I watched a documentary on Squeeze last night. I liked Squeeze. I never saw them solo, only when they toured with Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Those were the days when Dave Bell and I would see Elvis Costello whenever he came around. Usually at the Capitol Theater in Passaic NJ.
The English Mugs and Spoons tour hit Passaic as well as the Palladium on 14th Street. Squeeze were always very good, though we did get tired of hearing Tempted and talked about throwing toothbrushes at Paul Carrack as he sang those opening lines.
We never got close enough, much to Paul Carrack’s relief. Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook wrote together but not together. Difford would hand off the lyrics to Tilbrook and a few days later the song was completed.
Difford wrote some amazing lyrics and the music Tilbrook created drew comparisons to Lennon & McCartney; in fact, it was said that Tilbrook sounded like Paul McCartney (true) and Difford sounded like John Lennon (sort of).
It would have been nice to hear what Paul McCartney thought of Squeeze, and it’s probably on record somewhere out there on the internet. A portion of my high school years are soundchecked by Squeeze songs.
If I Didn’t Love You is playing right now and I am drawn back 46 years to my senior year of high school and graduation, my escape from education. It was a good documentary on YouTube, less than an hour with interesting talking heads, including Mark Knopfler oddly enough.
About Mark Knopfler, there’s a family on YouTube. A Dad, a son on guitar, another son on drums and the daughter on bass; the Clark Family. They just covered Sultans of Swing which I remembered to be a good song, released during the years of new wave, though Dire Straits were not a new wave band at all. I was surprised that I knew all the words to Sultans of Swing.
I get daily emails telling me that Kevin Wagner remembers me. Well I remembered Kevin for a long time, I guess the chapter closed after seeing the Colin story on Ted Lasso. I searched for a long time, looking up Kevin in Orlando FL which is where I last heard he was. I looked up his girlfriend or wife, Ann as well but found nothing which was fine.
Last night I did a search for Simon Williams, a flame from years ago. We hooked up for a number of years, usually a good time, and always dysfunctional. Powders and card games were involved in the middle of the night.
I did a search and found him. He’s married now and I decided not to contact him, some things are best left in the past. He’d probably want to forget about the whole thing anyhow.
I learned my lesson a couple of years ago, chatting with Ignatius MacKenzie on the social media. It seemed like a good idea at the time and as it ended I regretted it. It had been over 30 years and I forgot what an asshole Ignatius was.
Google Gemini rewrite as a Dave Eggers essay
It is a strange and remarkable thing, the way an algorithm can casually unearth the exact acoustic landscape of your youth and hand it back to you on a weeknight.
Last night, I watched a YouTube documentary on Squeeze. (A very good documentary, mind you—tight, elegant, under an hour, featuring a lineup of talking heads that inexplicably included Mark Knopfler, looking wise and weathered.) And suddenly, there I was again.
I never saw Squeeze headline. They were always the opening act for Elvis Costello and the Attractions back when Dave Bell and I made a holy, religious ritual out of seeing Elvis whenever he blew through New Jersey. Usually, this meant the Capitol Theater in Passaic. We caught the *English Mugs and Spoons* tour there, and then again at the Palladium on 14th Street.
Squeeze was phenomenal, of course, though I have to confess that by the fourth or fifth time around, Dave and I had developed an unreasonable fatigue regarding “Tempted.” We used to whisper furiously in the dark about launching toothbrushes at Paul Carrack the second he sang those iconic opening lines. We never got close enough to the stage to execute the toothbrush assault, which I imagine was an immense, quiet relief to Mr. Carrack.
The documentary laid out their magical, fractured process: Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook wrote together, but almost entirely apart. Difford would scribble these incredible, literary lyrics on a piece of paper, hand them off, and a few days later, Tilbrook would return with a masterpiece. The music press used to obsessively compare them to Lennon and McCartney. They said Tilbrook sounded like Paul (he absolutely did) and Difford sounded like John (sort of, if you squinted with your ears). I kept wondering what the actual Paul McCartney thought of them. The answer is undoubtedly out there, floating in the vast, terrifying ether of the internet, waiting for a midnight search query.
Right now, “If I Didn’t Love You” is playing through my speakers, and just like that, the universe yanks me back forty-six years. I am seventeen again. It is my senior year of high school. Graduation—that glorious, desperate escape from formal education—is hovering on the horizon, and Squeeze is providing the exact, shimmering soundcheck for my exit.
—
Memory is a bizarre, recursive loop.
Following the Squeeze rabbit hole led me to the Clark Family on YouTube—a dad, a son shredding on guitar, another son hammering the drums, and a daughter holding down the bass. They were covering “Sultans of Swing.” Dire Straits was never a New Wave band, not really, even if they landed in the late seventies right alongside the leather jackets and synth-pop. But as I watched this family play, I realized with a shock of mild horror that I still knew every single lyric to “Sultans of Swing.” Every word, locked away in some dusty cabinet of my brain, completely intact.
