I’ll say right off the bat therapy is weird. The reason I say that is that I really thought a therapist would tell me that my constant need to distinguish weird from normal was wrong and I should change it. But what my therapist actual said was that was perfectly normal.
So here’s when I confess that I was stupid. Not that I did something stupid, because it was what I didn’t do that was the proof of just how dumb I was. And I don’t mean stubborn or reckless. I mean I made a dumb mistake, really. Okay, actually, this explanation will make a lot more sense later, but right now, just hear my mea culpa, because that’s how much I need to say it.
It’s a crazybusy week for me (Cecilia) because I had a book launch yesterday so I’m in the midst of a flurry of guest blogs appearances, chats, etc. (I’ll be on my uStream channel live tomorrow 8:30-9:30pm talking about the book SLOW SATISFACTION: http://www.ustream.tv/channel/cecilia-tan)
But I wanted to update you all on some stuff going on with DGC and some new ways I could use some help.
Artie said good night a little while after that. It was the dinner hour and I was too angry and upset to feel tipsy.
I ended up in the tiny phone booth squeezed between the restroom doors in a diner not far from Sarah’s (she’d left word with her doorman to meet her there) using my calling card to try to reach Carynne.
I talked my way into Wenco the way Digger would have talked his way into the best restaurant in the city. With equal parts bullshit and bravado and being nice when it counted. Lucky for me, Artie was there that day.
His office was just as cramped and cluttered as the last time I was here, three years ago. He shook my hand and cleared a chair for me to sit in. When he saw my look was kind of grim, he shut the door so no one could eavesdrop what we were saying, though he kept up his gladhandy demeanor while he worked his way around to his side of the desk to sit down. “Your name’s been popping up in a lot of songwriting credits on our labels lately.”
“Oh, has it?” I tried to be casual. “I did a lot of work when I was in LA last year. Didn’t really pay attention to the labels.” That last bit wasn’t me being cavalier: that was true. I didn’t know what label most bands were recording for, and the checks were mostly going to Carynne.
I went walking then to clear my head and to make sure I made it there on time. If I missed my rendezvous with him who knew what chaos would ensue? I know I predict disaster more easily than most people, but this time I could really imagine another week would go by without seeing him, during which I would drive myself insane.
It could be months before the contract and record company stuff is ironed out, I told myself. No use getting anxious.
Then again, I was anxious I hadn’t said more about where we were meeting. The block Ziggy had been describing was equivalent to Eighth Street on the West Side, but after crossing Broadway it turned into St. Mark’s Place. And the music shop we had both been thinking of wasn’t actually on the block he had been describing. I kicked myself mentally and soldiered on, figuring I’d just keep circulating until I ran into him.
I drunk paged him from Sarah’s in the wee hours of the morning. She was asleep on the couch, looking like something from a Renaissance painting, hair flung everywhere and her arm over her eyes. When the phone rang a little while later she barely stirred.
“The problem with writing songs with you,” Sarah said in the morning, when I had put the guitar away and she had put some waffles in the toaster, but we hadn’t yet slept, “is that you write these things that sound so great with the guitar riffs and then when you’re gone it sounds kind of lifeless.”
The word came via voice mail a few days later that Ziggy was flying to New York on Monday, so I called Sarah to see if she was around for the weekend and if she wanted company. She said yes and yes, so I got on a train on Friday morning (where by morning I mean 12 noon) with a guitar and a book (and then slept the whole way anyway).
I thought I heard a camera shutter snapping when I walked up to the lobby of her building. The door man greeted me like he remembered me. He was a slim hispanic man with very short cropped hair and creases around his eyes.