Birds Perched on Pachyderms and Outdoor Electro Parties (Part II)

Carly and I were sitting in a small, trendy restaurant in Montreal, house music playing as attractive servers poured us Mimosas.  It was Sunday.  Sundays = mimosas.  Around the table sat five French Canadiens who we had met only an hour beforehand: three bartenders, an owner?/manager?/representative? of a clothing line, and a synchronized swimmer who happened to be on the Canadian National Synchronize Swimming Team.  

Of course...totally normal.

How did we end up here, surrounded by eggs florentine, French conversation and 1 p.m. shots of Jack Daniels?  Connections, my friend.

Carly - who I have previously established as being a rockstar - was recently "made up" (I doubt this is actual industry lingo) by a semi-famous makeup artist/stylist for one of her MTV shoots. (I imagine that having a makeup artist do one's makeup is very similar to getting my hair cut by Bob, my local barber...except that Bob only speaks in grunts, would surely kill himself if anyone ever described him as "flamboyant," and somehow always manages to lightly rest his genitals on the armrest of the barber chair during the haircutting process, a spot which usually also happens to be occupied by my arm and hand.)  At some point in their conversation, no doubt between his gushing of how gorgeous she looks (because somehow she always does), Carly mentioned that she would be going to Montreal in the next few weeks, to which he responded that his best friend happened to live in Montreal and should we happen to meet up with him it would almost certainly be a good time.  You don't say...  

STEP 1: Don't Dismiss These Chance Encounters.  These Small Exchanges Are Worth More Than You Will Know.  Save Everything...

Fast forward to Sunday Morning in our Montreal Hostel Auberge de Paris, Carly talking to me as she finishes putting on her makeup, me catching flashes of her in the mirror.

Carly:  So, I know we don't know this guy, this "friend of a friend"...but would you want to meet up with him for brunch or something?  He seems cool...

Me (always down for anything): Sure...I mean, what's the worst that could happen...? (thinking that, actually, the worst that could happen would be to end up completely inebriated by 4 p.m., me stumbling on stage at a gay strip club somewhere, maybe getting arrested for badmouthing the Queen or Nickleback, ODing on poutine...all of which would make for a really great story...)

So, an email and an hour later, we found ourselves nestled in a booth listening to stories told in a combination of French and English, eating and drinking, enjoying the company of our new friends.  "Where were you planning on going today?" they asked us.  "Oh, we kinda wanted to see the Basilica de Notre Dame and Old Montreal and all that," we answered.  They frowned. This was not the correct response.  "Okay," they said with a look one gives a child that doesn't know any better, "go see those things, but you must go to Piknic before the day is over."  Piknic, they explained, is an electronic music festival held every Sunday, all summer long, at Jean-Drapeau Park.  "Just get off the train and follow the music."

Yeah, that sounds awesome.  We'll do that.

STEP 2:  Take What Others Have Offered You.  There Is A Reason It Has Been Given.  Your Life Will Be Better If You Take These Chances...

Losing daylight, we thanked our Canadien cohorts for their advice and bid them "au revoir!" then headed out to join the throngs of tourists "seeing the sights." Of course, the Canadiens were right.  The Basilica cost too much money and Old Montreal seemed too Disneyish, like it was trying too hard to be authentic and thus failing miserably at authenticity.  We jumped on a train heading toward the Jean-Drapeau stop and the Piknic Electronik, though we still had no idea what to expect.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This is unreal.  

This is like something you see in a movie but doesn't actually happen in life.

I can't believe we are here... 

Thousands of people crowded under an enormous metal sculpture, its long legs lifting the riveted body toward the grey sky threatening to break open on us at any moment.  The music pulsed smoothly, the multitude responding with arms raised, eyes closed, vibrating bodies all held in place by time signatures.  All around us were the artists of Montreal, the hipsters, the shabby chic, those too trendy to be considered trendy; asymmetrical haircuts, boots, piercings, tattoos, smiles, colors, movement, beauty.  And we, in the middle of everything, absorbing and touching it all.  

The DJs remixed Whitney Houston's I Wanna Dance With Somebody.  We danced. In the distance the Montreal skyline stood silent, observing, jealous of our discovery.

