Because sometimes it's okay for the Grey Album to make you cry.

So Little Bobby Fischer wants to go to Bumbershoot.
I mean, it could be really really awesome—do you know Bumbershoot is where we met? Picture me, sitting with a group of 18-20 year old stoners, and a little shifty eyed gangsta strolls through with a 40oz in a paper bag and a backpack full of reinforcements. That’s my Davey.

Skip to me doing laundry one day in Miami, and my phone rings and drags me away from highlighting my favorite book and personal bible. It was--*clearing throat*--Milo.
“Hey baby. How are you?”
“Hey baby. Good, you know. Laundry. Book. Same old same old. You?”
“Hangin’ out at the pad. Me an’ ---- an’ ----- an’ Davey.”
“Nice. Tell the boys hi for me. How’s Olympia?”
“Sucks without you. I miss you baby.”
“Well, Miami’s beautiful today, and there is laundry and The White Boy Shuffle, but unfortunately not you. I miss you too.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of that book. Davey’s always talking about it, it’s like…his favorite book.”
“Put Davey on the phone.”
“But baby I…”
Put Davey on the phone.

Skip to me going to my favorite bar one night in Seattle, and there he is, strolling across the parking lot to the lawnmower store. My Little Bobby Fischer. That was only a few weeks before he went to Manhattan.
And when he did go to Manhattan, he left all of his books in Samantha’s care, and I read every one, and I dreamt of California, and I, like Davey, spent the long winter trying to figure out the meaning of love. And sex. And Airplanes.

Now Cake.

And so was spurned “For Davey”, and now I’ve been slowly adding to that piece, and now some 30,000 words into it, I am approached with the possibility of it coming full circle.

And I'm having a hard time explaining why I can't go, and Davey thinks it's going to be okay, and I know that it wouldn't. I can remember some two years ago now, me helping my wife paint her bedroom and stepping out back for a smoke on the back deck, and her phone ringing, and me answering it as I always do. And then I remember some fucked up promise I made that rendered it punishable should I so much as even talk to people like Davey; and now here I am, breaking all the rules. And it's not that people don't know, it's that they've never seen it. Never seen Davey and I as Davey and I...and now? Now I'm still stuck in the cycle of a promise I'd thought would only change my life for a couple of months. Months? Yeah right. We're going on 25 of those now, and I still tear up every time I hear Monty's song and think about how "it smells like bubblemint all up in my purse" or even about turning the knob on a shithole apartment in Oly and having the opportunity to tell Britt to brace herself, because we're going to Doughty tonight. Fuck.
But Davey? Yeah, fuck propriety. I fought for that one. But I think there might be consequences.

Davey says it'll be cool--like, they're not even going and stuff. Oh really?

--Davey to Britt

Stich. Sew. Patch. Please--because if you don't, I will always be left with this lingering feeling that at least some of it is somehow my fault. I should have never had the audacity to want to spend some time with Davey on my 24th birthday. That's right: My birthday.


[p.s.--Props today go to Todd Boxerstien, because sex lines and Play-Doh and Video Faith are all we have left to bridge the long I-5 corridor.]


~PhoenixRising said...


Still... Think it over. Kanye, Tribe called Quest, Lady Soveriegn, AFI, Yellowcard, FUCKING STEVER MILLER BAND, 40s, paper-bags, shift eyes, fitted caps, whiskey sours, philly blunts, pretty girls, wild times, etc etc.

You know, even if not I'll still be down in SF right after Bumbershoot. And either way I love yah :)

~PhoenixRising said...

OK, Here it is. I can do this. Whole airfare, at this moment, is like 500 dollars. I'm sure it'll go up a bit, but I'm going to have to hold on buying tickets until I get another paycheck. Well, Maybe. We'll see. But yes, I'm excited. What are the dates that you're in 206 again? Trying to plan my flight down to SF. Perhaps we catch a plane together?