Landscape Calrissian - Songs From The Last Q*Ball Album

She loved Star Wars.

She had a framed Empire Strikes Back poster in her apartment, her passion for movies and music surely rivaled my own.  She was the real deal.

We sat on her couch, finally next to each other.  Finally - and fleetingly - close.  It would be the only time.  The last time.

She clutched the remote, scanning through the seemingly endless stream of saved media in her Netflix Queue.  She wanted to watch a movie but I just wanted to watch her do anything.  It would be the only time.  The last time.

We knew a lot about each other but we had only met in person once before. We both loved a lot of the same things - Star Wars and Jim Henson, Halloween and Led Zeppelin.  We developed a rapport based on a similar work ethic in a cutthroat industry, surrounded by idiots and tyrants, yet plowing through with integrity.  We both cared about doing a good job even when we hated what we did.  We respected each other.

I asked her to shut the TV off.  We needed to talk.  It was already well past midnight.  Her roommate had mercifully gone to sleep.  I would be on a plane the next morning, flying back to reality.  Harsh reality.  I had been waiting for this moment for months and this would be my only chance.  My last chance.

Music brought us together, another familiar tale.  I didn't orchestrate any of it, the universe did.  The fates blew us into each others world even though we were thousands of miles apart.  We don't ask to get hit with the love sledgehammer any more than we ask for cancer or for a hurricane to destroy our house.  It just happens.  Life has a way of constantly reminding us that what we want and what we get are often miles apart, over the hills and far away.

She put the remote down and turned to me.  Finally, I had her full attention.  I could feel the weight in the air.  We were inches apart.  She was in shorts and a t-shirt, no makeup.  She wasn't glamorous at all, but she was beautiful.  We only had one day together, and this was the first time we would have alone.  The only time.  The last time.

She had a pretty, paper-thin smile, her voice was a lullaby.  We had talked on the phone only a few times, once into the wee hours of the night, one of those long-distance convos that stay with you long after you hang up the phone.  Hearing that voice now seemed a gift.  Being here next to her seemed surreal.

"Are we okay?," I asked.

I didn't have a speech prepared, I barely had a plan.  She had orchestrated this moment in her own way, had helped me book my flight, had invited me to crash on her couch.  She did her part to put me exactly where I was in this moment.  It's possible that her intentions were entirely professional, but I'd like to believe that we both knew better, that this was something more.

"Of course," she replied.

I had already made a few mistakes.  I was nervous as fuck, and my slip was showing.  Before lunch, she caught me staring at her boobs.  Before dinner, she caught me blowing up her bathroom.  Unspoken transgressions, but transgressions all the same.  In my own back yard, I wasn't this careless.  I was in control.  Here in La-La Land, in just one day, I was not.  I was a pile of melted goo in a Karate Kid t-shirt.

She could sense me prying that door open - taking it from casual convo into the confessional.  She resisted as best she could, but once it all came pouring out, she had no choice but to engage.  She read off a short list of reasons explaining her own stance.  It seemed like a list she kept in her back pocket for moments like these, moments a woman in her position had likely experienced before.  All her reasons for keeping things platonic made sense.  Practical sense.  We already knew what we had was impractical, but only one of us was willing to take the leap.

I challenged her.  It would be my only chance.  My last chance.  "I considered it," she admitted, only slightly defensively.  Was she placating me?  The monkey was finally off my back and had landed firmly in her lap, and I sat there watching her wrestle with it.

Was she letting me down gently, stroking my ego on my way out the door?  I don't believe she was.  She was being honest.  I asked what prompted this 'consideration'.  "Similar interests," she said.  No admission of physical chemistry or emotional longing.  Similar Interests.  Purely clinical.  Star Wars and Jim Henson and Halloween and Led Zeppelin.  But who doesn't love all these things, or things just like them?  Liking the same shit isn't enough, there has to be electricity and magic and - a yearning - otherwise, you're just spinning your wheels.  I've seen enough online dating profiles in my day to validate this.

