Sunday ended up being a trip down memory lane. And it offered varying degrees of enjoyment and sadness.
Twin was in town and invited ChiChi and I to partake in her usual Sunday evening ritual—family dinner. With the prospect of spending the evening with her parents (especially her wonderfully hilarious father, Jumpin JT), her brother and his new girlfriend, we happily accepted.
And without a doubt, this dinner was exactly as it used to be. Twin’s brother said highly inappropriate things. Her mother only freaked out about them cussing and talked to the dogs like they were people. And Jumpin JT talked about how difficult his job was and his newly acquired Warhol poster. ChiChi found fuzz in every single bit of her food (she, as always, was the only one). I chatted with her mother about Real Housewives of New Jersey (her favorite is Teresa). And Twin’s brother’s girlfriend was…nice.
After dinner the Triplets (as we’ve once again been called) ventured over to Adult’s house so we (minus me) could have a drinky-drink before heading back down memory lane in the form of an All Get Out show,
Back in the day this would have been the highlight of my month. I would have carefully picked out an outfit that was functional and hot as hell without looking like I was trying too hard. I would have bought a new pack of smokes for the occasion and gone out of my way to chat it up with the All Get Out boys.
Not this time. I didn’t carefully pick out an outfit (though I did still look pretty good) nor did I buy any smokes. Rather I almost forgot about it entirely.
About half way through the walk from Adult’s to the place they were playing I was hit by a brick in the form of a massive realization—I didn’t even want to go to the show. I knew they people that were going to be there.:
Kids that certainly acted their age. People I didn’t want to see. Other people I used to go to school with that I semi-intentionally stopped talking to when I left for college.
And I knew what my night would consist of:
Forking over money I don’t have to watch bands I don’t like. Walking outside between bands to watch underage kids chain-smoke. Standing in a too crowded room while said immature kids tried to be friends with the bands.
And you know what?
I was completely right.
Within minutes of getting there I was…angry. Everything about that scene was rubbing me the wrong way.
The other 2/3 of the Triplets felt the same way so we went back to Adult’s house until AGO went on. Even then, Twin and ChiChi only stayed for a few minutes.
I was determined to get my money worth so I stayed the entire time. And they were great, as usual.
It was their first song, though, that I remember most.
They played my favorite—Lucky Bastard—but this time it hit me in a completely different way.
“We always want more,” “I love my neighbor more than he loves his wife,” “I want to go home.”
Yeah, this got me.
I often jokingly lament my lack of a home. And it’s not just because I want a set of All Clad pots and pans or that cool futon from Target. It’s because this little flower needs somewhere to spread her roots.
None of Papa’s houses are my home. The Dirty Dirty isn’t my home anymore. The Big Apple certainly isn’t my home, despite my many wishes. And as much as I love the Boro, it still isn’t my home.
I used to want to live a transient Kerouac-style life. But as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that just won’t work for me.
I need somewhere to return to. I need a constant.
I don’t have that now.
Maybe this is another part of growing up—learning to let go of things like that and go with the flow.
If so, I think I need a remedial course.