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Tabularasa Show/Day with Josh


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August 10, 2003

            The beach was balmy and humid tonight, giving the bar stools a needy-girlfriend quality that didn’t let you unstick yourself from them to get a drink. Maybe I was sweating nervously, from being at The Tavern by myself. I was there to see Tabularasa play for a little while. I’m so horribly intimidated by places I haven’t been to before; from the moment I arrived to the time I sat down was utter confusion… I’m a douche.
            The band wasn’t playing when I found them, which is good because no one but Norm would have known who I was and that I was looking for them. I only remember seeing his bandmates at the party where I met Norm a couple months ago. When it came time for them to play, I was relieved when he introduced me to some people at the merch table. Only a girl named Kristin talked to me during their set, with a "welcome the newcomer" kind of demeanor that I really appreciated, especially since she didn’t get there long before I did. The others we sat with had been there for a while. They shook my hand weakly and let me sit at their table while Norm and the guys did their thing.

            As usual, I wanted to drink a lot more than I did. But I hated going up there and feeling the shroud of pathetic desperation encompassing the bar like a goth kid’s scummy trench coat. How unfortunate that people must use the phrase “You’re hot” especially with that “h” sound delivering noxious fumes which cough and hack I’m fucking disgusting. As the lady poured my drink, the guy slumping next to me solicited more. “Check me out,” he actually said, talking with his eyebrows. Ugh. His name must have been Ralph, because that’s what I felt like doing.
            I took mental notes of Tabularasa’s performance as if I was assigned a write-up, but I wasn’t there to do that, which made it even stranger to be at a show by myself. In the middle of his solo, one of Norm's drumsticks came out of his hand. It bounced off his symbol and he caught it, playing on and barely raising an eyebrow. He moves the same way Tre from Green Day does, quick, mechanical and jerky. But his beats pound and crash like Chad's from 311. The bar-goers were the loudest all night during and after Norm’s solo. I was happy to be there nonetheless. The songs I liked the most aren't on the c.d I have. Their recordings might not even do them justice. Their audience tonight sure didn't.
            After the show, the band and their friends and I hung out in the bus and smoked a little. Literally. There were three guys and four girls sharing one very insufficient joint. I got high enough to find humor in the way one girl kept saying, “I’m sweet and innocent. I’m sweet and innocent.” My hearing must have been selective. Norm said under his breath, “Anyone that has to say they’re sweet and innocent…” I snickered and made a jacking-off motion with my hand. I couldn’t help it.
            We all hung out for an hour or so. I talked to Guiles and Matt a little, who were naturally funny and very friendly. At some point Guiles went to 7-11 to find a ham and cheese Hot Pocket. I expressed indifference with the idea of eating such a thing (I got it from Gabe, see, he’s still with me) and the girls seemed to have a lot of fun arguing otherwise. I offered them gum and cigarettes. Small price for some decent karma. I felt like a heel because I was annoyed.

            When it was time for the band to hit the road, I said goodbye and made my way back to the street to find a cab to get home. It wasn’t even 1:00, but I was bothered by the idea of calling someone for a ride. But I also really didn't want to hang around P.B. by myself any longer. I ended up paying $42.90 to satisfy my desire to be self-sufficient. Norm had been complaining about not having water in the bus and a bad case of cottonmouth, so as I passed by the Roberto’s drive-thru, I got a cup of ice water and walked back towards the bus. When I turned the corner to the alley and looked, it was gone.

