Taking Inventory (An Open Letter To Sandy)

What's really important?

I remember when I used to fret when a little water leaked onto my bathroom tile after a shower.  I remember it just like it was yesterday because it was yesterday.  "Gotta caulk that up," Dad would say.

Today I am homeless.  My basement and back yard are still under water.  I'm all out of caulk, Dad.

Anyone wanna go for a swim?  Water's a lil' brown....

What's really important?

In October, 2009, I bought a house on Staten Island.  I was married and looking to expand, a Brooklyn native and Manhattan commuter looking to start a quieter life with my new wife and crazy Westie dog.  

In March, 2011, I asked my wife to leave that house.  It was the same day I had to drive my father to his surprise 60th birthday party in Coney Island.  I asked for a divorce and celebrated Dad's six decades on the planet all on the same day.  Surprise!

A divorce is not an easy thing.  It was a rocky time.  After the 'we're getting married' high wears off, no high can truly mask the problems that exist - and will always exist.  I loved her, I tried.  It was un-fixable.  So I asked her to leave.  I kept the house and the dog, she took my savings.  One friend put it best: "You're buying your life back."

I bought my life back, but at more than I bargained for.  In June, my central air unit fried out for 11 days during the middle of a heat wave.  "Gotta get that fixed," Dad would say.  In August, Hurricane Irene did battle with my sump pump and I bailed dirty sewer water from one side of my house to the other for an entire evening to prevent my basement from flooding.  The water never properly invaded. Foolishly, I saw this as a sign of my resurgence.  

I had invested in the house and I would keep it -- bad memories, warts and all.  Fees were paid, changes were made.  I got back on my feet slowly.

What's really important?

I kept Bald Freak Music, my humble indie record label, open for business. I had bought a house for that reason too - to make music in my own space, to run a business and sell my art from my basement.  Y'know, the one that's under water now.

I was still convinced I could make a living from music making.  I rewired my entire studio.  I started archiving audio, learning the software.  I was making more time for it, finally -- long hours and late nights in front of the mixing board.  I was going to make one last album, on my own, in my house.  Y'know, the one that's under water now.

R.I.P.

What's really important?

I dated.  Poorly.  I divorced a few friends and band mates.  When in Rome...

I met someone late last year who seemed special.  We took it slow.  A nice change of pace.  There was something there that made me believe again.  I had certainly lost faith, not only in women, but in the choices I've made in women.  But you have to believe -- you have to want it -- and this one felt different.  It wasn't just the great sex or her gorgeous eyes or how she filled out a dress.  It was hope.  If you don't have hope, you have nothing.  But hope and I have often had our differences. 

Late yesterday afternoon -- after the phone prodding from my parents had finally worn me down -- my Westie and I evacuated to my uncle's house. I packed up the car and drove two miles north to spend the night with Uncle Butch, who had open heart surgery a week prior. 

My uncle's kitchen counter was a pharmacy. Pill bottles everywhere. His bird Rocky and my dog Buttons scoped each other out. I brought my DVD copy of The Wolf Man. This was my crew for the storm that was coming -- a parrot, a Westie, an invalid and Lon Chaney Jr.

Meanwhile, my radio co-workers were bonding in a New York City hotel, my friends were with their wives and kids, my parents together in Pennsylvania, my sister and brother-in-law on Long Island.

A few hours later, the horror stories about what was happening in and around my Staten Island neighborhood started trickling in. Buttons slept on my chest on one leather couch, my uncle dozed off on the other. The power went out, the surge hit.  

Laying there in the dark, all I could think of was her.  But she was with someone else too.  

What's really important?

Dozens of people wished me well today via social media, many sent a text.  Of course, few of these people would have known about the destruction of my home if not for social media in the first place.  My parents called often.... my sister, a friend or two.  That was it.  All most of us cared about before a superstorm were our devices... quality WiFi, a charged iPhone.  Myself included.  What would we be without them?  It felt insane to me to feel compelled to report to the world that my house was destroyed while others were posting about politics, their kids, football scores, rock concerts.  What a fucked up world of communication we have welcomed into our lives.

"Nothing else matters as long as you're safe."

Heard that a lot today.  Is it truth tho?  It feels like everything else matters. The start of what will be a long and ridiculously hard recovery, including where the hell am I gonna live now?  That matters.  My traumatized dog by my side through all this.  His well-being.  That matters.

I fought to keep my house. I invested a huge chunk of my savings into buying and upgrading it, then gave up what was left of that savings to keep it for myself.  I could have tapped out then, I could have sold it.  Instead, I dug in. Now I will always second-guess that choice - my choice.  Today I lost computers, synthesizers, televisions, turntables, microphones, toys, comic books, video games, baseball cards, important documents, furniture, food, photos, artwork, recording equipment, a massive vinyl record collection. My childhood. My history. I still haven't buried any of it.  I can't even get to it yet.  Bald Freak Music's entire physical existence has been obliterated.  Is that really important?  What really matters?

Love.
Companionship.
Communication.
Hope.

If you've found love, keep it close.  Nurture it, value it.  Be true to your family and your friends.  Don't just offer to help them.  HELP them.  Talk to people. With your mouth.  Discover gratitude - you might find some light in the darkest of places.

Since my divorce, I've felt disconnected from the world.  But I've used that time to take inventory.  Do you truly feel compassion for me?  Invite me into your lives.  Write a song with me.  Play a show with me.  Come visit my new place, wherever that may be.  Laugh with me, cry with me, have a beer with me, smoke a joint with me.  This is my personal request to any of you who know me in real life.  Be there for me.  I need you now more than ever.

Take inventory of your life.  It is still your most precious asset.

Before today, I was a lost soul only in spirit.  Now I am truly without an address.  Maybe - just maybe - that's the way it was meant to be.

I WILL FUCKING SURVIVE THIS