Tuesday, April 04, 2006
My 80's: The The
"Perfect" (1983, from the CD, Soul Mining)
Beginning in August, 1988, my senior year at St. Lawrence, I spent a semester in England. I stayed with a friend named Biff (no kidding) at a rather eccentric family's house in Hampstead. The family had a son, Tinker, who lived at home and stayed in a room on the top floor of their large apartment house. Tinker was handsome, extremely intelligent, and charming, and he taught English at a local school for foreigners, mainly Italians. Mainly extremely attractive female Italians, to judge from the impressive and seemingly never-ending parade of hot women he brought home. Biff and I spent many hours in Tinker's room, hanging with Tinker and his Italian sweeties, smoking hash sprinkled over elaborately hand-rolled tobacco cigarettes.
For the final month of the semester, Biff and I stayed with another family in Oxford, where we "studied" architecture in that storied town. Our lone assignment was to work with a team of colleagues to produce a brochure about the distinctive and historical architecture on Oxford's High Street that could be sold at gift shops and used as a sort of hiker's guide to fancy buildings. Before we left London Biff and I hooked up with Tinker's brother, Dom, who sold drugs. We purchased a block of hash the size of a bar of hand soap, about two inches on a side. While we were able to successfully beat our deadline and get our guidebook published, the relish with which we consumed that $300 chunk of THC gave the whole "Oxford High Street" guidebook assignment a juvenile second meaning. At least one occasional reader of this blog was there with me. I'm sure he remembers it better than I do.
I came back to school, back to campus in Canton, NY, in January. I wasn't feeling well. I withdrew into my room and spent little time outside it. I went to very few classes, and eventually stopped going to them altogether. I spent nights drinking, mostly, and days staring at the ceiling of my room until I could muster enough energy to get some more beer and start the cycle again.
Fred was a mentally disabled man who delivered newspapers in Canton. He walked the same route daily, delivering his papers, and thus could be relied on to walk in front of our house at almost the exact same time every day. We learned (from the janitor, who grew up in Canton and went to school with him) Fred had always reacted strongly to hearing his name called out loud. When he was in school, for instance, kids would taunt him by yelling "Fred!," which would often cause him enter a semi-catatonic state and bang his head against his locker. Inevitably, he would have to be physically restrained and calmed down by the school nurse.
Lacking anything better to do (I wasn't going to classes anymore), my friend and I went into the attic of our house and waited until Fred came around the corner. It was spring, and the snow was melting. A little river was coursing down the sidewalk, which Fred navigated with klunky-looking moon boots. We screamed "Fred" from behind an ornate cutout in the gable. We were hidden in the shadows; he could not see us. Fred stopped, looked skyward. We yelled "Fred!" again. Fred grabbed his glasses and tore them off his face. He threw his arms in the air, and his mouth dropped open. He held that pose for several seconds. Then, without warning, he keeled forward, face first, arms still above his head, into the river of melting snow. He stayed there for a minute, maybe two, until a Samaritan in a passing car got his face out of the water and helped him up.
The excessive drinking was certainly a problem, but it was just a symptom of something much bigger, much more sinister. I was fortunate to have a girlfriend who insisted on getting me to a doctor. (I was fortunate to have a girlfriend at all, as shitty as I treated her -- Carol, if you by some strange twist of fate you are reading this, you need to know how grateful I am to you for your support, and how sorry I am to have put you through all that horrible shit. I hope you've forgiven me.) The doctor told me I was bipolar (manic depressive, as they called it in the olden days), and put me on lithium. I began to feel better. I convinced my professors to let me do the work I missed (essentially, I argued, I had a note from my doctor that entitled me to such special treatment), and I finished my classes in 6 weeks, passing enough of them to graduate. Though the next few years were, at times, pretty difficult, that was my turning point. With the help and support of my friends and family (without which, frankly, I'd have been completely screwed -- and you probably wouldn't be reading this), my life eventually returned to normal.
"Perfect" appeared on 1983's Soul Mining LP. Strangely, the song isn't included on the remastered version that was released a couple of years ago (I think that's because "Perfect" was a single tacked on the end of the original US release, and the remastered version is of the original UK release, but that's pretty much speculation on my part -- don't go trying to settle any bar bets with that tidbit). That's too bad. "Perfect" is one of Matt Johnson's best songs.
Furthermore, I've always thought the title was apropos.
It's a chilly English winter,
And solitude is never easy to maintain,
Except when it rains.
Beginning in August, 1988, my senior year at St. Lawrence, I spent a semester in England. I stayed with a friend named Biff (no kidding) at a rather eccentric family's house in Hampstead. The family had a son, Tinker, who lived at home and stayed in a room on the top floor of their large apartment house. Tinker was handsome, extremely intelligent, and charming, and he taught English at a local school for foreigners, mainly Italians. Mainly extremely attractive female Italians, to judge from the impressive and seemingly never-ending parade of hot women he brought home. Biff and I spent many hours in Tinker's room, hanging with Tinker and his Italian sweeties, smoking hash sprinkled over elaborately hand-rolled tobacco cigarettes.
So I hang an empty smile beneath my empty eyes,
And go out for a walk.
