May 9, 2005
Giftbags & Gasbags
One of my all-time favorite "David's Birthday" entries, originally posted in May 2000.

Today is David's birthday.

If you know him and you think he's wonderful ... send him an e-mail at DRaftervoi(at)aol(dot)com and tell him so! He'll love it.  [On the other hand, if you know him and you think he's a pompous, deranged, opinionated gasbag ... send him an e-mail and tell him so!  He'll love that even MORE.]

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Speaking of David   --  and yes, I know, I am ALWAYS 'speaking of David': check out the archives if you'd prefer to read about the more Dysfunctional Relationships from my past  --  I've been reading his college journal this week.  It is proving to be more scintillating reading than Jon Carroll, the Baby Boomer message boards and the last dozen *FootNotes* entries, put together.

[Although that may not be saying much, under the circumstances. But that's another story for another day.]

The amazing thing? Until three days ago, I didn't even know that this journal existed.  David has never mentioned it, in all the time we've been together. I had no clue he'd ever even kept a journal. [Which is ironic, when you consider the fact that journals -- and journal-writing -- helped bring us together in the first place.]  He definitely didn't have any old personal notebooks stashed away, anywhere here in The Castle ... under a mattress, say, or tucked behind the bag of frozen squid tubes in the refrigerator freezer. If they had existed, I would have found them during one of my early *Snoop & Destroy* missions, right after I moved in  ...  along with the photos of ex-girlfriends and the little blue address book. 

So this comes as a complete surprise.

On Saturday, just for fun, we sat together on the bed and went through a big box of his old stuff. Photos of his great-grandparents. Punk rock concert posters from the 70's. His college diploma. A handful of Susan B. Anthonys. Old postcards.

And ... this journal.

"I thought you might be interested in this," he said with calculated offhandedness. And he handed the notebook to me.  Was he kidding?? I couldn't have been more shocked -- and delighted -- if he'd handed me a diamond engagement ring wrapped in a winning Big Game ticket nestled in a bed of KFC Honey BBQ Wings. Imagine that you've been a tuba player all your life. You love playing the tuba more than just about anything ... and one day, out of the clear blue sky, your Significant Other whips out a Jupiter BBb 582L and starts playing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot."

That's what it felt like.

In fact, I think the enormity of my reaction startled him. "I really had to think about whether or not to give this to you," he said ... and I could see the hesitation written all over his face. What did he think I was going to do? Laugh at him? Think less of him? Read portions of it over the phone to my mom?

Rush immediately to the computer and transcribe the whole thing for *FootNotes*?

[Hmmmmmmmmmmm ...]

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

So I've been reading his journal this week, a page or two at a time. It's a small, half-size notebook, eighty pages total -- and he only wrote in sixty of them -- beginning in November 1974 and ending nearly four years later, in March 1978  ...  roughly between the ages of 19 and 23.  I'm reading it slowly, a page or two at a sitting, because I don't want it to be over.  Mostly he writes about cars ["The truck is slowly taking formation, after months of sweat and cigarettes"] and work ["As of today, Sunday, I have decided to get out of the restaurant business for a while""] and girls ["I was standing at her door without enough nerve to kiss her goodnight -- said something like 'hope you had a good time' and turned to leave -- DRAMA AT ITS BEST -- if she hadn't shown such shock on her face, I would not have kissed her"].

Occasionally he touches on deeper issues, like politics and music and his goals in life.

And there is a lot of wonderfully evocative slice-of-life stuff about the early punk rock scene in the Bay Area:

"... Saw The Tubes tonight at the Concord Pavillion. I really outdid myself ... I looked like a deserter from the Kiss Army -- white greasepaint, mascara, red lips (with a trail of blood out of the corner of my mouth), and black eye sockets, a la Cooper. I wore G's tails and Coté's riding pants with motorcycle boots. I received innumerable remarks about my resemblance to Bowie, it was almost spooky. People in line made comments: 'God, he looks like Bowie!' as I strutted upstairs during intermission, a group of people shouted 'Bowie!' at me ... "

All in all: it's been an illuminating read. And a deeply touching one. I think the thing I'm finding most poignant about this little journal -- besides its eloquence, and the touching vulnerability of its author, and the fact that this is yet one more thing that he & I have in common -- is knowing that reading it is as close as I'm ever going to come to *meeting* the young David.

I don't begrudge fate for postponing our relationship until midlife. Or at least I try not to indulge in that most pointless of emotions.  I know that if David and I had met earlier in life --  in high school, for instance, or in our mid-twenties -- it would have been great. We would have enjoyed the same instantaneous physical chemistry ... the same incredible *meeting of the minds* ... the same love of music and history and wordswordswords. And we would have been fabulous together.

For about a month.

[Until he became cold and controlling and stopped calling when he promised he would, just to teach me a lesson ... and until I cheated on him with his best friend ... and until we started having a lot of drunken screaming arguments, calling each other names and throwing stuff at each other in the Payless parking lot ... before we finally broke up in a blaze of flaming adolescent glory. And today his name would be listed in the Dysfunctional Relationships section of the *FootNotes* archives.]

I know that we had to travel a long road to get to where we are today. I'm mostly fine with that. But sitting here reading his journal this week is like listening to his twenty year old "voice." It's like a little unexpected time capsule. And that is very, very cool.

It's ironic. Today is his birthday ... and *I'm* the one who received the real gift this week.

     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

At any rate. Happy Birthday, honey ... you big, wonderful, pompous, deranged, opinionated gasbag.

I love you!

next        previous        home        archives        want to throw a rock?