Meanwhile, my inbox is quietly haunted. Every single day, I get an automated email telling me that *Kevin Wagner remembers you!*
For a long time, I remembered Kevin, too. I spent years searching for him, plugging his name into search engines alongside “Orlando, Florida”—his last known coordinates. I searched for his wife, Ann. Nothing. A total digital ghost town. But then I watched that episode of *Ted Lasso*—the one with Colin’s storyline—and something in me settled. The chapter just closed. The search ended.
Naturally, because the human mind cannot resist prodding an old bruise, I turned my late-night search energy toward Simon Williams instead.
Simon was an old flame from a life that feels like it belonged to someone else entirely. We hooked up off and on for years. It was almost always fun, and it was *always* profoundly dysfunctional—a chaotic blur of late-night card games and white powders in dim kitchens.
I typed his name into the box. I hit enter. And there he was.
He’s married now. He has a life, a quiet life, miles away from the chaos of our twenties. I stared at his profile for a long moment, my finger hovering over the message button, before I closed the tab. I decided to leave him alone. Some things are meant to stay buried in the soft dirt of the past. Besides, he’d probably prefer to forget the whole thing anyway.
I learned my lesson a couple of years ago when I made the mistake of reaching out to Ignatius MacKenzie on social media. It felt like a warm, nostalgic idea at the time. It took about three messages for the reality to set in, leaving me with a deep, immediate wave of regret. Thirty years had passed, and I had somehow completely forgotten a fundamental truth of my youth:
Ignatius was an absolute asshole.
—
Then came the afternoon, and with it, the strange, hyper-specific interpersonal drama that seems to govern human relationships in small spaces.
Mike stopped by the office. Before he arrived, I had walked down to the local cigar shop on his behalf—not once, but twice—to pick up his dreaded Asylum cigars, these absurd 8 x 80 gauge log-sized monstrosities. He called from 14th Street, and since it was nearly time to head home, I invited him up.
I handed over the cigars. Immediately, Mike began taking photos of himself in front of the screen playing Apple Music. My coworker Marcus walked past, took one look at the photo shoot, and wisely chose not to say a single word.
Mike announced his plan: he was going to take the PATH back to Hoboken and catch a bus home from there. I suggested, reasonably, that he just take the PATH train straight to Journal Square. But he had his mind made up.
Or so I thought.
I swiped him through the turnstile and checked the schedule board: Journal Square train in three minutes; Hoboken train in five. Right on cue, the Journal Square train glided up to the platform. Mike looked at it, casually announced he was taking it after all, gave me a quick fist bump, and stepped through the closing doors.
Off to Journal Square went Mike.
I stood there as the Hoboken train pulled in, found a seat, opened the latest issue of *Mojo*, and began to brood. There was something about the sudden, arbitrary pivot that bugged me. I texted him from my seat to tell him I was disappointed by his sudden decision, and that it felt a little rude to make a big show of rejecting an idea only to claim it seconds later.
When I got home, he called. I didn’t answer. We texted. He asked if he could call again, and this time I picked up.
“I’m not mad or upset,” I explained. “I’m just disappointed.”
Bill, Mike, and I talk all the time about how we’re a family. And in any real family, disappointment occasionally pulls up a chair. I think Mike assumed that telling me he ended up taking my suggested route to Journal Square would act as a magic trick—a quick ego-feed to make everything fine. Instead, he informed me, with great conviction, that I had officially ruined his entire day by telling him I was disappointed.
The call ended. I ate dinner. Later, he spoke with Bill, though I haven’t received the full post-game debrief on how that went. When Mike and I spoke again, things had not magically improved. He complained that his apology had “fallen on deaf ears.”
I pointed out that there were a few other recent things he’d done that had annoyed me, things I had chosen not to make a fuss about at the time. I remember them, sure, but I don’t drag them out into the light unless necessary. Things happen. You get over them. You move on.
While I was simply disappointed in a minor moment of thoughtlessness, he was deeply aggrieved that his day had been ruined.
And yet, despite the weight of all this grand human misunderstanding, he still has his terrible, oversized Asylum cigars.
Google Gemini as a David Sedaris essay
Last night, I watched a YouTube documentary on the band Squeeze. I’ve always liked them, though I never actually saw them play by themselves. Back in the late seventies, my friend Dave Bell and I would see them only when they opened for Elvis Costello and the Attractions. Those were the years when seeing Elvis was less of a concert choice and more of an obsessive religious obligation, usually at the Capitol Theater in Passaic, New Jersey.
Squeeze were always very good, though after a while, Dave and I grew completely exhausted by “Tempted.” We spent a fair amount of time plotting to hurl toothbrushes at Paul Carrack’s head the moment he hit those opening notes. Fortunately for Mr. Carrack, we never had seats close enough to execute our dental assault.
