I'm not nostalgic. Nor am I overly-sentimental and living in the past. I couldn't possibly bother with the Britneys, the Pinks, the Willows and the Gagas of Planet Pop if I was. But sometimes there are brief visits back—necessary stopovers, if you will—I need to make to keep the equilibrium stable, and to keep from falling off the edge.
See, these days and these nights, solitary driving hours in my life, have piled up over the decades and could virtually fill a stack of mileage logs jammed behind coffee cans on some dusty shelf in a garage. Only the garage is my head. And they're all stretches of time sound-tracked by radio hits—a bulk of them love songs that, at that the time of release, I had no relatable tie to or relevant frame of reference for.
See, these days and these nights, solitary driving hours in my life, have piled up over the decades and could virtually fill a stack of mileage logs jammed behind coffee cans on some dusty shelf in a garage. Only the garage is my head. And they're all stretches of time sound-tracked by radio hits—a bulk of them love songs that, at that the time of release, I had no relatable tie to or relevant frame of reference for.
I know you have to do this too (or at least I want to believe I'm not the only one who does): It's a Sunday afternoon in the highly un-exciting month of January. Something random like 76 cents from a gift card is left in your iTunes account, and the determination is there to just decimate it in one fell swoop. Some pop song from the solitary driving days, some guilty pleasure, some jam out there—one you wouldn't have been caught dead owning on CD single at the time—is in need attention. But which one?
Abruptly it hits you. Then you download it. And that seemingly non-exciting day turns on a dime as you find yourself on a long walk on the rain-soaked streets of the town where you live, with the song now inhabiting a playlist on your iPod, stuck on repeat. Only today those snatches of lyrics and flourishes of melody are so, so relatable. Who cares if you're trudging through a cemetery; a sidewalk behind some Eastern Bloc-style apartment complex; the gravelly alley behind the Wal-Mart by the freeway? The once-elusive references hit you like arrows launched from a crossbow. And, Jesus—it's only 4 o'clock.
I enrolled in a class called Literature & The Arts during my final semester at community college, and it stands out in my mind for three things: my friend (we'll call her Kaitlyn) who decided to take the class with me, a field trip we embarked on to see La bohème at the Benedum Center in downtown Pittsburgh, and the two instructors we had—one of whom is actually now the mayor of my hometown, and the other who apparently ran into some legal troubles (to put it mildly) a decade later.
(That's Kaitlyn and I to the right, waiting to take the bus to see La bohème.)
Between that class and the others that filled my schedule, there was also editing the school newspaper, the university applications, lofty ambitions for a future screenwriting career and the endless task of hanging out with friends—steadfast new pals made so easily, the way it only happens at that age.
There were also the treks to Pittsburgh and back on weekends (sometimes twice in one day—a 45-minute drive each way). To the Beehive. To the movies. Through the suburban back roads on cloudy days and at 1 a.m. on warm, hopeful nights. The future was inconsequential.
And every time I flipped to a station that was playing Jon Secada's "If You Go" in those spring and summer months of 1994, it was kind of blissful.
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TAKING A DAY AT A TIME
I enrolled in a class called Literature & The Arts during my final semester at community college, and it stands out in my mind for three things: my friend (we'll call her Kaitlyn) who decided to take the class with me, a field trip we embarked on to see La bohème at the Benedum Center in downtown Pittsburgh, and the two instructors we had—one of whom is actually now the mayor of my hometown, and the other who apparently ran into some legal troubles (to put it mildly) a decade later.
Between that class and the others that filled my schedule, there was also editing the school newspaper, the university applications, lofty ambitions for a future screenwriting career and the endless task of hanging out with friends—steadfast new pals made so easily, the way it only happens at that age.
There were also the treks to Pittsburgh and back on weekends (sometimes twice in one day—a 45-minute drive each way). To the Beehive. To the movies. Through the suburban back roads on cloudy days and at 1 a.m. on warm, hopeful nights. The future was inconsequential.
And every time I flipped to a station that was playing Jon Secada's "If You Go" in those spring and summer months of 1994, it was kind of blissful.
(Note that the video is basically all a re-enactment of the final scene from The Graduate.)
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DEALING WITH FEELINGS I DON'T WANNA HIDE
Not sure what the hell it is about this trifle, but I still have the lyrics and the arrangement of every backing vocal and every emotionally-charged improvisation Jon makes in "If You Go" imprinted in my memory—which is remarkable for the fact that, until five days ago, I hadn't heard the song in at least 13 or 14 years.
Learning to love, baby
Without taking you along for a ride
Tried to find myself
Tried to find the truth
Get out from this shell
Of course, there was much more at play, subconsciously, with the way my personal life was heading. But that wasn't on the schedule until next semester.
Sorry if you felt misled
But I know what I feel
I know what I said
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I'M ALMOST THERE TO SHOW YOU HOW MUCH I REALLY CARE
When the semester finally ended, the school had a formal dance on the Gateway Clipper, which zipped up and down the three rivers that snake along downtown Pittsburgh. There were three part-time jobs (!!!) to tend to that summer. I played tennis almost daily. The Andy Warhol Museum opened, which I visited with my parents. My cousin had a baby. The movies had Forrest Gump. Besides Jon Secada, Top 40 radio had Lisa Loeb's "Stay (I Missed You)," Prince's "The Most Beautiful Girl In The World," Ace Of Base's "Don't Turn Around" and Elton John's "Can You Feel The Love Tonight."
All that said, despite the words in "If You Go," there wasn't anyone I really wanted. There was no intoxicating summer romance to get lost in. Hell, I don't even recall any actual intoxication in those months.
I can't imagine I skipped over daydreaming about what being in love would feel like. But my reality then was just a close-knit group of friends, harmless songs on the radio and a blinding, brilliant sense of naivete.
And that's probably why it was so perfect.
Don't you think I don't know
This is where I belong
THIS PIECE IS A CONTINUATION OF:
* Mix Tapes, CD Singles And Being Boring—Tales Of A Lonely Teenage Nobody
* This Used To Be My Playground
* Coffee, Drugs, Death And Ace Of Base
* I'll Remember
* Return To Innocence
* Threesomes, Term Papers, Erasure And The Book-End of Gen X
IT PRECEDES:
* Someone Who Won't Leave Me Feeling...
* You Can Depend On Me
