Andyman

Back in the stone ages, CD101 had a tiny little office and DJ booth on south High St near German Village. If you didn't know what you were looking for as you made your way there, you were more than likely to miss it.

My pre-GPS marker was the "other" Buckeye Donuts, where I'd occasionally make a run for Andyman because he was working late. I can't remember now why I had so much time to kill or why I wasn't sleeping on those nights, but my favorite place to kill time was with Andyman in that tiny booth. I even made it onto the air a few times in my occasionally drunken state. Who knows what I said. Andy would just laugh his big comforting laugh and smile that amazing smile of his. Andy and I shared conversation and comraderie that helped feed my soul on those boozy nights.

One day, I played a CD101 night at Ludlows in the Brewery District. It was the only gig both my parents ever attended and I remember saying to Andy "Look, both my parents are out there and if you embarrass me, I'll kick your ass..." I'm sure the anxiety on my face showed I was serious. Andy somehow found a way to put a spotlight on both of them and introduce both of them when I stepped onto the stage. I can feel my face going red right now as I remember it. Darn that wicked drunken Andyman!

Over the years, we'd run into each other. In 1998, I went to a Columbus Chill hockey game at the fairgrounds for the first time with my new boyfriend and there was Andy, in a suit. I had to go over and mock him a little. I didn't know it then, but I'd scored big points with the boyfriend (now my husband) because I knew ANDYMAN.

Andyman was for me, a prince among human beings because he radiated so much genuine warmth. He wasn't perfect, but who amongst us is? So many of us felt the patch of sun that Andyman radiated. How could you not be drawn to it?

I love you. I miss you. I'll always remember you.

Mrs M

Last summer, I met my friend and her mother at a resort in the Outerbanks. By anyone's standards, it was a blowout of a vacation. There was no expense spared. We ate extravagant meals, stayed in a opulent suite with an equally gorgeous view and were pampered beyond expectation in the spa. The reason? My friend's mother was dying.

The idea was to give her a send-off. One last blowout of a party. She hadn't been away from her husband since before they'd been married nearly a half century earlier. Here she was, with her youngest daughter and her daughter's best friend, celebrating together for the first and last time.

Between spa treatments and excursions with Mrs. M, I spent a lot of time on the North Carolina beach with my fly fishing rod, unsuccessfully trying to catch whatever may have been in the surf. I'd been told there were all sorts of fish trophies to be had. In the end, my enduring memory from that trip will be trying to light Mrs. M's cigarettes on the blustery veranda of our suite. I never failed, using my body to block the wind and even lighting several cigarettes between my own lips and handing them to her. When I asked my friend if it was really okay for her mother to be smoking, she replied, smiling sadly, "It doesn't matter now."

Last night after dinner with the family, I walked into the dim bedroom where Mrs. M lay. I remarked to myself how delicately papery and thin the skin on her fingers had become. This scene looked only slightly familiar to me as my own mother had been in a similar hospital bed more than ten years earlier. Mrs. M though, was listening to her dayglow green iPod with just one earbud in and when I chuckled to myself at the sight, she opened her eyes and smiled. I told her about dinner and how everyone had devoured the Chinese food I had delivered.

"Oh, they must've loved that," she said quietly.

"Oh yeah." I replied.

Silence between the dying and the living is a remarkable gift. In those moments, where we, the living, are certain that someone is slipping away, there is often the sharpest clarity.

In my moment, I said to Mrs. M, "Can I hug you?" She put her arms up slowly. I know it must have been difficult. Painful. I leaned over the hospital bed railing and wrapped my arms around her, kissed her gently on each soft papery cheek and looked her in the eye.

"Thank you for making my best friend," I whispered.

"You're welcome."

I held her hand for a long time afterward. Examined her fingers and the wedding rings that no longer fit side by side, but rather clumsily overlapped like two exhausted friends. There was nothing more to say. At least nothing I could think of.

This morning, Mrs. M passed on.