The documentary explained that Chris Difford and Glenn Tilbrook wrote together by completely avoiding each other. Difford would scribble out brilliant, melancholy lyrics on a piece of paper, hand them off, and a few days later, Tilbrook would return with a full musical masterpiece. People used to compare them to Lennon and McCartney, claiming Tilbrook sounded like Paul—which was true—and Difford sounded like John—which was only true if you were slightly hard of hearing. I kept wondering what the actual Paul McCartney thought of them, a piece of information that is undoubtedly floating around on the internet, waiting to be unearthed by someone with far too much time on their hands.
Right now, “If I Didn’t Love You” is playing, and I am instantly dragged back forty-six years to my senior year of high school. It was 1980, the soundtrack to my triumphant, desperate escape from formal education. The documentary itself was under an hour—always a blessing—and featured a bizarrely eclectic assortment of talking heads, including, for reasons known only to the director,
Mark Knopfler.Speaking of Mark Knopfler, I recently stumbled upon a musical family on YouTube called the Clark Family: a father, a son shredding on guitar, another son hammering away on drums, and a daughter on bass. They did a cover of “Sultans of Swing,” a song I hadn’t thought about in decades. I was mildly appalled to realize I still knew every single lyric, locked away in my brain right next to the phone numbers of people who died in the nineties.
—
Lately, my inbox has been haunted by automated emails informing me that *Kevin Wagner remembers you!*
For a long time, I remembered Kevin, too. I spent years typing his name into Google, appending “Orlando, Florida”—his last known whereabouts—hoping to see what became of him. I even searched for his wife, Ann. Nothing ever came up, which was probably for the best. Eventually, after watching an episode of *Ted Lasso*, I realized the chapter had simply closed. I stopped searching.
Instead, I turned my late-night internet sleuthing toward Simon Williams, an old flame from a period in my life that felt like a poorly scripted soap opera. We carried on for years in a state of continuous, agonizing dysfunction—a blurry landscape of late-night card games and various white powders consumed off kitchen tables.
I searched his name, and there he was: married, settled, and utterly normal. I decided against sending a message. Some ghosts are best left in their dark corners. Besides, he’d likely prefer to pretend I never existed.
I learned my lesson a few years ago when I made the mistake of contacting Ignatius MacKenzie on social media. It seemed like a lovely, nostalgic idea at 11:00 PM. By the next morning, I was consumed with regret. Thirty years had passed, and I had somehow completely managed to forget that Ignatius was a colossal asshole.
—
Earlier today, Mike stopped by my office.
On two separate occasions, I had walked down to the local cigar shop on his behalf to purchase his beloved Asylum cigars—monstrosities measuring eight inches long by an eighty-ring gauge. They resemble small logs of compacted turf. When he called me from 14th Street, I invited him up, as my shift was nearly over.
He arrived, accepted his giant cigars, and immediately began taking selfies in front of the computer playing Apple Music. My coworker Marcus walked past, took one look at the photo shoot, and wisely chose not to say a single word.
Mike announced he was going to take the PATH train back to Hoboken and catch a bus home from there. I suggested he simply take the Journal Square train directly, but he insisted his route was superior.
Or so I thought. I swiped him through the turnstile and glanced at the departures: Journal Square in three minutes; Hoboken in five. Naturally, the Journal Square train pulled up first, at which point Mike casually announced he was taking it after all.
He gave me a quick fist bump, stepped through the sliding doors, and sped off toward Journal Square.
I stood on the platform, waiting for my Hoboken train, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of irritation. When my train arrived, I found a seat, opened the latest issue of *Mojo*, and proceeded to brood. It struck me as terribly rude that he’d made such a production of ignoring my advice, only to take it the second it suited him. So, I texted him to let him know I was disappointed.
He called the moment I walked into my apartment, but I let it go to voicemail. We exchanged a few tense texts. Eventually, he called again, and I answered.
“I’m not mad,” I explained, using my most measured, parental tone. “I’m just disappointed.”
Bill, Mike, and I always talk about how we’re a family. And like any family, disappointment is occasionally invited to dinner.
Mike, however, did not appreciate the invitation. He seemed to think that adopting my suggestion at the last second should have earned him praise, as if feeding my ego were a suitable substitute for basic manners. Instead, he informed me that I had officially ruined his entire day by telling him I was disappointed.
We hung up. I ate dinner. Later, he spoke with Bill, though I have yet to receive a full debrief on how that conversation went. When Mike called me back a bit later, his mood had not improved. He complained that his apology had “fallen on deaf ears.”
I reminded him that there were a few other minor transgressions he’d committed recently—things I had gracefully chosen to overlook at the time. I tend to file those away in a mental drawer. I don’t bring them up constantly, but I certainly know where they are.
“Things happen,” I told him. “You get over it. You move on.”
He remained deeply aggrieved. I was disappointed in his behavior, but he was furious with me for ruining his afternoon.
And yet, despite it all, he still has his absurd, oversized cigars.