The Flight Of The Butterfly

He left on Labor Day Weekend.

I was taking out the trash when I got the call that Uncle Sal was gone.  It was my father who told me.  I don't think I had ever heard my father cry before that moment. His voice trembled on the other end of the phone as I returned from dumping recyclables outside my Brooklyn apartment.  "Uncle Sal died."

Then I was the one crying.  Collapsing. Overtaken.  My life has never been the same.  None of ours are.  Because you never get over it. You never forget.  This piece of you that can never be replaced.

Two days later, I'm in Tucson.  In the desert, saying a final goodbye to my uncle -- the guy who left the concrete jungle for cacti and coyotes when I was just a little kid.  I sat at a hotel room desk and wrote Uncle Sal's obituary. I cried some more. I shaved, I put on a tie. At the funeral home, I handed my cousin a CD-R -- the soundtrack to my uncle's funeral, a death mix tape.  Jimi's "Red House" kicked it off. By the second verse of The Beatles' "In My Life," I was a sobbing mess all over again.

My uncle and his younger sister (aka 'Mom') - were my middle class hippie heroes. They had seen Hendrix live. I would eventually borrow (steal) all the 45 rpm records that Mom had stored in the junk room of my parents' basement. Dad's and Uncle Sal's were down there too - Steppenwolf, The Stones. The Doors and Fleetwood Mac.  Treasure.   

Uncle Sal was an explorer. He drove cross country more than once.  He loved to go camping, he loved to cook (he hated to clean), and -- especially in his later years -- he really seemed to love his life.

He moved to Arizona when I was 7, the first in a close-knit Italian-American family to give up the spoils of city life.  By 'spoils', I mean he worked in a candy store under the el train just a few blocks from where they filmed the show open to Welcome Back, Kotter.

Uncle Sal broke up the band, and I loved him even more after that.  His annual Brooklyn visits were calendar-clearing events, beginning with the traditional pizza devouring contest, our dining room table covered with "squares" from L&B Spumoni Gardens. We would go to Coney Island, The Museum Of Natural History.  Uncle Sal would take Mom and I to Chumley's, a West Village speakeasy frequented by writers like e.e. cummings and John Steinbeck during The Prohibition. Even as an out-of-towner, Uncle Sal was my tour guide. He taught me that you could love New York without living in it.

In the desert, Uncle Sal played host, his new life forcing his reluctant family to step outside the door and actually see the world.  The house he had built with his own hands in the middle of nowhere was filled with junk, vinyl records, musical instruments, animals, and more junk. A proud hoarder was he.

He saw wonder in the mundane, and in doing so, made it seem more valuable.

I returned home after the funeral, back to 'Real Life'... whatever that was now.  Feeling robbed.  That is still the predominant feeling today.  I've been cheated.  The feeling we get when someone we truly love departs.  What about all that stuff we were gonna do?

I think about Uncle Sal every day -- a man I sometimes never saw nor spoke to for weeks, or even months, when he was alive.  He is still the coolest, he is still so special.  But he is something more.

He is my constant reminder that things can get better.

That's what a butterfly is.  It's the caterpillar that crawled through the mud, then emerged from a cocoon, soaring through the skies.  It is transformation. It is magnificence. It is rebirth.

I was crawling through the mud in the years after my uncle's death, then my world was washed away by Mother Nature.  I wasn't baptized by those dirty ocean waters, but I was awakened. All at once, I had to deal with all this hard shit, and it was just mine this time - mine and my dog's.  Buttons, the lovable nut whose own comeback from those dark and homeless days has strongly reflected my own.

You don't get through the toughest times overnight, but it happens.  Because life is an uphill battle, always.  Growth is evolution, it's a constant thing, otherwise it's not anything at all.  You can take that adversity and use it as fuel -- a commitment to do better, to live better, to be better. To become braver, tougher.... more grateful for what you have. But there are always higher mountains to climb.  

I went back to the desert after Uncle Sal left.  I was there last Labor Day weekend, making music with his son, Cousin Mike. Growing another inch on my wings.  Later the same year, I traveled to Europe with Uncle Sal on my mind. Making new memories, making a new album.  



The life span of a butterfly is only a few months, sometimes even a few weeks. Only so much time to experience the wonders of the world, the magic in this life.  Uncle Sal did that, too - rafting down The Nile, trekking to Egypt, traveling to Italy to trace our family ancestry.

