Happy to be Here

Had another of those experiences last night that you have to show up for. What I mean is that my nature is to spend my evenings at home with Ruthie and read a book or watch a movie. Goes against my grain to actually put on pants and go do something, but when it came time yesterday to clean up and head for the “Save Elizabeth” benefit in Norwood there were enough things motivating me to go that I was actually excited (maybe I’m getting better). For one thing, Justin & Tasha were going to play and we try not to miss them. For another, they were showing some Michael Wilson photography. Plus my friend Kevin was going to be there, plus it was a good cause, PLUS (and never underestimate this) Karin Bergquist was scheduled to sing. This last one alone is worth putting on pants.

So we went to this thing, which was crawling with artist-types—not our usual crowd—and it was grand. That’s a world that may never be my own, but I enjoy our little tourist excursions. Justin and Tasha were great, Michael’s stuff was breathtaking (and he’s just so much fun to be around anyway,) it was good to see Kevin (he’s been out of town,) I met some new people who had just been significant names to me until now, most of the music was very good and (and never underestimate this) Karin Bergquist sang songs. Including “Ohio.” From twenty feet away.

Sitting out on the front steps of St. Elizabeth on a perfect evening, eating spicy chicken with the best wife anyone ever had and two of our best friends, I realized that one of those people I’d recently met, who had been significantly famous enough (in that goofy not-really kind of way) that it had seemed like a big deal at the time, was sitting three feet to my left. There he was! Right there! Smoking a cigarette and talking to a friend. And I realized that I was so happy in the moment, with my wife and my friends and the perfect weather, that I wasn’t impressed with Who sat to my left, and had no compulsion to gawk at his quasi-famousness. This was a big step for me, but it didn’t keep me from getting all wiggly when, later, I asked Karin what B.P.D. stood for. She’s neat.