"Talkin' about the man"
When the alarm went off this morning, "Boom Boom Mancini" had begun its second verse in my head. Walked to the garage, took off my sleepy clothes, pulled on running shorts and running shoes, set my watch, snuck out through the back yard and started running. Over and over: "Some have the speed and the right combinations/ If
you can't take the punches, it don't mean a thing." I remembered watching that fight with an old girlfriend and seeing Du Koo Kim die in the ring.
Took a swim when I got home, the low clouds lightening. Inside, drying off, I spotted my wife's tie-dyed swimsuit and "Reconsider Me" swirled around me as I spun through my morning chores: "Let's let bygones/ Be forgotten".
Halfway though making the boys's school lunches I switched on NPR. "Rocker Warren Zevon died at his home yesterday..." I didn't hear anything else for a few seconds. It's not like it was unexpected. The announcer mentioned his most famous songs, his drunkeness and rehab and his terminal cancer diagnosis over a year ago. In fact, I'd been waiting to hear that for a few months now, like a late night phone call ringing with dread.
Dropped the boys as school, and, for once, felt glad for the morning rush. In the driveway I nearly lost it as "Mutineer" played. Couldn't help it. Played it twice.
In the past few months there's been an address on warrenzevon.com where you could send thoughts and thanks to him. I kept telling myself I'd send something, but what would I say? Each time I began, drivel smeared the page. The guy wrote a soundtrack to my life.
To me anyway, his songs are listening mirrors. The regret of not doing something just magnifies the loss.
All morning I played his CDs a little more loudly than ususal. Sang along at "Carmelita". RunningHammer sat next to me in his highchair munching jelly toast. It
wasn't until he started doing his own refrain during "Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner"
-- "tomtom gunner" -- that I began to feel a little bit better.
For all of you out there, please remember
Enjoy Every Sandwich