I'm not really worried about my friend and her family. They are sturdy Italian and German folk from Northeast Ohio, incapable of idleness or able to stay down for too long.

My only concern is I hope wherever Mrs. M is, someone is blocking the wind and lighting her cigarettes.

Christmas Postal Story

It started with pancake syrup and chili powder, as these things have a tendency to do. I went to the post office Thursday morning to mail a package overseas. I was mailing pancake syrup and chili powder to Germany. You apparently can't find Aunt Jemima or good tacos in Germany, so every so often, I take pity on my expatriate friends.

I arrived early and as I'd hoped, there were only a few people in front of me in the line. There was one young lady working behind the counter. Her nametag said "Veronica." She looked like a new employee. When I say new, I mean she didn't have those distinctive frown lines that well-seasoned postal employees all seem to have during the holiday season. Veronica was smiling and helpful, not at all dour and unpleasant. I settled into the line and waited my turn.

A few moments later I stepped up, placed my package on the counter, and told her I was sending it to Germany. Veronica paused for a moment, as if I had just been speaking German and then apologetically said "Oh, uh, let me weigh this first." After a few moments, "Oh its six pounds," she said and then added "its over the limit." What does that mean?

If I was shipping free weights, or an unabridged dictionary, that, I might believe could be over the limit. But two bottles of Aunt Jemima plain pancake syrup and three bottles of chili powder? I was about to protest, when suddenly from under the counter Veronica flipped a small pile of paperwork. "Please fill these out" she said happily. Fine, I thought.  I needed to finish soon and get to work so I started writing.

2 Bottles Pancake Syrup
3 Bottles Chili Powder

I'd gotten through the section of the customs document where you actually list what you are sending, I was just about to lie about how much I thought everything was worth, when I shifted in my spot at the counter and suddenly realized that where there had been one person in the line behind me, now there were twenty. Twenty? Twenty!

My face suddenly went hot. Somehow, they'd all snuck in, like silent ninjas while I was grappling with my box of expat goods and lying on my customs form! In the horrific silence of the post office, I could feel their eyeballs burning a hole into the back of my head. My mind made up all sorts of unpleasant commentary that was silently being hurled at me from behind. You un-prepared bitch! How dare you fill out yer damn forms at the counter!

It turns out, this time of year, the Post Office has a computer system slow-down because of all the increased usage. So while I finished filling out my paperwork, my now creepily happy postal worker waited patiently, ostensibly for the solution to my over the limit issue to show up on her screen. WOMAN BEATEN TO DEATH WITH HOLIDAY GIFTS, I imagined tomorrow's headline would read.

Its an unspoken rule, and Emily Post would back me up I think, that one doesn't say to postal employees "Hurry up." I imagine the result would be similar to poking a sleeping bear or throwing rocks at an angry beehive.... I mean, there is the term "postal" after all. Why was this taking so long? Fuuuuck.

I'm lucky in one respect, when it comes to embarrassment, I have conveniently caramel-colored skin, so if I do start to turn red, I just start looking more like a spray-on Dorito-colored tan as opposed to my normal color. Maybe I'll fidget with my phone...oh shit.... I casually looked around and finally found it. There it was, the "Please Do Not Use Cell Phones" sign above my head. Sigh.

After a few more tense moments, Veronica finally said "It'll be $59.00." I'd already pulled out my credit card. It could have cost three times that much. I would have paid it. I no longer cared what over the limit meant. She ran my card through and handed me a slip of paper that was too large to be a receipt. "Oh, you have to fill this out too." I could hear packages being shifted from arm to arm. That's how long people had been waiting in the line behind me. Long enough for the hard edge of a Christmas gift to wear an uncomfortable groove in the sender's arm. The slip of paper turned out to be the packing slip where I had to write the to and from addresses.

I hurriedly wrote and double-checked the packing slip, signed the credit card slip, turned to Veronica and asked "Are we done?" "Yup, you're all done." she said.

