Research and Restoration

Back in September, when I was home for a few weeks, I made a trip down to City Hall to see if they had any old photos of my house.

JC used to have a great collection of photos, but they were damaged in the flood waters of Hurricane Sandy, the same flood that dumped four feet of water into my basement.

(I wasn't there at the time. I was safely above the water on a 4th-floor apartment in Hamilton Park. The previous owner had to sort out the flooded basement in Lafayette.)

City Hall had low-res photocopies of photos of my house, so I took those. It's hard to see exactly what my "tin house" looked like, but when I walk down the block, I see earlier restorations. I don't know how accurate they are, because Lafayette isn't legally a historic district, thus there is no requirement to restore facades to their 1938 appearance.

I hope the photos are eventually restored, and meanwhile, I'll have to take my best guess from the photos and from the restorations on the rest of the block.

Houses from down the block

School Night Out

If you'd told me in 1986 that Daniel would be headlining shows across the country, that he'd even play at the Hollywood Bowl at one point, I might have believed you. I had heard his tapes, heard his raw talent, could hear the perfect songs behind the thumping and the chord organ and the coyote saying aroo-aroo-aroo.

Probably not in 1996, though. Maybe not even in 2006. Things were rough for a while. But here we are.

And here I was, young for a night, heading backstage on a school night. It's not the thrill it once was as I've got an eye on the clock the whole time, never quite able to overlook that I have to work in the morning. And it's not like you can bluff your way in at these big shows--you need to set up a pass in advance.

I sat outside at the counter at Two Boots just before the show, and a homeless guy came by asking for money. "That could've been Daniel with a few twists of fate," I thought. He's lucky his family accepted his problems as their responsibility. And he's lucky to have a tolerant diaspora of friends he has known for 30-40 years. He is complicated, to say the least. His memory is strange to me—he doesn't remember the people he's met in the room, but he remembers taking me to a Butthole Surfers show in 1986, and going to the movies in West Virginia in 1992. He remembers me getting out of my car and lifting up the seat to let him into the back with Louis and Nick from the Chronicle. He remembers I work at Marvel. I don't. I work for DC now and I've told him that a half-dozen times. That's not how his memory works anymore.

He and I snapped a few photos together. I help my phone out and we looked at them.

"I don't even recognize myself in photos anymore," he said.

I knew exactly what he means. He's aging faster than I am—he is on medication, doesn't exercise, drinks too much Mountain Dew. But I see it in myself too.

Listen up and I'll tell a story

About an artist growing old

Some would try for fame and glory

Others aren't so bold

And everyone in friends and family

Sayin' "hey go get a job

Why do you only do that only

Why are you so odd?

And we don't really like what you do

We don't think anyone ever will

We think you have a problem

And this problem's made you ill

Historical Landmark

I found this while researching a possible trip to Tunisia.

And it made me laugh.