An Interlude

Life...the flailing parts.

Last night, the kids’ music school in which I’m a partner, Rock Academy, celebrated a pretty big milestone. Our semi-professional touring band opened for DEVO at the Capitol Theatre in Port Chester, NY. Below is a clip of some of those moments on stage, as well as a tiny taste of DEVO. A favorite quiet moment: Mark Mothersbaugh standing behind the kids in the wings as they are lined up to walk out, telling them to have a great show.

Our kids have done this before — they’ve opened for Blondie, Violent Femmes, backed Courtney Love, headlined the international Frank Zappa Fest in Germany, jammed with Scott Ian of Anthrax, among other gigs, toured the world (yes, literally) with an assortment of bands, played to enormous crowds, and welcomed to our school (for music intensives and clinics) the very musicians and rock stars who we (us parents) idolized when we were the same age as these kids. Case in point: here WE are, some of the adults of the school, in our green room with the kids as DEVO soundchecked yesterday afternoon, and as you can see, we are freaking the fuck out.

Many of our kids go on to become successful professional musicians, like my son. We are, in a word, blessed. I hate that work. It’s perfectly apt here.

This morning, when I woke up bleary-eyed, with the intention to finish the last edits of Shove and publish tomorrow, I also received a text in my group thread with my college best friends. One of my Darling Women has a husband with cancer and it seems like they are at the end of the line. People are beginning to gather to say their goodbyes. We, her friends, are at the ready.

I was thinking about all of this, brushing away tears and making coffee…considering how another friend is moving AGAIN as she writes on social media and how it’s poignant and challenging and such a step into the unknown. I was thinking about yet another friend who is closing his very popular food spot to have a life, finally, as he puts it, and how he feels like he’s staring into the void. I was thinking about my own heart as I realize I’m currently flirting with someone I think I might like, with whom I’m allowing the narrative to just…unspool…no foot on the gas, no foot on the brake. Just…being…

And all this to say that, as I’ve referenced here before, I’m reminded of a greeting card I received when I was going through a major life transition, literally wandering through my own life and thinking, “This all feels so wildly out of control and I have no way to even steer my ship, as it were, so can I really let go? Who will steer? Who will HOLD me as this all spins out?”

That card read “Life is slippery. Here, take my hand.” It’s from Life's Little Instruction Book by H. Jackson Brown, Jr. and it’s meant to be a reminder that when unpredictable moments of life knock us off balance, we don't have to navigate them alone. Soppy stuff, I know, but true. And I’m so good at navigating everything alone. I realized that I’m a goddamn pro at this. I’m so glad that as I’ve aged, I’m learning that taking a hand when it’s offered to you, as you let go of the steering wheel — even if it’s simply the “hand” of your ancestors, your spirit guides, your community — is often the best way through these moments. The only way, even?

I’m just going to hit “Publish” on this now and not even proof it, OK, Dear Readers? I’m exhausted and overjoyed and yet full of sorrow for my pal and just agog at what I and others like me, Young Old men and women, don’t yet know. I guess we’ll see, won’t we?