I want to illustrate themes from Left of the Dial using scenes that are like bootlegs that didn’t make the final cut in the memoir.
I was 25 years old. Everywhere I went I’d wear mini skirts and skimpy tee shirts.
A friend lived in the Bronx. I’d take the 2 train there. We went to her friend’s apartment.
The white kids were listening to NWA. I remember lyrics to the effect of “bitch-slap the ho.” I didn’t protest at the time because I was entranced with the scene.
Nirvana came on the stereo. I danced like there was no tomorrow. My friend wanted to exit. I loved to dance so wanted to stay.
We parked ourselves in an all-night diner. I had scrambled eggs. It was midnight.
I headed home on the 2 train no stranger to traveling long distances in the early morning. I lived in a studio by the beach on Staten Island–my first apartment.
I’d hung a framed photo on the wall of a little girl with an Italian horn necklace, mirrored sunglasses, and an upturned nose. She exuded confidence for a girl so young.
The friend and the framed print are long gone. NWA has been inducted into the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame.
I realize there’s no sense in pining for that lost time. Yet it reminds me that even in the midst of pain there are pockets of joy.
I tell those of you reading this blog now:
Open those pockets. Find the joy.
Joy is always to be found.