I found myself the other day lying on top of a big Persian rug in my apartment where rugs outnumber chairs, lying next to the record player, halfway through a bottle of riesling I had bought for seven dollars that afternoon, listening to The National. Everyone’s always going on about how sad their music is, and I get that, but I so dig it. More than most, that shit gets me drunk and silly and smiley and singing, whether I’m drunk or not.
I was just lying there, singing, drinking some more, probably looking kinda Jesusy in my white teeshirt that I’d been wearing for three days, beard, bare feet. When I lifted my arms above my head to arm-dance, I realized I hadn’t remembered the deodorant that morning. Whatever.
After a while I’d flipped the record to its fourth side and sang along through Pink Rabbits as well as I could remember: You said it would be painless. It wasn’t that at all…
And when it stopped I got up and did something else. I don’t remember what.
A couple days later I realized that was the most Dude moment of my life. That was the zennest I’ve ever been. I realized I had drunk and sung my way into three people’s lives and I didn’t mean to at all.
I was the Dude and his whale song.
I was Bukowski in Philly, but I wasn’t trying to be an anything or an anyone at the time.
I’d made it back into a corner of my life that always comes around in August when it rains and I just don’t care so much anymore.
And then I got up and did something else.