We went and sat in the grassy area surrounding the sculpture, the music still audible but muffled slightly by the trees that obscured our view of the crowds.  Across the lake, in front of us, a small waterfall poured into the pool which reflected the green and the sky.  Around us, people smoked pot and drank out of wine sacks, tore pieces of baguettes produced from backpacks.  I sat up on my elbow, the grass staining my shirt, and tried to remember everything, exactly how it was at that exact moment.  

How do I keep finding myself in these moments with you?

STEP 3: Recognize The Great Moments In Life When They Happen.  Realize That We Cannot Do This Alone.  We Are All In This Together... 

montreal in the distance

the party

waterfalls and music

Music: Caffeine and Eggs Florentine

I miss you most in the mornings and evenings, and all afternoons, and of course when I'm dreaming...

Birds Perched on Pachyderms and Outdoor Electro Parties (Part I)

This life is all about connections.  The people we meet, the people we know, the people we idolize and the people we choose to ignore, the people who we allow into our tiny little worlds will influence the quality of our lives, both in the present and future, more than we could ever know or predict.  The relationships we forge, whether they be superficial or extremely intimate, will open some doors and close other, will fucking knock down walls and build doors to rooms you couldn't have imagined.  Or maybe they'll just tear the whole goddam building down and start from scratch.

In college, I always balked at the idea of it; the frat boys and business nerds called it networking.  It always struck me as fake, seemed to cheapen the human experience of actually knowing someone, of sharing secrets and memories and learning the most wonderful and terrible things, and knowing that they know these things about you as well. To network, I always thought, was to strip interaction of its beauty and emotion and leave only the cold and mechanical; friendships operating on a trade and barter system.  I have this to offer...see...I am a desirable person to know.  Let me look upon your...ahhh yes!  You have things that I need!  I'll trade you mine if I can have yours?  SIgn on the dotted line...voila!  Friendship!  

It is, as I once believed, the social equivalent of Go Fish.  Relationships are business transactions.  We are birds perched on pachyderms.  Mutualistic Symbiosis.

But now I am learning (slowly but surely, I swear that I am).  It is impossible to fall in love with everyone, it is unrealistic to invite every person I meet on a subway train or in line at the bank to my birthday party.  There are some people who will remain a business card in my wallet or a contact without a last name in my phone.  But even these people, these small and seemingly insignificant acquaintances, have something to offer.  I believed, once, that by accumulating these acquaintances I was acting insincere - that I was collecting the human equivalent of baseball cards, that I was simply keeping these "friends" in holding patterns until I could find a way to exploit them or make our relationship work to my advantage - but now I'm beginning to realize that we are all climbing the same mountain.  I will take your hand now, and tomorrow I will give someone else a boost.  We are all clinging to each other, a tottering mass of a billion arms and legs all clamoring to go up and up and up. 

We put ourselves out for the taking, and we must in turn take what we have been offered.  We can do nothing in this life by ourselves.  

We are all in this together.

The Girl on the Train

This could be considered an epilogue to the previous “The Most Interesting Man in the World.”  But you may take it as you will…

It will be late at night when you finally get on the train, calves aching, a thin film covering any and all exposed skin, a taste in your mouth that you can’t place but know that it is not something pleasant.  You will take your seat in the almost empty car, the fluorescent lights harshly burning down on the two or three other passengers that occupy various other seats, spread out equidistant, each person their own colony of destitution, each an isolationist nation, starving and slowly dying alone.  You will be exhausted.  You will already be picturing yourself in your bed, looking forward to flipping the switch, shutting off your brain for the day.  “So very close,” you will think…

Two stops down the line, they will get on the train, in your car, invading your territory like hostile enemy forces.  There will be four of them, three girls and one guy, and from the moment they board it will be obvious that they are completely intoxicated.  They will stumble and talk loudly.  They will slur and say stupid, inappropriate things.  They will have a lengthy debate on just where the fuck is this train going? And I think we’re going to wrong way! And no, we’re not, we’re going West I think.  “Jesus,” you will mumble under your breath, “If I’m like this when I drink I’m switching to a less annoying vice, like betting on horse races or watching Jersey Shore.”  All you will want is to avoid being touched by their suffocating shabbiness, their predictable Midwest B-list escapism that will surely be the talk around boring water coolers in the hot, hangover morning.  They will be “average” personified four-fold, and all you will desire it to elude drawing their attention, just quietly slip by, of no consequence and not providing any reason to be talked to…

“Hey, he’s cute,” the blonde girl with dead eyes and gift shop tattoos will say, getting up to come talk to you though you will have given her no indication that this is something you want her to do.

