I'm leaving one more message...

I have a young friend out on the streets tonight. And I don't know how to find her. I'm a bit crazy with worry. I'm three states away. I've left messages for her with everyone I can think to leave a message with.

So now I'm sitting here at midnight, listening to old Sinatra tunes. I love that jazzy, breezy, finger-snapping sound. I think because it conjures a world where grown-ups don't scramble to pay bills and raise decent kids and worry about taxes and politics and how bad they hate their jobs. Instead they go to nightclubs and drink martinis, wear good shoes and flirt with one another with light and sophisticated charm. The thing is, the images of the past that we summon for ourselves--the past of old movies and our parent's stories--hardly ever include bad things.

Now don't get me wrong, even the best gin tastes like paint-thinner to me. Probably too many years of bourbon. I've ruined my palate for an elegant drink like a martini, forever. I'm okay with that, though. In my case, I've never liked martinis. I wasn't even alive in 1953, when Frank was in a studio somewhere singing "They Can't Take That Away From Me" and I think cigarette-holders look sort of dumb.

But I was reading the cd cover (because I compulsively read everything I touch--I can't help it) and at Sinatra's 80th birthday party, Bruce Springsteen said, "...While his music became synonymous with black tie, the good life, the best booze, women, sophistication, his blues voice was always the sound of hard luck, and men late at night with the last $10 in their pockets, trying to figure a way out...."

I know, I know--I had a hard time picturing Bruce Springsteen saying "synonymous" too. But the cd is Classic Sinatra: His Great Performances 1953-1960, Capitol Records, Inc., Hollywood, CA (produced and copywrited 2000)--you can check it out for yourself.

The quote made me think about Sinatra, from Hoboken, New Jersey. And what a long trip it must have been to get to Hollywood, and then Vegas. And that takes me to thinking about everyone on their own road tonight.

And that one special kid I know, who I've just heard through the grapevine is out on her own? If you see this--I doubt you can or will--but if you do, kiddo--then please call me. You've got my number. I'll come get you, wherever you are.

Returning

I'm not sure what's happened to my brain. I call it and call it, but it never answers.

I've decided to rejoin civilization. I'm moving back to Seattle at the end of September. I've resigned my despised copy-writing job. Perhaps I shall be a bartender. Or a ditch-digger. Or a rodeo clown. Although I don't think the Seattle job market has a lot of openings for rodeo clowns.

I even recently re-acquired a cell phone, having thrown the last one into the White Salmon River some years ago, when it annoyed me by ringing. I figure if I just don't give the number to anyone, I can prevent this phone from suffering the same horrible fate.

I haven't broken the news to Pippin-the-mutt yet. He won't be pleased, I'm thinking. He rather likes his gigantic backyard in the country.