The wet morning sun reflects off the paving-stones,
While a little dog barks its head off,
In the distance.
For the final month of the semester, Biff and I stayed with another family in Oxford, where we "studied" architecture in that storied town. Our lone assignment was to work with a team of colleagues to produce a brochure about the distinctive and historical architecture on Oxford's High Street that could be sold at gift shops and used as a sort of hiker's guide to fancy buildings. Before we left London Biff and I hooked up with Tinker's brother, Dom, who sold drugs. We purchased a block of hash the size of a bar of hand soap, about two inches on a side. While we were able to successfully beat our deadline and get our guidebook published, the relish with which we consumed that $300 chunk of THC gave the whole "Oxford High Street" guidebook assignment a juvenile second meaning. At least one occasional reader of this blog was there with me. I'm sure he remembers it better than I do.
Passing by a cemetery,
I think of all the little hopes and dreams,
That lie lifeless and unfilled beneath the soil.
I came back to school, back to campus in Canton, NY, in January. I wasn't feeling well. I withdrew into my room and spent little time outside it. I went to very few classes, and eventually stopped going to them altogether. I spent nights drinking, mostly, and days staring at the ceiling of my room until I could muster enough energy to get some more beer and start the cycle again.
I see an old man fingering his perishing flesh.
He tells himself he was a good man and did good things.
Fred was a mentally disabled man who delivered newspapers in Canton. He walked the same route daily, delivering his papers, and thus could be relied on to walk in front of our house at almost the exact same time every day. We learned (from the janitor, who grew up in Canton and went to school with him) Fred had always reacted strongly to hearing his name called out loud. When he was in school, for instance, kids would taunt him by yelling "Fred!," which would often cause him enter a semi-catatonic state and bang his head against his locker. Inevitably, he would have to be physically restrained and calmed down by the school nurse.
Lacking anything better to do (I wasn't going to classes anymore), my friend and I went into the attic of our house and waited until Fred came around the corner. It was spring, and the snow was melting. A little river was coursing down the sidewalk, which Fred navigated with klunky-looking moon boots. We screamed "Fred" from behind an ornate cutout in the gable. We were hidden in the shadows; he could not see us. Fred stopped, looked skyward. We yelled "Fred!" again. Fred grabbed his glasses and tore them off his face. He threw his arms in the air, and his mouth dropped open. He held that pose for several seconds. Then, without warning, he keeled forward, face first, arms still above his head, into the river of melting snow. He stayed there for a minute, maybe two, until a Samaritan in a passing car got his face out of the water and helped him up.
Amused and confused by life's little ironies,
He swallows his bottle of distilled damnation.
The excessive drinking was certainly a problem, but it was just a symptom of something much bigger, much more sinister. I was fortunate to have a girlfriend who insisted on getting me to a doctor. (I was fortunate to have a girlfriend at all, as shitty as I treated her -- Carol, if you by some strange twist of fate you are reading this, you need to know how grateful I am to you for your support, and how sorry I am to have put you through all that horrible shit. I hope you've forgiven me.) The doctor told me I was bipolar (manic depressive, as they called it in the olden days), and put me on lithium. I began to feel better. I convinced my professors to let me do the work I missed (essentially, I argued, I had a note from my doctor that entitled me to such special treatment), and I finished my classes in 6 weeks, passing enough of them to graduate. Though the next few years were, at times, pretty difficult, that was my turning point. With the help and support of my friends and family (without which, frankly, I'd have been completely screwed -- and you probably wouldn't be reading this), my life eventually returned to normal.
Oh, what a perfect day,
To think about my silly world.
My feet are firmly screwed to the floor.
What is there to fear from such a regular world?
"Perfect" appeared on 1983's Soul Mining LP. Strangely, the song isn't included on the remastered version that was released a couple of years ago (I think that's because "Perfect" was a single tacked on the end of the original US release, and the remastered version is of the original UK release, but that's pretty much speculation on my part -- don't go trying to settle any bar bets with that tidbit). That's too bad. "Perfect" is one of Matt Johnson's best songs.
Furthermore, I've always thought the title was apropos.
posted by Bill Purdy, 7:45 PM
1 Buffaloes were bitter enough to post comments:
I did a little Wiki-research on the term "Samaritan," which I capitalized here, thanks to the unwavering guidance of spell check. I'm not sure that's the right usage -- perhaps I should have lowercased it.
"Samaritan" refers specifically to an inhabitant of Samaria, which is nestled in and amongst Israel and Palestine. Just 650 of them remain, according to what I read. And those 650 belong to just 4 families.
The "Samaritan" to whom I refer in my post was named Tony, as I recall. I do not believe he was a member of one of the four remaining Samaritan families, so maybe I should just have described him as a darned good guy -- clearly, a hell of a lot better guy than I was.
"Samaritan" refers specifically to an inhabitant of Samaria, which is nestled in and amongst Israel and Palestine. Just 650 of them remain, according to what I read. And those 650 belong to just 4 families.
The "Samaritan" to whom I refer in my post was named Tony, as I recall. I do not believe he was a member of one of the four remaining Samaritan families, so maybe I should just have described him as a darned good guy -- clearly, a hell of a lot better guy than I was.