Goddamnit.  You will exhale the word through your mouth, making your tongue take the shape of the syllables but keeping your jaw and lips still; the result will sound like any old sigh, an expletive neatly disguised.

She will sit in the seat in front of you and ask your name, to which you will respond curtly but politely, and follow it up with a toothless smile.  “I’m Miranda,” she will say, her reciprocated smile haphazard, sloppy.  Her eyes will survey you, attempting to focus, losing the battle with the drugs that are depressing her central nervous system.  You will wonder how your eyes look at her (not that she would notice).  Do they glow of impatience? Do they shine with pity, with embarrassment for her?  Or are they just dull, deflated, extinguished…?

Miranda will make small talk with you and you will oblige her because you have never been the type to tell someone to “fuck off” even if you mean it, and have, in fact, always chosen to suffer through such exasperating social encounters rather than appear rude or insincere, though knowing full well that by feigning interest and indulging their unwanted conversations you are actually being both rude and insincere.  Besides, there will be nowhere else to go – you will be a captive audience in the small train car - and your stop will be only a few minutes away anyway. 

“What do you do for the monies?” you will ask.  (You always ask about someone’s job this way, because you believe that “careers” are a dying invention and asking “What do you do for a living” implies that a job keeps you alive, which you believe it does only as far as keeping you comfortable and fed and warm; but really, these are only small parts of actually “living,” just the dirty gears of it, the black-clad stagehands that move the set pieces and pull open the curtains.  “Living” is so much more than this, and you refuse to degrade its worth by using such a carelessly constructed comparison.  You will, instead, choose to sound ridiculous and childlike.)

“I’m…uh…in finance,” she will say, slightly caught off guard by your phrasing (as most people are).  “But I just lost my job.  Corporate downsizing.  I knew it was going to happen, but still.  I don’t know what I’m going to do now.”  She will look like she’s been slapped, like she has just been given terrible news in a public place and whattheHELL kind of person would give you news like that with so many people around?! (you inconsiderate asshole!) You will feel awful, she will have obviously been trying to forget about this all night.

“Well,” you will say, trying to be consoling, hoping to cover up the wounds exposed by what you thought was an innocent question, Jesus I hope she doesn’t start crying or something, “you know what they say about doors…”

Her expression will tell you that no, she does not know what they say about doors, and their ability to close and open and high school graduation speeches blah blah blah.  You will begin to actually feel sorry for this girl.  You will want to help her, but you have no idea how to go about this.

“So, what do you think you are going to do now?” you will ask, trying to sound cheery and hopeful and like losing her job is the best thing that could have ever happened to her.

“I just don’t know.  I think I’d like to move somewhere, maybe California.  But that probably won’t happen.”  She will look so broken, used up.

“Wow, Cali would be amazing, you should totally go!” you will say.  The conversation will turn to traveling, to the places you have each been, to the places you want to go.  You will recount the months after you graduated from college, of moving from Miami to Colorado to Texas, of being so poor that you could not eat, of living in Asia.  You will tell her that you may go to Brooklyn in the fall, that you feel like your time in the Midwest has expired.  She will look at you with wide eyes, unbelieving.

“I can’t believe you’ve been to all those places, have lived everywhere!” she will say, though you will feel undeserving of the attention because you know people who have led lives far more exciting, and you sometimes feel like a fraud knowing these people exist and are doing things you have been too cowardly to do.  “I could never do what you do, just pick up and move somewhere!”

“Sure you could,” you will say, “Anyone can do it.”

“But I don’t have enough money to move...or a job,” she will sigh, looking lost.

“Let me tell you this: you will NEVER have enough money to move, or to go anywhere you want to go.  There will never be enough money, or time, and things will get fucked up and there will be a million reasons why you probably shouldn’t go.  It doesn’t matter.  You just have to go and believe that everything will work out in the end, because it always does.  You won’t die, you won’t starve.  The worst thing that could happen is that you lose all your money and end up right back where you started…but money, in itself, is worthless.  It only has value once we use it for something we truly want.”

She will not know what to say.  “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” she will finally respond, softly.  You will take this as a compliment, but what she will really be saying is, “people do not live like you live.  You are not normal.  This is not how you are supposed to do it.”  You will smile at her, a reassuring type of smile.  The train will slow for your stop, and you will get up to leave.  You will wish Mirada the best of luck, and slip out of the doors into the humid night.

