Connecticut? Rhode Island?
author' note: This one takes you back on the road with me last Summer. It runs about 4 pages, but FEAR NOT, I'm going to do my damndest to intersperse shorter commentaries in between my longer bits. enjoy.
I have to check my wallet for Brenna’s business card for some sort of clue.
New London, CT.
But I’m pretty sure I was in Rhode Island as well. Maybe not. Did I mention I’m coming up on a year since I started this trip (have I come down, yet)? Damn it! Now I’ve got to get my atlas…
Okay, after further investigation, I had intended to go to Rhode Island, but ended up staying with Brenna at her grandmother’s place near the beach in Connecticut… where she worked… Connecticut, that is… I think.
Brenna Chapmann. I met Brenna when I was just a few months away from leaving Missoula. I had moved into The Duck (a whole other book) with one foot already on the road. Friends practically instantly, we kept in communication after I left Montana (even met up with her and Kim Joyner for a week in Mexico. The “week-barometer,” by the way, is a great litmus for true friends).
Before Jennifer, I wasn’t sure if I’d meet another woman with whom I liked hanging out as much as Brenna. A fellow artist and traveler, outstanding writer and photographer, Brenna is still searching for her place in this world, figuratively and literally, seeking ideals in a journalistic world often lacking such, trying to wrap her mind around her purpose. “Raisin duh‘etre” for you Frenchies.
When I caught up with her last Summer (the previous time was probably on one of my trips through Missoula) she was spending her time between Rhode Island, where her parents and grandmother lived (Bill, Lynda and Nana, right Brenna? Great folks. Bill, great mustache. I’ve since grown mine back.) and her grandmother’s place in Connecticut. I think Rhode Island was my original destination, and might still have been were I not running late leaving Maryland. Nothing like a few repairs to your vehicle to set you back… in more ways than one, but I was having too much fun at this point to worry about finances.
After meeting up with my family, as well as a slew of other family, in Virginia, Maryland and NYC (more on this later), I bid a fond farewell (not so fond to the mechanics) and started the second half of my trip.
Footnote: Travel up to this point, through the Mid-West and up the East Coast, had been clear of any major weather. Also, my travel days usually fell on weekdays, subsequently avoiding much traffic.
I’m pretty sure it was a Friday when I left Maryland. Some of the worst rain I’ve driven in hit me just as I was just outside of New York City. About nine of ten p.m. Yeah. Here’s the ironic part (I think). In Maryland, my brother, his family and I opted to take the train to New York for that leg of their visit, so we wouldn’t have to drive in the city while we were visiting our cousin, Libbe. Yeah.
Well, I survived the drive, but as the hour grew later, I realized I’d better call Brenna. Here is where plans changed (although I don’t remember why) and I was diverted to the beach house in Connecticut. Sometime after midnight, I navigated through the narrow curving streets of a barely lit sleepy East Coast beach neighborhood. The ocean was purportedly nearby (apparently after one of my wrong turns…the damn signs were TINY… I almost found it) but it was too dark out to tell. Finally I found the place, and even though both of us were worn-out from our days, we still wanted to catch up, and tired conversation ensued until yawning took over. I went to sleep, trying to picture what the unfamiliar neighborhood would look like in the daylight.
Brenna had done her research. Apparently just one week earlier, one of the local independent rags ran a cover story on karaoke…AND DAMN IT! I TRAVELED PROBABLY SIX THOUSAND MORE MILES WITH THAT ARTICLE, AND NOW I CAN’T FIND IT!
Moving on. The cover showed a guy probably not too far from his mid-thirties in a black button down shirt, sleeves rolled almost to the elbows, and yes, black leather pants. He sported a trimmed black goatee and, appearing to be a few pounds heavier than his height, was working hard at his impression of what the article informed me was probably Meat Loaf. Apparently, he was a die-hard Meatloaf fan, and being something of fan myself, I can only snicker a little.
The article went on to give a little history of karaoke, of course, and tried to decipher the same mystery that sent me on this trip. And it gave a quick run down of the bars and taverns where one might find karaoke in New Haven… New London… Newport?
But we were deciding to hell with New Something! And it was off to Misquamicut. Ahh, Misquamicut. If you haven’t been, I highly recommend.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is easy to do in this case, because I’m coming up on a year since I left on this adventure (June 28th), and some of the details (or at least the order of the details) probably should’ve been written down.
But should they really have? I wonder sometimes. Kind of like taking a picture. Or choosing not to. Memories will imprint, rise to the surface and then fade again, like waves as the years go past. So many moments work to shape us each and every day that sometimes I’m forced to lock the writer in a closet and just drink it in, life through every pore of your body until you can’t see straight, and you don’t remember what happened the next morning. That was really what this trip was about. The karaoke was an extension to my real vision of experiencing life. Different places, hundreds of different faces. To drink of it all until I was drunk, and even though the writer was often locked away, he didn’t complain so much.
The buzz was infectious.
And now that I’ve said that all about keeping the moments simply in your memories, I’ll throw out a quick teaser of my next segment. Film footage exists somewhere in this world of my performance that night at the Windjammer in Misquamicut, Rhode Island.
I have to check my wallet for Brenna’s business card for some sort of clue.
New London, CT.
