April 11, 2004

10:24 p.m.

Those Aussies Sure Know How to Make Wine

Well, I suppose I'm feeling a bit less weedy today. I've managed to get through the whole day without any anxiety, and that's unusual. We rehearsed this afternoon and came up with our set list for tomorrow, more or less; also went through a few of the approximately three thousand details that must be attended to for tomorrow's taping. It's a bit nerve wracking, but if the product is good that'll be a great thing accomplished.

I came up with what I confess is a very impressive press release about the band's inception in a coffee shop in Williamsburg, Virginia just over three years ago. We wanted to develop the local angle for a gig we're playing there next month, in hopes that the local papers will do an actual article instead of just an events listing.

By the time I was coming home around 5:30, I realized I'd barely eaten a thing all day, and I was so craving pizza. But just any pizza? No! It has to be Pizza Hut Pan Pizza. There happens to be a branch of this fast-food institution just down the street from me, which I have patronized all of once since I moved into town. I pulled into this purveyor of pasta and noted that they were open on Easter for all those either not of the faith, or just hamless, so I hied me inside and ordered one with unaccustomed animal topping and fungi. Then I sat down to wait.

A long time ago, maybe in 1981, when I was much younger and much less certain of what I should be doing with myself, I worked at a Pizza Hut. In New Hampshire. They're not much different from those in Connecticut, really. The smell is the same; I'd know it anywhere, blindfolded. I only worked there for a couple of months, and it was one of the most depressing periods of my life. Of all the places I did not belong, Pizza Hut pretty much topped the list. But I loved the smell, and the pizza (especially the buffet), and once in a blue moon I get a Jones on for one that will in no other way be assuaged.

So I waited at an empty table for my repast -- there was only one family there in the whole place -- and after a while I glanced at the waitress. She kept passing me by on her way to and from this one table. A few minutes later she spoke to them, and something in her voice made me look up again. And I recognized her.

She's my Ukranian downstairs neighbor. The one with the two little kids and the bass-playing husband, whose fights I've heard countless times from below, which have now been replaced by hours of bass practice. The woman who slipped on the ice here by the building this winter and threw her shoulder out, but still had to go to work because they needed the money. So this is where she works, I thought. I don't know why I didn't expect it; I knew she worked at a P.H., and this is the closest one. And she was working on Easter. It reminded me of what a hard life I don't have, at least not that one. She never recognized me. I found myself looking down, hoping not to be discovered. I wasn't sure why. I might have said hello myself, but I don't even know her name. Soon my pizza was ready, and I left.

Four slices and an hour of work later, my Indian neighbor stopped by and wanted to go for a walk. He does this often; but we're not in an area with sidewalks, and the street up from our long driveway is a very busy road, so he just walks back and forth through our huge parking lot and into the adjacent lot of the sister complex next door. A long walk in the parking lot, back and forth. I've seen him pacing around out there talking on his cell phone. So I shut down the computers and we walked for a while, and my back was okay even though I strained it a little this morning getting something out of my trunk. It felt good to move around. When we came back, he came in so I could give him some information, and I heard a bit of bass playing from downstairs -- actually a little lower than it's been, and I asked Kartik if that would bother him if he heard it for hours a day. He immediately said, "No, not at all; it's just background noise." Of course he comes from a completely different culture where people live on top of one another and just don't expect to have privacy. But it reminded me that I'm exceptionally sensitive to noise and my tolerance levels are lower than most people's. So I'm glad I haven't said anything yet. It's not that loud, it's just that I hear it so much.

I gave him the other half of the pizza and he went back across the hall.

Sometimes I wonder, if I were given the choice of being either blind or deaf, what I would pick. It may seem obvious that I'd pick blindness, because of my relationship with music. But I think, if I had to choose, I'd rather be deaf -- because then I could at least get around in the world, and I could write. And maybe those tones I hear deep inside my head as I'm falling asleep would still be there, because they don't seem to be emanating from the physical world anyway.

Trying to imagine being deaf is really weird. I think I'll stop now.

I called Will early this evening, finally. I don't think he's home yet. He's updating his outgoing message remotely, so every few days there's a new one with a new date on it. The message I got today was placed yesterday. He sounded like a TOTALLY DIFFERENT PERSON. He said things are going pretty well; there have been a couple of minor setbacks, but those are to be expected, and things are okay. His voice sounded strong and deep and clear, and I don't know if I've ever heard that. I wonder if I'll know him at all.

So I'm going online to buy him a CD and a book and send it to his P.O. Box, so he won't run out of things to do during his quarantine.

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I guess that's it. Unless you feel like going out and getting a bottle of McGuigan Black Label Shiraz, which is what was on the menu tonight with the pizza. It's dark and fruity and deep, and goes a long way towards making up for a bad date.