Still Gone
Commenting at this guy’s place, I’m reminded of the time I realized I’d lost my mind.
I had just moved to Philadelphia with Jim and Jennie and the Pinetops, which is a fun story in itself. I’d moved in with my bandmates over the summer of 1998. Every night we’d practice and on the weekends we’d travel to New York City to gig with our banjo player and fiddle player, both Philadelphia residents. In September, I’d finally taken a my first real creative job as an ad copy writer. Sure, it only paid $22,500 per year, but it was a REAL JOB with a FUTURE that happened to be tons of fun. Two months later, I came home to learn that the band was moving to Philadelphia.
“Not only does it cut the commute to New York down by an hour and a half, we’ll be able to really get stuff done with Brad and Chris,” Jim said. “We’re hoping you’re going to come with us.”
That was an easy decision. I was newly single, coming back from a break up I thought would kill me, and immediately said “Well of COURSE I’m coming along. I fucking HATE it here!”
I remember the call to my father. The last time I’d made a big move like this, I had just been accepted at UMass. We were at my Uncle Ted’s funeral (and I have a great story about Ted I really have to write). Melissa and I had missed the service, but arrived in the pouring rain as Ted’s casket was lowered into the grave. His wife, my Aunt Selma, was hysterical, hugging Ted’s sister, my grandmother Ida, to her chest like a sister, which was blackly funny because the two women hated each other with a passion of Biblical proportions.
Ted’s death had been expected: he was a fat guy who came home from his job as an independent manufacturer, ate the same meal of a knoblewurst sandwich with mustard on rye every night, followed by a few cans of Meister Brau, and endless Garcia y Vegas smoked while he watched TV from his recliner until he went to bed.
A diet like this leads nowhere good, and my Uncle, who was a very funny and quirky guy, ended up dying of colorectal cancer.
After the ceremony, my father and I walked back toward my truck. “I’m proud of you,” he said, referring to the decision to transfer to UMass. “You decided what you wanted to do, you made a plan, and you executed it! I think UMass will work out wonderfully for you.”
Five years later, I was calling to tell him I was moving to Philadelphia. To pursue a new career. As a bluegrass musician.
“WHAT. ABOUT. YOUR JOB?” was my dad’s response, very different from his reaction to my last decision to do what I wanted to do and carrying out a plan.
So I moved to Philadelphia in January 1999, after recording our debut album in the middle of an ice storm that paralyzed New England. I crashed on Brad’s sofa for a few weeks, and moved into an apartment at 50th and Hazel. I was working a temp job which gave me the open schedule to practice until 11:00 PM twice a week and gig nearly every weekend in Philly or New York. Good times.
I don’t know the exact date, probably early March, when I realized it was gone. So I sent out an email, the screenshot of which is long gone, but which I will always remember:
To whom it may concern:
It appears I have lost my mind. If you find it, please keep it in a cool, dry place. I’m not sure if I’ll be needing it again.
Love,
Brendan
It’s still gone. Haven’t seen it for years. I haven’t given up hope, but it’s pushing a decade now.
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