july 17, 2002.

Saw Concrete Blonde at Lee's last night. (And incidentally, a big shout out to Dirk, who told us about the concert when we phoned him yesterday. Even though he was too heat-addled to accompany us, his contribution has been duly noted.)

Brilliant show. She still has the power to raise gooseflesh all up & down my body. By a lucky coincidence, we managed to camp out right in front of her. I was so close that when she wrapped her hands around the mike, I couldn't see her face. Unfortunately, our dead-centre position made us the target for a lot of insane shoving and yelling intended for Johnette that drilled through our ears instead. There was one girl who wanted to give Johnette a card and another who was so drunk that she'd completely lost the ability to talk and simply pushed against us until the Boy (far more Christian than I at that point) let her take his place in the front row. Another benefit of being in the front row: during a stripped-down version of Mexican Moon, the Boy, another girl and myself kept up a steady clapping rhythm that Johnette seemed to hear and enjoy. The Boy & I beat our palms read & sore keeping down a steady beat and I was so happy to be clapping beside him, like we were effortlessly singing the joy of our partnership. The other girl played all these crazy top rhythms that I loved hearing. I wanted to do what she was doing, but 2 years of sporadic attendance at drum circles has taught me the importance of holding down a steady beat. Ok, I know this is dumb, but I really felt like we were playing with the band.

Highlights: punk rock Joey, Johnette bouncing around barefoot, a deconstructed Still In Hollywood, the opening act ("Dream of the RagMan"), a very strange Take Me To the River, Johnette camping it up to the very weird guitar effects at the beginning of Bloodletting, seeing Johnette flub the bass line of Days and Days, Johnette playing guitar during Take Me Home, and being so fucking close that I caught every nuance of singing. Jim looked like he was having a good time too, or maybe I was finally close enough to see him smile.

Mr. Shoreleave & Akasha were there. They joined the line two spots behind us & I waved until they twigged. Akasha & I gossiped as much as we could, in lieu of saying anything real. Mr. Shoreleave was completely silent and about 40-50 pounds heavier than I remember. It was civil, it was okay, and it wasn't as uncomfortable as it might have been. Still, it kind of sucked.

When I told the Boy that he'd finally met the last two members of my high school social quadrivium, he was entirely underwhelmed. "Was that the Mr. Shoreleave?" he asked doubtfully. Not recognizing the guy at first, I could understand the Boy's confusion. I could barely look at Mr. S when I was talking to them. Also, his voice seems a lot higher than it should be. But I think that's because archetypally I've been confusing him with Jesse for a good many years now. (And by that I mean that when I dream of one, the figure is also the other.) I think I unconsciously transferred a lot of my teenaged feelings for Mr. S into Jesse, as the latter seemed at first like a new & improved version of the boy who would no longer speak to me. Seeing the real, current Mr. S made me keenly aware of all this conflation, as well as of the rather unsettling fact that no matter how often I meet the living version, the Mr. S of my subconscious will always be 17 years old.

Akasha, for her part, was very nice. This was the smallest part of our old friendship.

Mustang Scotty has passed out of our hands by a process that was not entirely clear to me. On the second day of our drive we were very careful with her. We kept the fluids topped up and made sure that the fan was on. But when we got it to my uncle's garage, the funeral march had begun.

My dad, mom & uncle began to insist that we couldn't use the car anymore. As is my wont, I became stubborn. I demanded proof. Refusing absolutely to be bullied (at least at that moment), I insisted that we go to lunch while Scotty had his check-up. This afternoon we got the news: leaks in the gas line, transmission line and brake line; worn brake drums; bald front tires. Apparently the broken signal light was just the tip of the iceberg. My uncle expressed disbelief that we'd make it here without a fire. Work was estimated at $1000. Over dinner we began to talk about leasing a car.

This morning I found out that another old wreck has been earmarked for our use. The $200 it needs for repairs will be paid for when a buyer is found for Scotty's engine. I was told all of this over the phone. We made no decision, yet before I woke up our car was being sold for parts. Fuck. So ends the dream.

You know, this is exactly what I feared: our new-found independence was completely undermined and defeated by my oh-so-well-meaning family.

Last night on the way to the concert I began to mourn. I remembered the joy of buying Scotty. I thought of eliminating the Boy's elaborate commuting schedule and the pleasure of seeing him around the house more often. Giving a ride to the first person we saw on our first day of ownership: we were going to church and he just happened to be part of a couple that had driven us home every Sunday during the worst of the winter. Driving to Halifax with Asana sleeping like a cat in the backseat. The incredulous hoots of my Grade 7's when they found out that we were buying their swim coach's car. Helping Miri & J move into the Brown House. The endless drives around Ridge Road after school, when I was desperate for new scenes. Shadowplay - I'll never see it again. The Bog Road Man welcoming me back to Nova in June. The big pile of potatoes on the way to the highway. The tourist sights I'd been too busy to see during the year, and now would never see as a native. StanFests. Halifax. The expression of joy in the faces of others when we told them we'd bought a car. The laughter of Dirk when he heard about his namesake tooling around Nova Gothic (he never saw her, either.) Purchasing tapes for a dollar each as the tape player was the one good feature. The way the doors would sometimes refuse to open. The way he would stall out when we pulled out of a parking space. The way he slipped out of gear at stop signs and corners and well, everywhere on the road, really.

And the way he made us magnificently, unconditionally proud of him for getting us where we needed to go every single time. Donna Nobis Pacem, Mustang Scotty. You never failed us.

"Grandchildren? If we have children the way we buy cars, you'll only get to play with them for 3 months before they catch fire and have to be sold for parts."

- me, at dinner last night.

2 years ago today: not in a very good mood