Leather and Cigarettes

I have been watching all this Denis Leary stuff this weekend, and it has been really interesting. His movies are amazing. His sitcom was hilarious. His stand up is totally mediocre and the more recent stand up is just crap. Angry rantings of a old man. Dude. Change the tune.

When he started . . . when I first saw him . . . he was that leather coat wearing rant machine on MTV . . . and he was electrifying. He stopped me dead and my jaw dropped. A million years ago we had never seen anything like it. Now? Denis, honey. Young, edgy men can rant like that. 40+ . . . not so much.

But watching Denis Leary is reminding me of pieces of myself that seem really really far away. I was telling my sister about it on the phone and I think, since it keeps coming up, that I probably need to pay attention a bit.

I used to go to the movies all the time. I used to wander around town on the weekends by myself just to see what was happening. I used to know current music. I used to have really cool clothes. Not expensive, but in fashion. I used to be edgy and urban and modern.

I used to believe art mattered.

Let's think about this last one, because I know exactly what happened. I stopped performing and I stopped doing art. I was in my debt spiral. I was depressed. I felt like theatre and performance let me down. It abandoned me and I betrayed it and we split irreconcilably forever. And being poverty stricken and spiraling downward I jumped ship and buried myself in Antarctica. Sure, it was a life changing journey with a shit ton of lessons and gifts and wonderful people and I still like it very much. But surviving in Antarctica -- even in modern Antarctica where it really is rather cush -- surviving doesn't require any of my old skills. I learned pretty early that none of my old skills were of value there.

And this is a hard one to explain, because in truth my ability to understand people comes in very handy and, I don't know, being able to read helps. But I don't have any trade skills. I don't know how engines work. I don't know how to run a fork-lift or weld a bar joist or fuel an aircraft. I'm not super fit. I don't camp. I can't make the stupid camp stove light. I would be crap if the plane went down because I would tired very quickly of cutting blocks of ice for the shelter. And this sounds really strange . . . but these are actually skills people have who work in Antarctica. And even though many know their art history and plenty can act and draw and talk philosophy . . . they don't. Those kinds of conversations are really rare and hidden and shared only after you know who you're really talking to . . . and flippant little dilettantey asides are absolutely forbidden. They are elitist and snotty. Makes you look up yourself.

And all the sudden, only recently, this seems like a very strange place to find myself. What did I do? Why did I swim so far away and stay gone? Did leaving Comedy Sports, and in reality leaving all of theatre behind, hurt so much that I had to go to Mars to escape it?

Must have.

While away, I did feed some other interests of mine . . . big heavy construction, understanding power plants, knowing all about military transport aircraft and radio communications and how to talk to senators. That's cool and all.

But now . . . now I drive downtown and I LONG for it. I drove by the Wynkoop last weekend and 100,000 memories flooded in. Stuff I couldn't bare to remember came back. And it wasn't so unpleasant. I drove by the Wazee Super Club and was surprised to see the old ghost standing. I went to the Merc for brunch and didn't run in to all those devils, but had a wonderful time and drank blueberry juice. Just like old times.

Today I'm going to a movie. Downtown. At the Mayan.

I've been to the Art Museum three times this summer.

I'm watching that Denis Leary and remembering the black and white rants . . . with the leather and the cigarettes, and I am seeing that glimpse of me left behind. All that I wanted and all that I was and all that I hoped would come to pass. There are tiny little strings -- strong as fish wire -- between me and her. And I just might be able to real her back in.

You know, it takes a long time to admit that you might actually still want what was once so viciously tossed aside.