But Uncle Sal's greatest transformation was borne from love -- someone who put a twinkle in his eye, who renewed his lust for life. He crawled out of the mud and this romance was his reward.  It's not until we get ourselves right that we can truly be right for anyone else. That we've earned the chance to get more than we deserve.

Uncle Sal loved outwardly in his later years. With gusto. Big bear hugs. Always an "I love you."  He seemed at ease - with himself, with the universe.  He was a hippie jester with strong opinions and a soothing tone to his voice. He told great bad jokes, could fix anything you put in front of him.  He was a flawed human being who made good choices and bad ones, who seemed to have learned something from them all.

In his final chapter, my mother's brother seemed larger than life - gracious, happy. I was only getting a brief glimpse of that life - a snapshot of it - but it felt genuine. Uncle Sal wasn't a rock star, he was not rich nor famous. He was a science teacher. He loved his job and was admired by his students, his peers and of course, his family.

Uncle Sal's motto was Carpe Diem. He seemed to have truly seized the day, figured it all out - and then *poof*....he was gone.

He left on Labor Day Weekend but he has never really left.   He is still every slice of L&B pizza, every trip to Coney Island. He is still -- and will always be -- the desert.  He is always there, and he is not the only one.  There are butterflies everywhere, reminding us that we have to crawl before we can soar, even if for just a little while.  That we should do our best to enjoy the journey.  That we have to lose before we can appreciate what winning is.  That we can always do better, can always reach higher.

Thanks, Uncle Sal.  For taking me on the path.
All these years later and you're still showing me how to fly.

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

Drive-In Movie - Songs From The Last Q*Ball Album

What's it gonna be, boy? Come on
I can wait all night
What's it gonna be, boy? Yes or no
What's it gonna be, boy? Yes or no

Those are lyrics from Meat Loaf's "Paradise By The Dashboard Light," an overlong classic rock radio staple that I kinda hate.  I've always kinda hated that song.  But a lot of people love it, probably because it's one of those classic guy-wants-the-girl-to-give-him-sex-girl-wants-the-guy-to-give-her-love tunes.  It comes complete with the classic non-committal male and even sex metaphors featuring Phil "The Scooter" Rizzuto.

Go to a bar, put a dime in the jukebox, and select "Paradise By The Dashboard Light."  Then watch a bunch of drunken women put their arms around each other and start singing along to every note.  Why?  Probably because they identify with the song's female protagonist.

Will you make me so happy for the rest of my life?
I gotta know right now before we go any further
Will you love me forever?

Now here's a woman who demands respect.  She's not just giving herself to anyone.  But if she gives it, she's giving it all.

The guy, on the other hand, has less ambitious plans.  He's unsure.  Let me sleep on it. 

Because, y'know, guys are wolves.  We're wolves, we're cavemen.  We think with our meat loaf.  And the idea of "forever" - it scares a lot of us away.  We can't be tied down.  We're Danny Zuko before he meets Sandy.

Ah yes.  Sandy.  For yours truly, Sandy has been the biggest bitch of them all.  Why, Sandy darlin, why?  Why-ay-ay-ay-ay?

"Drive-In Movie" is my Danny Zuko Meat Loaf song.  But in my song, it's not the woman who demands respect.  It's not the woman willing to give it her all, but the man.  It's not the man who is less ambitious, less sure.  It's not the man who needs to sleep on it.  It's not the man who needs to sleep around, but the woman.

The man wants to park the car - not just in the way your Uncle Chaz and Aunt Joanie did up on Make Out Point back in 1959 - but because he wants to stay put.  For the girl, staying put seems a bit too claustrophobic.

In my marriage, I was the one jumping out of cars.  On the way to dinner.  On the way to couples therapy.  I was the one who couldn't breathe.  I was the one who walked away.  And it never felt unjustified.  It never does in the moment.  In the moment, we always think we're right.  But it's how we feel once cooler heads prevail that define how flexible we truly are.

My last love was never cool.  It was intense.  It had me cursing the gods one day and thanking them the next.  I was never in control of it, even in the short time that it was real and pure and not predicated on lies.  For the girl, staying put seemed a bit too claustrophobic.  So she was the one jumping out of cars.  She was the one telling stories.