Surely I knew the difference.  Because my wheels were already spinning.   Back home, I was with someone else.  This wasn't a secret, not to her or to anyone.  My real life relationship was deep in the shit box and she knew it.  She had bonded with me over this fact, sharing stories of her own romantic folly.  Encouraging me to be brave.  She was providing all the things I wasn't getting at home, encouragement included.  She complimented my music and eventually inspired it.  We complemented each other in a lot of ways, and sometimes found ourselves admitting this aloud - even tho the timing was all wrong, the obstacles great.

I wasn't withholding information nor stretching the truth.  I had done that when I was young and dumb - embellishing things to further my own selfish desires.  It's a lecherous practice, any way you slice it.  I dated someone recently who made that sort of behavior an art.  Seeing her in action gave me a new appreciation of how wrong and shitty it is.  We paint pictures of ourselves that make us seem much less ugly than we can often be.  

So I kept it real.  She could have let me in, but that would have been a mistake.  I was with someone else.  It didn't matter that my heart wasn't in it anymore.  It didn't matter that the store was closed and practically abandoned - I still owned the property.  I still had some unfinished business to attend to.

I didn't kiss her.  I wanted to, of course.  I wanted to do a lot more.  Maybe she did too.  But she was built differently.  Most women are.  Not all, but most.  Anything more than a conversation would have been unfair to all parties involved.  The burning in my chest and my loins was already unfair enough.  Why now?  Why her?  I didn't pick her out of a catalog or off a website, I didn't ask for any of it.  It was all laid out in front of me, another one of life's shitty morality tests.  The only reason I passed was by failing, and you never really pass when you fail.

We talked some more, then hugged each other goodnight and retreated to separate rooms.  She turned out to be smarter than me, more sensible.  If she would have let her defenses down that night, I would have turned my whole life upside down, and all that weight would have been on her shoulders.  I was ready to burst, and she knew it, and so the shields were already up.  

After returning home, I wrote her a long, heartfelt letter.  I made her a mix.  I was a lovelorn 17 year-old again, only 17 was well in the rear view mirror as I typed typed typed my feelings.  I don't remember what was in the letter, but I'm sure the more practical Ron typing this blog would have slapped the guy who wrote that letter right upside the head immediately upon reading it.  I'm sure there were good intentions attached to my words but they probably reeked of desperation, one final plea from an infatuated idiot.  I was in deep, as deep as I've ever been.

I don't remember what songs were on the mix, either, but I do remember the last song on the playlist - "The Rose," by Bette Midler.  If closing a mix with a Bette Midler song isn't a sign of how far gone a dude truly is, I don't know what is.  At least it wasn't "Wind Beneath My Wings."

I put the mix and the letter in an envelope and brought it to the post office with my heart in my throat.  It wasn't the first time I had done something like this - the guy leaving a note for a woman he has never met, surprising a girl he likes with flowers, showing up at the supermarket and buying ice cream just to talk to the girl behind the counter.  Sure, I was much younger when orchestrating these encounters.  And sure, some girls actually find little missives like that romantic, but others equate them with the words "creep" and "stalker."

The common thread here, at least for me, is that none of those moments have ended in a victory.  All of the loves in my life have been presented to me - in college, at my job, playing a show in a club.  I, of course, still had to make the first move in those situations, but it was always easy.  I didn't have to chase any of those girls.  Sometimes they even chased me.

It's only when I have played the bumbling fool, the obsessed idiot, that I have crash landed.  Nowadays, I find myself putting up walls and employing radio silence quickly, secretly wondering if I'll ever feel a spark like this again.  Crash landing hurts no matter your age, your gender, or where you are in your life.

Landscape Calrissian is about that spark, and the short-circuit that followed in the wake of one unfortunate late-night encounter.  I say unfortunate because, given a little more time or opportunity to communicate, I could have come down from Cloud City and handled things in a more mature, sensible way.  I say unfortunate because I only had one shot, and it's pretty hard to convince someone you're The One in less than 2 hours.  In 2 hours, you can decide that you love Star Wars, but deciding that you want to take a chance with a dude with baggage and a price on his head usually takes at least one sequel, sometimes two.