But I’m pretty sure I was in Rhode Island as well. Maybe not. Did I mention I’m coming up on a year since I started this trip (have I come down, yet)? Damn it! Now I’ve got to get my atlas…
Okay, after further investigation, I had intended to go to Rhode Island, but ended up staying with Brenna at her grandmother’s place near the beach in Connecticut… where she worked… Connecticut, that is… I think.
Brenna Chapmann. I met Brenna when I was just a few months away from leaving Missoula. I had moved into The Duck (a whole other book) with one foot already on the road. Friends practically instantly, we kept in communication after I left Montana (even met up with her and Kim Joyner for a week in Mexico. The “week-barometer,” by the way, is a great litmus for true friends).
Before Jennifer, I wasn’t sure if I’d meet another woman with whom I liked hanging out as much as Brenna. A fellow artist and traveler, outstanding writer and photographer, Brenna is still searching for her place in this world, figuratively and literally, seeking ideals in a journalistic world often lacking such, trying to wrap her mind around her purpose. “Raisin duh‘etre” for you Frenchies.
When I caught up with her last Summer (the previous time was probably on one of my trips through Missoula) she was spending her time between Rhode Island, where her parents and grandmother lived (Bill, Lynda and Nana, right Brenna? Great folks. Bill, great mustache. I’ve since grown mine back.) and her grandmother’s place in Connecticut. I think Rhode Island was my original destination, and might still have been were I not running late leaving Maryland. Nothing like a few repairs to your vehicle to set you back… in more ways than one, but I was having too much fun at this point to worry about finances.
After meeting up with my family, as well as a slew of other family, in Virginia, Maryland and NYC (more on this later), I bid a fond farewell (not so fond to the mechanics) and started the second half of my trip.
Footnote: Travel up to this point, through the Mid-West and up the East Coast, had been clear of any major weather. Also, my travel days usually fell on weekdays, subsequently avoiding much traffic.
I’m pretty sure it was a Friday when I left Maryland. Some of the worst rain I’ve driven in hit me just as I was just outside of New York City. About nine of ten p.m. Yeah. Here’s the ironic part (I think). In Maryland, my brother, his family and I opted to take the train to New York for that leg of their visit, so we wouldn’t have to drive in the city while we were visiting our cousin, Libbe. Yeah.
Well, I survived the drive, but as the hour grew later, I realized I’d better call Brenna. Here is where plans changed (although I don’t remember why) and I was diverted to the beach house in Connecticut. Sometime after midnight, I navigated through the narrow curving streets of a barely lit sleepy East Coast beach neighborhood. The ocean was purportedly nearby (apparently after one of my wrong turns…the damn signs were TINY… I almost found it) but it was too dark out to tell. Finally I found the place, and even though both of us were worn-out from our days, we still wanted to catch up, and tired conversation ensued until yawning took over. I went to sleep, trying to picture what the unfamiliar neighborhood would look like in the daylight.
Brenna had done her research. Apparently just one week earlier, one of the local independent rags ran a cover story on karaoke…AND DAMN IT! I TRAVELED PROBABLY SIX THOUSAND MORE MILES WITH THAT ARTICLE, AND NOW I CAN’T FIND IT!
Moving on. The cover showed a guy probably not too far from his mid-thirties in a black button down shirt, sleeves rolled almost to the elbows, and yes, black leather pants. He sported a trimmed black goatee and, appearing to be a few pounds heavier than his height, was working hard at his impression of what the article informed me was probably Meat Loaf. Apparently, he was a die-hard Meatloaf fan, and being something of fan myself, I can only snicker a little.
The article went on to give a little history of karaoke, of course, and tried to decipher the same mystery that sent me on this trip. And it gave a quick run down of the bars and taverns where one might find karaoke in New Haven… New London… Newport?
But we were deciding to hell with New Something! And it was off to Misquamicut. Ahh, Misquamicut. If you haven’t been, I highly recommend.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. This is easy to do in this case, because I’m coming up on a year since I left on this adventure (June 28th), and some of the details (or at least the order of the details) probably should’ve been written down.
But should they really have? I wonder sometimes. Kind of like taking a picture. Or choosing not to. Memories will imprint, rise to the surface and then fade again, like waves as the years go past. So many moments work to shape us each and every day that sometimes I’m forced to lock the writer in a closet and just drink it in, life through every pore of your body until you can’t see straight, and you don’t remember what happened the next morning. That was really what this trip was about. The karaoke was an extension to my real vision of experiencing life. Different places, hundreds of different faces. To drink of it all until I was drunk, and even though the writer was often locked away, he didn’t complain so much.
The buzz was infectious.
And now that I’ve said that all about keeping the moments simply in your memories, I’ll throw out a quick teaser of my next segment. Film footage exists somewhere in this world of my performance that night at the Windjammer in Misquamicut, Rhode Island.
posted by A Man without a Band at 8:19 AM
2 Comments:
I'm seriously trying to finagle some sportsman's karaoke next/this friday. You on board?
Sorry I missed you all at the cabin. I ended up spending the evening with Kelli, and moving furniture with Ken the next morning. Fuckity, fuck, fuck. I do have a pottymouth (I misspelled that at first, it read pootymouth). Ha.
Post a Comment
<< Home