The Good Life

Lately Gheorghe: The Blog has become Gheorghe: The Celebrity Obituary -- with rainbow jimmies of Gheorghe: The Compost Heap of Inane Filler sprinkled on it.  But, in lieu of actual content, here we go.

Maurice Sendak, the author of a number of children's books, has passed away at age 83. His most famous work, Where the Wild Things Are, was published in 1963; the film version was developed and released a few years back.  As the book used to give me nightmares, I have yet to see the movie, but I know that the Avett Brothers provide a backing track for the film, so here it is:

Mr. Sendak was decidedly distinct in his stories and illustrations. While I'm more of a Seuss aficionado, there are legions of folks for whom Where the Wild Things Are and its accompanying works are the backdrop to years of their childhood. 

For whatever reason, the past week or so of my life has included a steady stream of reminders, whether painful or just curious, of the transitory nature of our existence. It began with the update that my stepdad’s latest mesothelioma scan can back clean, so he can stave off the dread of the disease’s return for at least a few months. Good news, but sobering, and if you know me, you know I’m not much into “sobering.” Then the MCA news hit . . . and, strangely, hit harder than I would have figured. Not sure why. I can’t say I was stunned; when Yauch missed the RnRHoF induction, I hypothesized glumly to someone that it surely boded ill for his health. Rather than surprise, I think my reaction owed more to a one-sided kinship with the Beasties by our band of random idiots. The three bad brothers you know so well who write for Gheorghe aren’t far removed from those three guys in age or mentality. And speaking of Seuss, although we were memorializing the good doctor in “Dr. Seuss,” our masterpiece is just as much a direct musical tribute to the B-Boys. (Assuming that “tributes” allow for blatant theft.) If you look at us, Rob is Ad Rock Shadrach while Dave P is Mike D Meshach, which leaves me as the scruffy-faced (right now, coincidentally, I’ve got a beard like a billy goat), deepest-voiced, baddest-assed MCA Abednego.

Anyway, it bummed me out.

Then my mom reminded me that like Adam Yauch, my Uncle Mike also died of cancer at age 47. Thanks, mom. The weekend came, and I began work on a collection of music for the next FlynnFest, wherein we’ll once again congregate to celebrate the life of a close friend who unceremoniously departed the planet six years ago. Taking a break from that, I lost myself in mindless television . . . somehow watching a chick flick that centers around an older gentleman trying to restore the memory of his beloved wife, who is suffering from Alzheimer’s, and then they die. Good times.

The best cure for that is ESPN, right? I immediately watch a pair of documentaries in the 30 for 30 series: first, the one about how Vlade Divac and Drazen Petrovic’s old friendship, torn apart by the war in Bosnia, never got repaired before Petrovic was killed in a car wreck; the second was the Terry Fox story, which, holy crap, was about the saddest, most unfair turn of events ESPN has recounted in the series.

All the while, I’m trying to plan summer visits with one of our G:TB staff who is dealing with a loved one battling cancer.

Finally, I checked in with a pair of young lady-friends who were attending JazzFest, certain that tales from the Crescent City would be a much-needed salve. And though they were, for the most part, the lone photo the girlies sent me was of a sticker on a signpost. Five years ago in New Orleans, we met a group of guys sporting “FUCK ETHAN” t-shirts; they go to the Fest every year and celebrate the life of a close friend who unceremoniously departed the planet, cursing his name all the while for leaving them too early. Very similar to Flynn. And here’s the photo I got Saturday:

So what does it all mean? Beats me. For now, I’ve had enough of these sad reminders that life's a fragile thing, and that one minute you're chewin’ on a burger, and the next minute you're dead meat. I get it. It’s time I got back to the good life. It’s time I got back, and I don’t even know how I got off the track.

And what does that entail? I’ll gloss over how it means time spent with my daughters, because although my girls make my entire world go ‘round, they don’t make for good blog copy, and The Density can tell you why in an upcoming segment, “Other People’s Kids.”

But music and drinking, yes, please. I’ll be hitting as many of these shows as humanly possible:

May 17 - Carbon Leaf (Neptune Park, VB)
May 18 - Willie Nelson (Ferguson Center)
May 22 - Steve Winwood (NTelos)
May 22 - Flogging Molly (Norva)
May 25 - Todd Snider (Jewish Mother)
June 2 - Steel Pulse (VB 5th St Stage)
June 12 - Bonnie Raitt (NTelos)
June 13 - Bonnie Raitt (NTelos)
June 13 - The Cult (Norva)
June 17 – Dave Matthews Band (VB Amphitheater)
June 19 - Phish (NTelos)*
June 20 - Phish (NTelos)
June 27 - Carbon Leaf (Neptune Park, VB)
July 3 - Beach Boys (VB Amphitheater)*
July 7 – Crosby, Stills, & Nash (NTelos)
July 9 - Van Halen (Hampton Coliseum)
July 13 - New Potato Caboose (Norva)
July 14 - Stevie Nicks (VB Amphitheater)
July 17 – Wilco (Wolf Trap)
July 18 – Wilco (Wolf Trap)
July 20 – Wilco (Charlottesville)*
July 21 - KISS / Mötley Crüe
July 25 - Smithereens (Sullivan Sq, Williamsburg)
July 29 - Merle Haggard (NTelos)
August 2 - Ingrid Michaelson (Norva)
August 4 - Gipsy Kings (Sandler Center)
August 6 - Dark Star Orchestra (Norva)
October 3 - Adam Ant (Norva)*

And gatherings with cronies, yes, please. Like Marls’ nuptials. And Teej’s. And being Abe Lincoln in the National Memorial Day Parade. And the Collegiate Rugby Sevens Championship in Philly. And the Outer Banks. Yep.

It’s easy to shake off the we’re-all-gonna-die-someday-and-I’m-ill-equipped-to-handle-all-that blues when you have a docket full of revelry, good comrades to run with, and tenets of the world like “A man will always be judged on the amount of alcohol he can consume. And women will be impressed with it, whether they like it or not.”

See you soon.