Those are the worst type of defeats, never knowing what could have been and choosing to turn off instead - forcing yourself to do something that doesn't seem inherently 'right' just to protect yourself.  Getting hit by lightning is never a choice, but turning off the power always is.  It has taken on new meaning in an online world.  We Unfollow and we Block, our passive aggressive way of relaying that we're angry or wounded.  We stop Liking photos, we cease sending e-mails and Instant Messages.  Just a bunch of dummies deleting contact information and text messages from our smartphones.  Ghosting.  Out of sight, out of mind, or at least that's what we like to believe in our simple little minds.

It is such nonsense, the harsh reality of 21st century interaction.  But that's what it is - reality, a practice reserved not only for romantic disconnections, but also for band mates, friends, and sometimes even family.  There is little sense of longing when it's so easy to connect, disconnect, and even reconnect.

That doesn't mean our brains have stopped working or our hearts have stopped humming.  That doesn't mean the memories of what existed, even for a fleeting moment, have faded.  The world finds a way of reminding us of what we once had, or worse, couldn't have.  Do we ignore these signs?  Can we?  Do we just take another punch to the gut and keep on truckin'?  Are we meant to resurrect relationships with zombies who were once dead and buried from our everyday lives, if not our own consciousness?

We're made to believe that Love Conquers All, that whatever hard journey that you took to get to the top of the mountain was worth the price because the reward seems so great.  But the deeper you dive, the more you stand to lose when it all comes to an end.  Life is just a series of chapters, of moments, good and bad, and love surrounds the best ones but also the worst ones too, suffocating you with joy one day and squeezing the tears out of you the next.

Landscape Calrissian is one of those moments put to music.  It's a beautiful scar.  I bear a few.  I bet the girl who loves Star Wars has a few of her own.  I bet you do too.  Each scar tells a different story, but ultimately they're all the same, borne by our belief that we are meant to be part of something bigger than ourselves, that we aren't meant to be alone, rather destined to stay connected.

However fleeting the moment is, however poorly it might end - be it in the form of an untimely death after years together or an awkward hug after hours together - it is a real, tangible thing, as honest as anything you'll ever experience in your life.  What's a few scars compared to that feeling?

Love in all its forms reminds you that you're alive, that you're significant.

There is no greater gift.

***
The Last Q*Ball Album by Ron Scalzo
Available now on iTunes and Amazon

LANDSCAPE CALRISSIAN

We're almost there
We were almost there
We don't talk anymore
We don't talk about the things
That should have mattered so much more
It's so easy to ignore
Now that we're stuck in this cold war
We're suffering
Sure we say a word
But not one that's heard
And those empty clicks are just a wall between us
That's the problem with me
I keep on trusting my feelings
The best way of dealing with it
Is to tell it like it is
But people always need convincing
And my blood's already splattered on the wall
And you're just like me
Yeah you're just like me
How can I make you believe
That we're almost there?

We're almost there

***
 

Ron Scalzo - vocals
Chris Pennie - synths, loops
Brett Aveni - guitars

Music by Chris Pennie
Words by Ron Scalzo
Copyright 2014 Bald Freak Music (ASCAP)

Recorded at The Boiler Room, Princeton, NJ
Engineered by Fight Mannequins
Mixed by Fight Mannequins
Artwork by Joseph Milazzo
Mastered by Michael Judeh at Dubway Studios

Say A Little Prayer For Uncle Sethie

I hope there are movies in Heaven. 

I love you Seth.  I love you, man.  I can't believe you're gone.

I'm sorry.  I'm sorry I didn't write this sooner, so you could read it while you were still here with the rest of us.  Why do we always wait until waiting is no longer an option?  In the hospital, I asked you if it was okay to write about you - about your plight - and I never ask anyone if it's okay to write about them before I actually go and do it.  Just ask all my ex'es.  You said 'Yes' and I didn't write anything until now, and I'm sorry.

Yesterday, I got the call that you were gone and it wasn't a surprise.  LaSala broke the news.  He left me a voicemail while I was playing the piano in the other room.  When I saw that LaSala had called, I knew you were gone before I even called him back.  Anthony LaSala never calls anyone, as you well know.  Sicilian pirates rarely use cell phones.

