up in blue
I had a job in the great north woods
Working as a cook for a spell
But I never did like it all that much
And one day the axe just fell
So I drifted down to New Orleans
Where I's lucky for to be employed
Working for a while on a fishing boat
Right outside of Delacroix
But all the while I was alone
The past was close behind
I seen a lot of women
But she never escaped my mind and I just grew
Tangled up in blue
She was working in a topless place
And I stopped in for a beer
I just kept looking at the sight of her face
In the spotlight so clear
And later on when the crowd thinned out
I's just about to do the same
She was standing there in back of my chair
Said, "Tell me, don't I know your name?"
I muttered something underneath my breath
She studied the lines on my face
I must admit I felt a little uneasy
When she bent down to tie the laces of my shoe
Tangled up in blue
She lit a burner on the stove and offered me a pipe
"I thought you'd never say hello, " she said
"You look like the silent type"
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burning coal
Pouring off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you
Tangled up in blue
I lived with them on Montagüe Street
In a basement down the stairs
There was music in the cafés at night
And revolution in the air
Then he started into dealing with slaves
And something inside of him died
She had to sell everything she owned
And froze up inside
And when finally the bottom fell out
I became withdrawn
The only thing I knew how to do
Was to keep on keeping on like a bird that flew
Tangled up in blue
So now I'm going back again
I got to get her somehow
All the people we used to know
They're an illusion to me now
Some are mathematicians
Some are carpenter's wives
Don't know how it all got started
I don't what they do with their lives
But me, I'm still on the road
Heading for another joint
We always did feel the same
We just saw it from a different point of view
Tangled up in blue
Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Bob Dylan
Tangled Up In Blue lyrics © Universal Tunes
Round Here
Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog
Where no one notices the contrast of white on white
And in between the moon and you
The angels get a better view
Of the crumbling difference between wrong and right
Well, I walk in the air between the rain
Through myself and back again
Where? I don't know
Maria says she's dying
Through the door, I hear her crying
Why? I don't know
'Round here, we always stand up straight
'Round here, something radiates
Maria came from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand
She said she'd like to meet a boy who looks like Elvis
And she walks along the edge
Of where the ocean meets the land
Just like she's walking on a wire in the circus
She parks her car outside of my house
And takes her clothes off
Says she's close to understanding Jesus
And she knows she's more than just a little misunderstood
She has trouble acting normal when she's nervous
'Round here, we're carving out our names
'Round here, we all look the same
'Round here, we talk just like lions
But we sacrifice like lambs
'Round here, she's slipping through my hands
Woah oh oh
Sleeping children better run like the wind
Out of the lightning dream
Mama's little baby better get herself in
Out of the lightning
She says it's only in my head
She says, shh, I know it's only in my head
But the girl on the car in the parking lot
Says, Man, you should try to take a shot
Can't you see my walls are crumbling?
Then she looks up at the building
Says she's thinking of jumping
She says she's tired of life
She must be tired of something
'Round here, she's always on my mind
'Round here, hey man, got lots of time
'Round here, we're never sent to bed early
And nobody makes us wait
'Round here, we stay up very, very, very, very late
I, I can't see nothin', nothin' 'round here
You catch me if I'm fallin', you catch me if I'm fallin'
Will you catch me? 'Cause I'm fallin' down on you
I said I'm under the gun, 'round here
I'm innocent, I'm under the gun, 'round here
And I can't see nothin', nothin' 'round here
Source: Musixmatch
Songwriters: Bowman / Duritz / Malley / Gillingham / Roldan / Jamusco / Byrson / Jewitt
Round Here lyrics © Jones Falls Music, Songs Of Atlas Music Group, Pw Ballads, Songs Of Universal Inc.