            My cabbie’s name was Mike. He was eating a Flying Saucer from the Mexican food place. It was monstrous and looked like it needed its own car seat. As we left the bar, I tried to make conversation and asked him what time he was off work. “Why do you want to know?” he asked, chewing ravenously. His cab smelled like a deli.
            “I’m curious about your life. As a cab driver.” I don’t know what the hell I was talking about.
         “You wanna know about my life?” he responded, half-giddy. There was a huge glob of something just chillin on his chin. Napkins. I want to know if you have a napkin.
             “I don’t take taxis often,” is all I could say. Maybe I was feeling lonely. Gabe had left me a melancholy message on my phone earlier. I checked it while noticing that my driver looked like a huge child with a bad comb-over.
            Mike and I talked about his wife, his daughter, his Flying Saucer. I felt silly telling him I went out to P.B. to hang with this band for "an hour or two," as the fare meter slowly blinked and went from two, to ten, to twenty dollars.
            When I got to my neighborhood, I asked Mike to pull over so that I could walk the rest of the way.
             “Walk?” he repeated, looking down the drive. “I don’t see anything out here.” I told him I liked to walk. He gave me my credit card and I gave him the only cash I didn’t spend on drinks, six bucks.
             I reached forward to shake his hand. “Thank you Mike. It was nice talking to you, sir.” I get a kick out of being reallypolite.
             “Okay, you’re welcome.” He flicked on the dome light and peered at me. “Are you going to be okay?” His voice was gradually inclining to a high pitch, as if I were morphing into a baby right before his eyes. I nodded and started up the sidewalk as the headlights of his taxi lit up the street ahead of me.

August 7, 2003

            “I come from a land down under…” Josh sang and played his guitar while I hit the bongos. He loves that Men at Work song. “Where women glow and men plunder…”
            I was too busy trying to keep the beat with my hands to sing, because I’m not that coordinated yet. It’s no snap, the bongos. I mean that quite literally. Until today all I ever did when I sang was snap. The bongos were Josh’s idea.
            He threw his head back and belted out the next line. “Can’t you hear, can’t you hear that FUCK YEAHHHHH!!!” I cackled immediately and lost the beat. Josh kept smiling and strumming. Doesn’t he know how funny he is? "You better run, you better take cover…” He must be the funniest cat I know. “I didn’t know you could play the drums,” he said, putting his guitar down. I said I didn’t either. “You can play better than Jamil. You fucking ROCK those things!”
            Ahhh. I was smiling gregariously, like a douche bag doing a weather forecast on the news. It’s hard to be sad around Josh. I can’t pout or even be quietly deep in thought. He always thwarts my fixed stares by saying something like, “You’re thinking way too much.”

            Not that Josh isn’t a philosopher himself. He pontificated a lot today about growing up, moving on, doing what you love for a living… I’m sure anything he could think of to distract me from being sad about Gabe. Except Josh does it in a way that doesn’t solicit my attention. He’ll just go off on something while we’re in the car with music playing, or smoking a cigarette outside, just shooting the bull. Before he even pauses, I’ll realize how uplifting it is to be listening to someone so positive and sharp that his candid and mundane rhetoric just sounds brilliant.

            We did shots of vodka and Josh came up with the greatest idea I’d heard in a long time. “Let’s go to the bookstore.” Gabe never really liked to do that when we were together, not even to get some coffee. I take a lot of time looking through the bargain books. Earlier this afternoon, Josh had to help Ryan’s mom with some yard work, so I stayed at the pad and took a nap on their couch. It was so hot today, I was too stuck to the leather to even shift around. Getting out of the house was such a good idea.

            Josh is on a classic novel kick. He just finished reading The Divine Comedy by Dante, and now couldn’t decide what to get among The Jungle, Don Quixote and another book I can’t remember. But he was very excited. We were both low on dough, even my account was overdrawn after buying that bottle, but I further overdrew my account to get Learn to Read Music for seven dollars. It might come in handy for my two music classes next semester, and if I want to put any more gumption into this jazz trio, I’ve gotta show Kice and Paul that I’m trying. It was between that one and a ridiculously oversized book of 5,049 random facts for fourteen dollars. I love trivia. Useless, interesting pieces of knowledge. But it’s more important that I keep up with my band than study for Jeopardy. Josh used the money he earned from helping Patty with the yard to buy his books and buy me some coffee. I can’t help but acknowledge and respect how much smarter and well rounded he is every time we hang out. This is what confirms the fact that we've known each other so long, and what makes my best friends the shit! I love knowing I have someone to hang out with to do all the things I feel like doing when times are tough—singing, playing music, reading, having coffee—and I had a great fuckin’ time.

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