As I was gathering up my things, I heard Veronica ask "If its undeliverable, do you want us to return it or abandon it?" "Abandon," I said. I imagined my poor package lying in a ditch next to the Munich airport. "Yes, abandon," I said again, this time with more resolve.

And with that, I walked quickly out of the lobby.

Its only been a few days since the Post Office debacle. I realize now of course that none of that was my fault. I'm hoping to get an email in the next few days that reads something like "Your package arrived safely. We had pancakes for dinner!" or "I thought you said you were sending pancake syrup! The children are disappointed, Elisa!"

My fear, of course, is that they call in a week or so and tell me that it never arrived. And then I'll be forced to go back to the post office and fill out another set of forms because my package is over the limit. So this story is a preemptive strike to let them know what I've gone through (and what I would go through) in order to get them pancake syrup and chili powder.

This time though, I'll have them go through the trouble of returning it if its undeliverable. Abandon schmandon.

Off The Grid

Sorry its been so long. I was thinking recently what a great summer I've had. I went on vacation, not once, not twice, but three times! I've never been able to say that. The truth is I've purposefully been off the grid a bit so that I could "find my edges."

I planted flowers. I've never planted flowers. I bought patio furniture. Hired a lawn service and got hooked on Mad Men.

I didn't totally neglect the muse. I produced two projects this past year and started a third, which seems to have stalled for the moment. Later in the fall I'm producing another jazz group with an amazing accordion-playing frontman. Very excited about that.

In the meantime, its been me, the boy and the cat. I will try to keep up with the blogging a little better.

When I meet you...

I sometimes wish that when I've met someone for the first time, that they'll hand me a card with a short narrative on what are ultimately the important bits of their personal history. Honestly, I think it would save time. Here's an example.

Jane/John Doe

30, Single, Middle of 3 kids, Parents are Professors, OSU Grad Student, Live Music Lover, Originally from New Mexico, Politically Moderate. I love Chinese food. I often pretend I can tell the difference between Chinese and Japanese people on the street. I go shopping with my best friend at thrift stores and second hand shops, but secretly would rather be at the Pottery Barn. I know what happened on the Office every week by reading the episode updates online every Friday, but really my favorite show is the Real Housewives of Orange County. I will nod at you while you blather on and on about whatever it is you just said only because it makes me look more interesting and seemingly invested in whatever the hell you are saying...

Okay, everyone start writing up their first drafts. We'll compare at the bar.

Mixing the Tin Hearts

History repeats the old conceits...

I've been in the throes of some sort of non-gigging funk. I took the fall off to concentrate on writing and producing. I've been strapped to my mix desk for nearly 4 months, recording and writing, adding, subtracting, editing, mixing, mixing, mixing. Its been an interesting road, one with quite a bit of frustration and in some instances a little drama but the one thing I can say is that I'm definitely ready for some more live shows and to get back to playing.

Bassist Larry Cook and I have decided to do something crazy and play all our favorite Elvis Costello tunes on the last day of February in 2009. We were comparing lists somewhat wide-eyed yesterday. We both have some obscure tunes from the EC catalog, perhaps a testament to our both worshipping at the temple of Costello.

I remember in high school seeing a violinist from the city orchestra I was in get on the elevator after practice. The one thing I noticed about her was a tiny reddish button with the words Elvis Costello on it. The only Elvis I knew, was the one who liked peanut butter and banana sandwiches, and I only knew that because my doctor parents had a secretary who had tiny shrines built to the former Elvis all over her rented house, the other half of which was my parents private practice. Costello was of course one half of a comic duo that I never seemd to be able to get straight, even now. So the next time we were outside the practice room at the local college I finally asked, "who is that?"

That one question opened a waterfall of other questions, some of which I'm still asking today. Alison led to the Beat to Everyday I write the...Beyond Belief, Tokyo Storm Warning, Veronica, Clubland, the list goes on and on. Who is this guy? How in the hell can he be so prolific? And so good? The man moves me.

Dinner: Chorizo over rice
Listening: Dido - Safe Trip Home