I read this one earlier in the week and I keep thinking about it. So evocative of a time and place. An origin story. A story about boys and bands and the bonds forged in that deep way only adolescent boys can form them. I have friends now, musicians still, who picked up guitars and formed garage bands in their urban NJ neighborhoods and I just know they had those same feelings that you so poignantly described. It’s sad to think of the lost ties snd fractured relationships, but the memories remain. For sure, this one deserves a wider audience.
Thank you, Taryn. I'm super happy that this one resonated with you in a way that I was hoping it might with at least a few folks. Life is so hard sometimes and yet fairly incredible most of the time. And you're right/ those teenage bonds/ those young adult experiences/ they can really have an immense effect on us for the rest of our days.
I really enjoyed this Serge. I was probably at that John Hiatt concert. My wife and I were dating then and I’d introduced her to John’s music, and we both liked (loved really) the openers - Don Dixon and Marti Jones - and we would take the commuter trains from NY to Philly. I’ve probably got a flyer or a ticket stub in a collage she made me. We spent those weekends seeing shows and visiting my family and seeing people we don’t see much anymore except weddings and funerals but the weddings are our kids’ weddings and the funerals are our parents’, except when they are our generations.
Sorry you and Dave aren’t getting on so well. I hope he puts whatever shits gone down to separate you aside this weekend to wish you a happy birthday. But if he doesn’t, well, happy birthday…keep working that recovery with Arle and your lovely kids. Be well. Treat yourself gently; there’s enough bastards to treat you rough without doing it yourself.
Thanks so much, John. Thanks for reading and thanks for commenting. But mostly thanks for the kind words. They mean so much. I hope you and your family are well. I hope you guys have a beautiful Christmas.
Beautiful. Wistful. Were there ever times like those times? Those wild/quiet/thoughtful/thoughtless teenaged years? Those friends? Those nights? They live inside us forever and yet were a blip on our personal timelines. William Hurt says in THE BIG CHILL, “a long time ago we knew each other for a short period of time.” But, man, doesn’t that short period of time reverberate. Those ripples still flow outward. Even all these years later. Two/three/four(?) times a week I walk the Main Street of my hometown (which is about 20 miles from where I live now; but less than 10 from where I work, so, on my lunch hour…) and let the nostalgia wash through me like a fresh breeze through my hair, sometimes running the lines of whatever play I’m working on, sometimes just carrying on some inner dialogue as if I’m being interviewed about my past. Always looking, I imagine, like that crazy guy who relentlessly walks the street of every small town. I could go on… but I won’t. Today. Just wanted to say thanks again for the words of for sparking my own teenaged memories today. You and your editor have a good weekend. And, in response to something you wrote a week or so ago, I hope you have many more Christmases and Christmas trees.
I read this one earlier in the week and I keep thinking about it. So evocative of a time and place. An origin story. A story about boys and bands and the bonds forged in that deep way only adolescent boys can form them. I have friends now, musicians still, who picked up guitars and formed garage bands in their urban NJ neighborhoods and I just know they had those same feelings that you so poignantly described. It’s sad to think of the lost ties snd fractured relationships, but the memories remain. For sure, this one deserves a wider audience.
Thank you, Taryn. I'm super happy that this one resonated with you in a way that I was hoping it might with at least a few folks. Life is so hard sometimes and yet fairly incredible most of the time. And you're right/ those teenage bonds/ those young adult experiences/ they can really have an immense effect on us for the rest of our days.
I really enjoyed this Serge. I was probably at that John Hiatt concert. My wife and I were dating then and I’d introduced her to John’s music, and we both liked (loved really) the openers - Don Dixon and Marti Jones - and we would take the commuter trains from NY to Philly. I’ve probably got a flyer or a ticket stub in a collage she made me. We spent those weekends seeing shows and visiting my family and seeing people we don’t see much anymore except weddings and funerals but the weddings are our kids’ weddings and the funerals are our parents’, except when they are our generations.
Sorry you and Dave aren’t getting on so well. I hope he puts whatever shits gone down to separate you aside this weekend to wish you a happy birthday. But if he doesn’t, well, happy birthday…keep working that recovery with Arle and your lovely kids. Be well. Treat yourself gently; there’s enough bastards to treat you rough without doing it yourself.
Thanks so much, John. Thanks for reading and thanks for commenting. But mostly thanks for the kind words. They mean so much. I hope you and your family are well. I hope you guys have a beautiful Christmas.
It's your Stand By Me. Well played!
Sweet! Reminds me so much of my own life at the same age, except none of us really smoked cigarettes. A time warp story. So vivid.
Your writing is the gift that keeps on giving, thanks for this. Keep it up Serge!
Beautiful. Wistful. Were there ever times like those times? Those wild/quiet/thoughtful/thoughtless teenaged years? Those friends? Those nights? They live inside us forever and yet were a blip on our personal timelines. William Hurt says in THE BIG CHILL, “a long time ago we knew each other for a short period of time.” But, man, doesn’t that short period of time reverberate. Those ripples still flow outward. Even all these years later. Two/three/four(?) times a week I walk the Main Street of my hometown (which is about 20 miles from where I live now; but less than 10 from where I work, so, on my lunch hour…) and let the nostalgia wash through me like a fresh breeze through my hair, sometimes running the lines of whatever play I’m working on, sometimes just carrying on some inner dialogue as if I’m being interviewed about my past. Always looking, I imagine, like that crazy guy who relentlessly walks the street of every small town. I could go on… but I won’t. Today. Just wanted to say thanks again for the words of for sparking my own teenaged memories today. You and your editor have a good weekend. And, in response to something you wrote a week or so ago, I hope you have many more Christmases and Christmas trees.