Anthony called us all, just as he called us all a year ago when you got sick.  Lloyd and Jay.  Tween.  Skeery Jones, the Tuccillos and Pablo.  We all know each other forever, "The Brooklyn Crew."  We still wear our eternal friendship like a badge of honor, as if it were something special.  And it was always just that.  It still is, now more than ever.  Now that you're gone.

I was going through my latest romantic misadventure a year ago when I got the word that you were in the hospital.  You could barely talk when I paid my first visit.  I told you that I was being two-timed and you rolled your eyes and sighed, just like the old days.  Your sudden illness made my problems seem like a pittance, it put everything into perspective and actually helped me navigate through another tough time.

Back in the day, a Seth Kushner malady was like football on a Sunday.  It was almost always on the schedule, one of many running jokes that friends like ours perpetuate over the years.  But things were serious this time.  Leukemia.

I hope it didn't take one of my stoopid blogs for you to understand how proud of you I am.  How you fought to stick around, to regain that normalcy to your life that we all take for granted until things start to go haywire.  You were doing it til the very end, against all odds - sharing your opinions about various TV shows and movies on Facebook, taking in as much of it as you could in those final days.  You were in the home you had created with the family that you created - your son and your courageous wife - where you were always most comfortable, even before the sickness crept in.

The last time I saw you at the hospital, the prognosis was bad.  I expected to walk in and say goodbye for the last time.  I expected to see a battered man taking in his last breaths.  But you were a spitfire that day, you were optimistic.  "I'm not ready to say goodbye to you sonofabitches," you growled determinedly.  You were being strong, stronger than I had ever seen you.

Then a man neither of us knew walked in.  He told you he was sent by someone you knew, but you could not figure out who that person was, nor could he verify it.  Instead, he prayed aloud and sang a hymn as we sat there quietly in your hospital room, and then he was gone, some mysterious angel sent to give you more strength.

You were in a coma a few hours after I left, with a swift death sentence attached to it.  Then you woke up.  Weeks later, you were released from the hospital, declared leukemia-free.  You got to hang with your Hang Dai crowd, to spend time with your great friends Carlos and Marty and Dean, three dudes who got to know you better than I ever did and who loved you just as much.  You made peace with your Mom.  You got to spend your last days in Brooklyn like the tried-and-true Brooklynite you were.  You were a dead man walking, a temporary miracle, and so when I returned Anthony's call, I knew what was coming before he even uttered a word.

I still don't know what to believe, Seth.  I stayed positive, we all did.  You were never totally out of the woods, and now you're out of our lives.  Are you on Tatooine right now?  Are you anywhere?  Last night, I sat out on my back porch, poured out a bottle of wine and looked up at the stars.  "Are you up there, Uncle Sethie?" I asked to no one at all.  And then the fireworks started.  Lots of them.  Last I checked, it wasn't the 4th of July.  And yeah, I'm pretty big on signs.

I'll never forget the look on your face the first time I saw you after Superstorm Sandy.  It's etched in my brain, one of those snapshot moments that stick with you forever.  My house had been destroyed and you walked into a Bay Ridge restaurant while I was hugging the rest of the gang, and I caught the look on your face as you walked in, waiting your turn to hug me too.

You looked at me as if someone had died.

In that moment, even tho I had been the one numbed by Mother Nature's wrath, I felt bad for you.  You were always concerned, even affected, by the misfortune of others.  When your friends were suffering, you were suffering too.  And in that moment, I felt lucky to have you as my friend.  Just as I do in this moment, now that your suffering is over even if the void you've left will be forever felt.

You were one of the staunchest supporters of my music - you came to all the shows, the good ones and the shitty ones.  You created the album artwork for all my Q*Ball albums.  You were an incredibly talented photographer, and I still feel like that was always your truest calling.  You co-directed my one and only music video.  You put me in a spaceship, you put me in a bathtub, you put me in a swimming pool with a powder blue suit on.  You put colored star stickers and Christmas lights all over my skull.  We were young kids trying to figure out how to convey an image, and then we were middle aged dudes still trying to figure it out.  Your hard work and creativity were always an inspiration, even when we got it all wrong.