Alone, among her inebriated friends – one of the girls passed out against the window, the guy furiously texting in hopes of finding someone to share his bed with for the night – she will ride to the parking lot, then irresponsibly drive the rest of the way home drunk.  Tomorrow she will wake up, lie around in her pajamas all day, watch T.V. and eat ice cream from the carton.  She will feel sorry for herself, she will not know what the hell she is going to do.  Maybe she will think about the conversation she had with you on the train, but only for a second.  I could not live that way, she will think.  On Monday she will update her resume, send it off to other firms.  She will find another job, perhaps a better one, and eventually she will buy a house.  She will get married, have kids, live here and die here. 

One day far from now, as she watches the sun set from her kitchen window, her thin hands holding a cup of tea close to her pale lips, the steam rising and carrying the sweet smell to her sense, maybe she will wonder.  What would my life had been like if I had gone to California, all those years ago?  What if I would have taken a chance and followed my dreams?

Some questions are not meant to be answered.

The Time I Almost Died

Did I ever tell you about the time I almost died?  No?  Well, I hope you have a strong stomach (and like stories about flesh-eating bacteria):

It was the second-to-last day of summer camp when it all started.  It had nothing to do with camp itself (at least, I don't think it did); I had been going to the same camp for the last 12 years - seven as a camper and five as a counselor - and nothing like this had ever happened before.  In case you were wondering, the camp counseling gig is definitely the way to go.  I mean, the pay isn't good [read: none pay], but you get to eat for free, swim for free, play hockey for free, and basically have eight to 10 little brother to beat up on for an entire week with no supervision (unless you count yourself as "supervision," which is actually kind of the whole reasons counselors are there in the first place...but I use the term loosely because, at least in my case, very little structure is actually provided other than making sure my clan of preteen boys doesn't draw blood or talk about sex too much).

By its very nature, the counselor job requires superhuman levels of energy and an extreme abundance of patience.  Any time any of the boys ingest any amount of sugar - and their parents ensure that they each come to camp with enough candy to probably construct a life-sized and fully functioning actual Candy Land, complete with Gumdrop Mountain and Molasses Swamp and Diabetic Coma Canyon, etc. - they start, literally, bouncing off the walls...and the floors...and each other.  They are all like little physics experiments, hypercharged randomly-swerving particles; it's as if they each stockpile an entire year's worth of ADHD, locked in a hyperactive arms-race/cold-war, and then finally unleash it in a spastic tsunami of furious insanity.  The result is total destruction, a hyperactive holocaust.

And for one week each year, I willingly put myself in the path of these monsters.  It is usually the highlight of my summer.  (Possibly because, maturity-wise, I am only a couple steps above most of them.)

But yeah, right...back to the dying.

Camp was scheduled to end on Friday, and historically (at least for me), Thursday was always one of the hardest days; all the adults are exhausted by this point, and the boys are showing no signs of slowing down.  To make matters worse, I seemed to be coming down with a slight fever.  Suddenly, my energy had been zapped, and I felt weak and light-headed.  "I'll sleep in off, come back strong for the last day," I thought, excusing myself early from the evening's activities, entrusting my legion of spazzoids to another counselor for the night.

But the next morning, I wasn't better.  In fact, I was much worse.  Not only had my fever reached a near-debilitating state, but I now had sores on the roof of my mouth, on my tongue, and my throat hurt so bad I could barely swallow.  What is happening to me?!  I suffered through the rest of the final day, trying my best to appear upbeat despite my body's threatening to collapse at any second.  By five o'clock, I could hardly stand.

Did I mention that I had concert tickets...for that night?

"Why not just skip the show?" you ask.

"Well, I'll tell you why," I chuckle condescendingly, obviously talking to someone who does not grasp the importance of this particular show.  "Not only was it at the old Creepy Crawl - an amazingly intimate/dirty/indie kind of place where you were never more than 20 feet from the stage - but the show also featured two of my favorite bands: Head Automatica and...[pause for suspense]...The Postal Service!"

That's right, Ben Gibbards side-project love-child, the cool lyrical electronica that served as the soundtrack for every scene-kid's basement dance party from 2001-2004 only went on tour one time, and only played a handful of shows in a handful of cities, and for whatever reason had chosen St. Louis as one of the lucky few.