So I understand both sides.  I've stomped on a few hearts in my day, but it has been a long time and my stompin boots are long retired.  I'd like to think I've learned from the mistakes a younger, less experienced guy tends to make - the type of guy in the Meat Loaf song.

I learned that if you can't breathe in a relationship, then you have to get out.  Even if you're part of the problem - and you always are, even if not the main culprit - you should walk away.  Not just for your own sake.

But so many of us do not.  When you're not happy, you're not motivated.  So you're not motivated to work hard to fix something that was once fulfilling.  So we hang on for all the wrong reasons - selfish reasons - and that opens the door for the ol' double feature.  Why watch one movie at the drive-in when you can watch two instead?  Why get ice cream with one dude when there are ice cream shops - and dudes - everywhere?

And these romantic double features are showing all over the world.  Seems like we all know someone who's steppin out.  Friends, co-workers.  Some of us might be related to a person like that.  Some of us have been victimized by a person like that.  Some of us might just be that person ourselves.  Some people learn to live with the guilt.  Others create some sort of logic, some sort of justification, for what others would consider loathsome behavior.  Because it couldn't be them.  It's never them.  Cheaters somehow never create their own messes.  

One thing I have learned in the four year experience that spanned the making of this album, and the inspirations for it, is that I am weak.  I am weak for love.  I give in too easily to it, I get impatient for it, I give the objects of my affection way too much rope.  And as a result, I have gotten less than I deserved.   

For all the times I should have just walked away, I didn't.  I couldn't.  My heart wouldn't allow it even while my brain and my gut were sending heat seeking missiles chestward bound to destroy it.  I'm what as they called in those drive-in days, a "sucker."  Except sometimes I was worse.  Sometimes I stuck around even after I knew the game was rigged.

And that's on me.  That's on all of you out there like me.  Never settle for anything less than you deserve in life.  Don't be afraid to just walk away.  Be open minded, just don't be stoopid.  Demand respect.  Don't give your heart to just anyone.  If you're willing to love, then love with your all.

I've been stoopid too many times because I want Crazy Stoopid Love.  And the movies remind us that Crazy Stoopid Love never takes a straight line.  It's crazy and it's stoopid because it's complicated, it's problematic, it's larger than life.  You make yourself believe it's meant to be this challenging because that's part of what makes it so special.

But this isn't the movies.  Love shouldn't be challenging.  It should be easy.  The challenge is in trusting that you're getting out of it what you're willing to put in.

Drive-in movies barely exist anymore.  The world has changed in a way that makes us redefine the word 'innocence.'  It's too easy to get away with being someone you're not.  It's too easy to hide the truth in a virtual world, it's too easy to sin and to be sinned against.  The art of the con has changed, but there are still con artists everywhere.  And deceit has truly become an art.  

***

The Last Q*Ball Album by Ron Scalzo - available now on iTunes and Amazon
www.lastqball.com

DRIVE-IN MOVIE

Have you seen the double feature?
It's showing all over the world
And if things get too emotional
Put your arms around your favorite girl

Come on let's park the car
I don't want it
I can't breathe in here
Let's get ice cream
Don't just walk away

She said 'I'm hangin with Vanessa'
'We're going to the diner on 3rd'
I said 'You promised me a date and it's getting late'
'This movie's really great or at least so I've heard, so...'

Come on let's park the car
I don't want it
I can't breathe in here
Let's get ice cream
Don't just walk away

Come on baby let's go to the drive-in movie
Gonna put on a show at the drive in-movie
Got a ticket to ride at the drive-in movie
Cuz there's nowhere to hide at the drive-in movie
Put my hand on your shirt at the drive-in movie
Slide my hand up your skirt at the drive-in movie
Come on baby let's roll to the drive-in movie
Cuz you're driving me insane

Come on let's park the car
I don't want it
I can't breathe in here
Let's get ice cream
Don't just walk away

***

Ron Scalzo - piano, vocals
Joseph Milazzo - guitar, bass guitar, vocals
Alexa Criscitiello - vocals
Theodore Pagano - drums and percussion

Music by Joseph Milazzo & Ron Scalzo.  Words by Ron Scalzo.  Copyright 2014 Bald Freak Music (ASCAP)
 
Artwork by Joseph Milazzo

Recorded at Thump Studios and Teddy's Basement, Brooklyn, NY
Engineered and mixed by Chris Montgomery
Mastered by Michael Judeh at Dubway Studios, NYC