We had a quarter century together, my friend.  Something to be grateful for.

Our primary language was cinema.  TV and books and girls.  You never forgave me for shitting all over Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull after we saw it together in Battery Park City.  We huddled down together in Brooklyn after 9/11.  You drove me home after I played a showcase at Virgin Megastore, then pulled over on Independence Avenue so I could go piss in someone's driveway because I couldn't hold it in any longer.  We bought you a lightsaber for your 30th birthday.  You got me home after I had a bad pot brownie experience at The Frying Pan the summer after the worst breakup of my life.  We interviewed Chuck Klosterman at his apartment in Brooklyn Heights and I almost erased the whole thing.  Calamity was always our second language.

We called you Chief Yenta because you liked to gossip.  We playfully made fun of your pale complexion, of your propensity for speed talking, and you always took it in stride.  You were there for me after my divorce, after the hurricane.  I got stood up on an online date in Bay Ridge one night, and you and Terra met me out for dinner, salvaging the evening.  You bonded with all my girlfriends - you were always rooting for my romantic victories and you listened intently and patiently after all the defeats.

You were a great friend, Seth.

And then it was your turn to taste victory.  It remains the fondest memory of our friendship, that fateful night in Boston when you met Terra.  Some slug got up from his seat in a basement bar in Beantown and Anthony and I nudged you into it, and there she was and there you were, and we hung back and left the rest up to you.  You sealed the deal that night and we were all proud of you.  Thrilled for you.  The Schmuck was finally victorious.

Your life was forever changed, and I'm sure you realized in the end that you had hit the jackpot with this woman.  I'm proud to have played my small part in all that, to see you become a loving husband and father.

Soon after you and I first met, you lost your Dad in a tragic accident.  He was riding his bicycle on Ocean Parkway and was struck and killed by a motorist.  Joel Kushner was a guidance counselor at my high school, Edward R. Murrow, and he knew me before you did.  And then he was gone and I remember hugging you at the funeral, thinking of how your Dad had left you too soon just as I think about you being gone way too soon now.

We became good friends after that, bound by a mutual love of geek culture, music and movies.  I had been to your house a time or two, inside the rubble you called a room, piles of comics, Rolling Stone magazines and action figures dominating every corner.  I met a lot of cool creative people thanks to our friendship, and even as our lives took divergent paths as we both aged and found new creative outlets, I still felt a closeness to you that distance and lifestyles could not tarnish.

And now you're gone, Sethie, and I don't know what to believe - but if I get to choose, I wanna believe that you and Joel are at the movies right now.  You're watching Star Wars (not the prequels, sorry).  Maybe you're 41, maybe you're Jackson's age.  Maybe you're not any age at all, maybe you're a butterfly or a Jawa.  Whatever you are and wherever you are, I like to think that you're with Dad.  You're reunited, and it feels so good.

That's what I have always hoped the afterlife is - a reunion.  We hurt so much for the people that are gone - seemingly forever - left to pick up the pieces, to try to keep the faith and make sense of it all.  I still hold out hope that Nana and Nicky and Uncle Sal will be there on the other side.  Uncle John, Grandma & Grandpa.  Blanche and The Big Cookie and Seth and Joel.  What we would give to spend just a little more time with those who have left us behind.

There's a whole world of people out there right now who feel cheated out of more Seth Kushner time, and isn't that the truest testimony of a person's vitality?  You mattered to us, Seth.  I hope you knew that.  Now it's up to the rest of us to keep your memory alive while we keep the faith that you are in a better place.

So keep a seat open for me, my man.  Just don't eat all the popcorn.  We'll watch all the Scorsese movies, Hitchcock and Kubrick.  Lost, Breaking Bad.  Seinfeld and The Honeymooners and Batman Begins.  We'll hoist some brews and have another Ronversation, reminiscing and rejoicing over one of life's great friendships.

Say a little prayer for Uncle Sethie tonight, for his wife Terra, his young son Jackson and his mother, Linda.  For all of his family and for everyone who he has touched.  

Say a prayer for one of life's true good guys.