Times Fades Away

I was late getting out of the office tonight. Almost everyone had left, including the office manager, and the receptionist didn't know how to switch the phone system over to the holiday-closure message. We fiddled with it, couldn't figure it out, and then called the office manager on her cell phone. We were told that she'd deal with it later, presumably Friday. So we fiddled with it a little bit more, unsuccessfully, and then left.

One of my all time favorite albums is Neil Young's Time Fades Away (1973), the first salvo in his ditch trilogy. One would be hard-pressed to find a finer example of the cultural power of the Watergate era.

As a newlywed I drove across the country for the first time in a 1971 VW bus with my wife and my cat and a Toshiba boom box blasting Time Fades Away. Nothing can top that experience of driving through Nevada and Utah and Colorado -- the Rocky Mountain West. From our wedding in Reno to a night's lodging in Golden, the home of Coors, everything was close to perfect. Once we hit the plains of Eastern Colorado and on into Kansas, the trip became not so pleasant.

The train back into Seattle was full of people going to the Sounders game. I walked up the hill to Elliott Bay Books. It was like a journey through the past, passing places I used to haunt but haven't in a long time.

After picking up a few cards, I walked home through Cal Anderson Park. The young people were out. It is a perfect sunny Friday evening. Young men were playing ultimate Frisbee on the grass. Young women, showing lots of leg, walked dogs. A few lonely guys read books on benches.

Me? I am free. I don't long for companionship; I don't want to get drunk. And I have the next four days off.

The Colt 45 Chronicle #7

The letter below, the seventh installment from a folder retrieved from storage during the Seahawks' playoff elimination in Atlanta, represents a change in tone from the previous six. Gone is the drunken pathos; in its place is a witty schoolboy showing off for his professor-employer. I am alerting Jerry Karabel that I am including him as a character reference on my curriculum vitae. The last six months I was at Berkeley Professor Karabel employed me to track down citations for his soon-to-be published book (co-authored with Steven Brint) on the history of community colleges in the United States, The Diverted Dream: Community Colleges and the Promise of Educational Opportunity in America, 1900-1985.

The name of the Berkeley Sociologist stayed with me for many years in the form of a mix tape I titled "Karabel." It was popular with my buddies. It had a lot of Time Fades Away Neil Young and Self Portrait Bob Dylan along with the obligatory SST Records bands. Jerry was a good guy to work for, very easygoing.

Autumn 1988 

Dear Jerry, 

Now I know why you immigrated West. Having been in New York for almost three weeks, I've had plenty of time to enumerate my grievances against ye ol' Apple: too many aggressive people ("aggressive" is really too mild; they're downright violent). Which reminds me of something I wanted to tell you. Did you know that your old home turf is now the most dangerous place in New York? Brooklyn has become crack-drug-battle-murder heaven. Our first few days in Manhattan were punctuated by front page newspaper accounts and bar chatter about various shotgun slayings and cop killings going on just across the bridge. -- Brooklyn, the new, more frightening Harlem; the new, more frightening Bronx; too hot, too humid, no fruit, high beer prices, shitty grocery stores, no place to exercise, absolutely no place to park. But these are all complaints from a career Californian, one who has grown too soft supping beneath the mango tree. Every day away from Berkeley though the heart strings resonate a litle less, while New York starts looking a little better. You can't beat the clubs here, or the amazing multiplicity of cheap indigenous take-out joints, or the museums, or the job opportunities. Which is one of the reasons why I'm writing, in addition to getting you our address, just in case you should need to get in touch with me about the unfinished bibliographic gratuities of your book (my memory still being pretty sharp on the whole affair), I would be very pleased if you would allow me to list your as one of my personal references. (Since the normal procedure governing resume construction dictates that most recent employment comes first, your name will crown my all-important "work experience" section.) The worst that would be demanded of you in this capacity would be to answer a phone call looking into my work habits. I hope this is okay. Oh, and if you should want to reach me, that address is: 

60 Haven #22A
New York City, NY 10032 

I had planned on stopping by before we left, but the chaos and distress of those last days in B., as I'm sure you can imagine, were immense. I was running around trying to get my dad's old VW bus up to snuff for the cross country cruise. This turned out to be a task of epic proportions, both physically and fiscally. But after many trips up and down I-80, to and fro mechanics and junk yards, the "Argo" was finally ready to sail July 30. At which point Ashley and I loaded down the vessel and embarked for Reno, where we were married that evening. Along the way, we favored the single-lane scenic highways to the interstates, camping out as best we could with our cat and a nice little three-man tent. I was preoccupied with worry in relation to the car, always taking survey of knocks and rattles, poking my head under and inside of it at every chance. But outside of one trauma with the front end in Dinosaur, CO, the old bus handled as if it were a blessed creation of Athena herself. 

I'll keep in touch, tell you how the career is going (Ashley is already working away with the rest of the physicians-to-be). -- You were a fun and exciting person to work with Jerry, and one who is on that side of my brain which cogitates only Olympian thoughts about the Berkeley academy. Give Kristin my regards and tell her to think of me -- a Peet-less java junkie -- when she tosses back that first mug of the morning. 

Your assistant,