So what did I do?  I did what anyone with a fever of 104 degrees and a mouthful of quickly multiplying sores occupying the whole of his or her mouth, tongue, and throat would do: I went.

The show itself was amazing, though I suspect that one of the reasons why I enjoyed it so much was because the fever was causing, at that point, mild hallucinations and blurred vision.  The experience was like being on drugs without the whole "frying your brain" part.  (Actually, that is probably not true...I'm almost positive I did some damage that night).  I didn't even get to see the end; at some point, the wild fluctuation between shivering from chills and nearly passing out from overheating was enough to force me out into the St. Louis summer night.  It didn't matter, though, for I had seen something that few people would ever get to see, and I had danced/stumbled to all of my favorite songs in the most chilled-out dance party of all time.  I sat on the curb and debated if I should throw up, trying not to smile because it hurt my mouth to do so.

The next morning I went to the doctor (which I never do) and was diagnosed with a combination of strep throat and a staphylococcus in my mouth, which, I can tell you from experience, might be the most painful combination ever.  After a rigorous regimen of antibiotics, I fully recovered and did not die.  Me -1, Flesh Eating Bacteria - 0.

_____________________________________

However, the story does not end there.  Apparently, my immune system had been irrevocably damaged by the tag-teamed onslaught of double bacteria, and the flood gates were then opened.  For the next 4 years, I would continue to get staph infections every month or so, usually on my legs or stomach, and each one being intolerably painful while it persisted and always leaving a small dark scar on my body to be remembered by.  Because I knew what these infections were, though, I decided that I didn't need to go to the doctor after that initial visit; my logic was, "hey, if I can fight these off without any antibiotics, my body will be stronger for it, right?"  It made sense at the time.

In the spring of 2006, a sore appeared on my stomach, just above my belly button.  Shit, another staph infection.  Oh well, I'll just deal with it like I always do...ignore it until it goes away.  But this infection refused to go quietly, and in fact, continued to grow and fester, eventually becoming the size of a half-dollar.  I read about the appropriate treatments online, and drained the bastard (which almost caused me to black out from pain), the aftermath looking like a gunshot wound.  I'm not kidding; the bacteria had eaten through so many layers on tissue, the remaining void was deep enough to fit my pinky finger into.  I packed the hole in my stomach with gauze (per instruction...and which fucking hurt more than you can imagine), changed my dressing twice a day, and eventually the gaping cavity slowly mended.  Crisis averted.  No big deal.

Several years later, I accompanied my (then) girlfriend to the dermatologist.  She has begun to get staph infections as well, and she (appropriately) blamed me for this.  "You gave me your disease!" she moaned, "I hate you."  And she had good reason to hate me...goddam they hurt!  

As I told the doctor about my history with staph infections, her eyes widened as I lifted up my shirt and showed her what had healed to look like the aftermath of a stabbing.  "You got that scar from staph?!?!" she stammered, disbelieving.  "Yeah, why?" I asked ignorantly, trying to act like it was no big deal.  "I mean, I did what they told me to do on the internet.  Everything worked out okay."

"And you didn't take antibiotics for this?" she asked, holding up my shirt, examining my scar.

"No.  I didn't think I needed to.  America is just so over-medicated..." I said, trying to sound like I was 

"fighting the good fight," like I should be considered nobel.

"I hate to tell you this now, but you were probably very close to dying."

Information I could have lived my whole life without knowing.  Blissful ignorance.

Looking at me as if I was the lone survivor in a catastrophic plane crash, she informs me that any number of things could have done me in: "You could've gotten an infection and turned septic; you would've been dead within a few days, she says, shaking her head.  "Or the staph could have gotten into your bloodstream and infected your organs, maybe even your brain...if you didn't die, you could have been severely handicapped.  You are very lucky, young man.

Lucky?  I don't know about all that.

I prefer the term INVINCIBLE.

Epilogue:

For any of those who are now scared to be in the same room with me, I am pleased to inform you that I have been staph-free for three whole years (I sound like a recovering alcoholic).  The cure, I found, was to bathe in bleach-water 3 times a week for a month, thus killing every living thing on the body so ruthlessly that nothing can ever grow on it again - the medical equation of deforestation, strip-mining, mass genocide via chemical warfare.

though unbeknownst to him, the staph gathers in the darkest corners, slowly amassing an army, waiting for the perfect moment to strike...