Last day before a three day weekend. They always take their time, so today is dragging. Paul McCartney turns 84 today. The first record album I bought with my own money was Band on the Run. That was 1973 or 74. I remember hearing the title song at the St. Francis de Sales Bazaar, looking at the ‘Tip Top’ ride as the song played on the loudspeakers.
One of the first singles I ever bought was ‘Jet’. My mother used to bowl in a league on Tuesday nights at the Garden State Plaza, and while hanging out, she gave me some money, so I walked to the other side of the shopping mall and went to Sam Goody’s, where I bought the Apple Records single.
I knew the Beatles but not as much as I do nowadays.
There is no denying Paul’s talent. He really is something else. Even Bob Dylan is in awe of Paul’s talents, and Mick Jagger always has something nice to say about him. I know I would probably lose my mind should I ever meet him and I know I would not be the first to do such a thing.
I have seen Paul live twice. The first time was October 2005. Bill and I were on the outs, trying to negotiate time apart. So I went with Julio. We had seats close to each other but not next to each other. Paul came out and I screamed while he played Magical Mystery Tour.
When he was playing Maybe I’m Amazed I found a tear rolling down my cheek. Julio had the same thing happen when Paul played Yesterday. Paul loves to tour and certainly delivers with each show. And his band is top notch.
I met his drummer, Abe Laboriel Jr a few years ago on the street outside the shopping mall when I was working at the Davidoff cigar shack. Abe was a sweetheart. He was not with Paul on the season finale of Saturday Night Live last month, so I hope Abe is doing alright. I did a search online regarding Abe, but nothing came up, so perhaps no news is good news.
Tomorrow is Juneteenth and I am off of work. I look forward to sleeping in. Once again I slept so well and woke up before the alarm clock. In fact I was tired of opening one eye to check the time and was out of bed five minutes before the radio was set to go off.
Bill is at his dentist getting a tooth pulled so he won’t be in too good shape when we cross paths again. Mike is up in Harlem getting some soul food to bring back to his Chilltown crib.
Right now I am jonesin’ for a cigar and that is probably because I have been watching some videos of cigar store employees discussing cigar etiquette or the best and worst places to smoke cigars.
Now there is a little bit under 90 minutes…now a little over an hour. Soon I will be back on the mainland.
Google Gemini rewrite as a Nora Ephron essay
The Friday before a three-day weekend is not a normal unit of time. It exists in a chronological twilight zone. The minutes don’t tick; they loiter. You look at the clock at 2:15, you check your email, you contemplate the existential void of your inbox, you look back, and it is 2:17.
To cope with this cruel stagnation, my mind did what it always does when left to its own devices: it went backward.
Today, Paul McCartney turns 84. Eighty-four. I try not to think about the numbers of the people who soundtracked my youth because they inevitably force me to look at my own numbers, and frankly, I’ve reached an age where I prefer my numbers vague and unspoken. But Paul is different. Paul is eternal.
The very first album I ever bought with my own money—money that felt monumental at the time—was *Band on the Run*. It was either 1973 or 1974, back when buying an album was an event, a holy sacrament of adolescence. I can still vividly recall hearing the title track blaring through the tinny loudspeakers at the St. Francis de Sales Bazaar. I stood there, paralyzed with that specific teenage yearning, staring up at the ‘Tip Top’ ride as the music swirled around the carnival air.
Shortly after that came the singles. My mother used to bowl in a league on Tuesday nights at the Garden State Plaza. If you have never spent a Tuesday night breathing in the distinct combination of floor wax, rental shoes, and second-hand smoke at a 1970s bowling alley, you haven’t truly lived. To keep me from whining, she handed over a few crumpled dollars. I marched myself across the length of that glorious, fluorescent shopping mall straight to Sam Goody’s, where I purchased the “Jet” single on Apple Records. I carried it home like a piece of the True Cross.
Back then, I knew the Beatles, of course, but not the way I know them now. You can’t possibly understand the Beatles when you’re young; you need a few decades of heartbreak and compromise to really appreciate what they were doing.
There is no denying Paul’s talent. He is quite simply *something else*. Even Bob Dylan—who is not exactly known for handing out compliments like breath mints—is in awe of him. Mick Jagger always has something nice to say, which is practically a miracle. I know for a fact that if I ever met Paul McCartney, I would completely lose my mind. I would become an undignified, babbling puddle of a person. And the comfort in that is knowing I wouldn’t be the first.
I’ve seen him live twice. The first time was October 2005, during a period of my life that was, to put it mildly, complicated. Bill and I were on the outs. We were doing that agonizing dance of negotiating “time apart,” which is a polite mid-Atlantic term for “trying to figure out who gets the good blender.” Because the universe has a wicked sense of humor, I ended up going to the concert with Julio. We managed to get tickets near each other, but not *next* to each other—which, come to think of it, is a perfect metaphor for my entire thirties.
When Paul walked out and launched into “Magical Mystery Tour,” I let out a scream that I didn’t know my lungs were capable of. By the time he played “Maybe I’m Amazed,” I looked down and found a solitary tear rolling down my cheek. I looked over at Julio during “Yesterday,” and low and behold, he was leaking too. That is what Paul does. He forces you to feel things you’ve been spending months trying to ignore. He loves to tour, he delivers every single time, and his band is utterly top-notch.
A few years ago, I actually met his drummer, Abe Laboriel Jr. I was working at the Davidoff cigar shack, and there he was, just walking down the street outside the mall. He was an absolute sweetheart. A mountain of a man with the disposition of a teddy bear. I noticed he wasn’t with Paul on the season finale of *Saturday Night Live* recently, which instantly triggered my baseline state of neurotic worry. I did what anyone in the 21st century does: I went down an internet rabbit hole searching for news on Abe’s health. Nothing came up. In my book, no news is good news. I’m choosing to believe Abe is thriving.
Tomorrow is Juneteenth, which means I am blissfully, beautifully off. I am looking forward to the high art of sleeping in. Although, knowing my body, it will be a psychological battle. Lately, I’ve been sleeping *too* well. I wake up before the alarm clock. There is nothing more aggravating than the pre-alarm limbo—opening one eye to check the time, closing it, opening it again three minutes later. This morning I finally gave up and dragged myself out of bed five minutes before the radio was scheduled to burst to life. Why does the brain do this? It’s a design flaw.
When I finally exit this building, my domestic landscape will be chaotic, to say the least. Bill is currently at the dentist getting a tooth pulled, which means when our paths cross later, he will be miserable, swollen, and entirely feeling sorry for himself. Meanwhile, Mike is up in Harlem picking up soul food to bring back to his apartment in Chilltown.
As for me? Right now, I am absolutely jonesing for a cigar. It’s entirely self-inflicted. I spent the morning watching YouTube videos of cigar store employees debating “cigar etiquette” and the best and worst places to smoke. There is something so wonderfully tribal about subcultures like that.
But first, I have to survive the home stretch.
Right now, there is a little under 90 minutes left of the workday.
Now it’s a little over an hour.
The clock is ticking, the mainland is calling, and thank God, the weekend is almost here.
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