In Praise Of James

My friend James is rapidly closing in on his forty-first birthday, I think, so this post will be devoted to all things James. I think I have most of the dates right, but, of course, memory is coloring my perceptions.

1) The first time we met, in the lobby of the radio station for which we both worked, James told me that he did a lot of crystal meth back in California. He mentioned this upon our first meeting, I presume, because he seemed a bit tense and jumpy. He was wearing a white dress shirt and scuzzy black pants. I was maybe twenty-one and still an undergrad. We were both marinating in the Chicago early nineties music scene. Most of the freaks and losers (of which I include myself) present grasped onto the radio station as a last chance at identity and community. None of us were particularly confident beyond our certainty on the words of the seventh song on the third Alien Sex Fiend album or whatever. The radio station was our hiding place and birthing room. We were fascinated by the Californian freak leaving near the Aragon with the shitty job who wanted to DJ and didn't have a problem divulging his drug history about, oh, thirty seconds after he walked down the station stairs. He didn't look scared of much. James upped the ante, walking in the door, his neural pathways pulsing through with crystal meth.

2) Fast-forward about twelve years. James is playing soccer in my backyard with my four year old son. My dog, Shadow, is threading between their legs, chasing the soccer ball. James gets way too excited (much more excited, it should be noted, than either the dog or my child, both of whom are pretty wired) and, when Shadow cuts too close, James twists his ankle and wipes out, screaming, on the lawn. He proceeds to laugh so hard I worry the neighbors will complain.

3) Rewind about ten years. James, in his famous Monticello apartment, is throwing a wild party. The chin-up bar has been torn from the wall, spraying shards of plaster everywhere, and the party has spilled onto the front lawn. For some reason I still cannot fathom, James grows furious with our friend Kevin because, apparently, Kevin calls James a "booby camel". James, stumbling drunk, chases Kevin up and down the street, back and forth through the three-flat yards. I'm convinced that, had James caught him, Kevin would be dead.

4) Fast-forward maybe five or six years. James's Belle Plaine apartment burns down. Two ferrets die in the fire. None of his friends have been close to this kind of thing before, so we take James out to breakfast and talk through options. James declares that he would like to cleanse himself by swimming across Lake Michigan that morning. The rest of us protest, fairly sure a group jaunt across Lake Michigan would be rather difficult (although, to be honest, none of us were entirely sure). He is eventually convinced to acquiesce to conventional wisdom, although he looks sorely disappointed at the prospect.

5) Fast forward perhaps five years. James joins the Lutheran church and writes the lyrics to an opera on the life of Martin Luther. At one point he wants the characters to sing and hold toilets in reference to Luther's documented bowel problems. At least that's why I think he wanted to include the toilets. The opera is performed once. One of my true great regrets in our friendship is my absence. I had already moved to Wisconsin. Still, as some of you may understand, joining a traditional church is rock hipster heresy. James didn't care. He joined, became a lector (often, I understand, giving biblical characters separate voices, like he was voicing a cartoon) , and wrote an opera about the church's founders. More power to him.

6) Rewind a couple years. James, at a book club meeting, goes completely apeshit when he is mildly chastized for showing up about an hour late to a discussion of "All The Pretty Horses". He stands up, screams, "I don't need this shit!", gathers his materials up in a dignified manner, and storms out the door. As he is leaving (wearing what looks like the same scuzzy black pants and white shirt from years before) he cuts an almost Dickens-esque figure, stomping through the Lincoln Avenue snow. The altercation is never mentioned again and the book club folds.

7) Fast forward a couple years. James drives across half the country to attend my wedding. He and the rest of my friends show up late and have to cut in front of my wife as she's preparing to walk down the aisle. Immediately after the ceremony, James tells me that my wife fell at least a few notches down the social scale by way of our marriage.

8) Fast forward maybe seven more years. James tries to teach my kids to dance to The Ramones in my living room. He hides fake dog poop on the floor to freak out the children, but they don't fall for it.

9) Go back a few years. James gets a job writing about wheat and beans for some company that tracks such measures. He learns enough about wheat and beans to talk about both subjects at length.

10) Fast foward to now. James considers quitting his job for an extended visit to California.

I think most of James' friends have lived, however vicariously, through his enthusiasm, integrity, and absolute unwillingness to live even the quietest moments with anything but intensity. Glad you're on the planet, James. Happy birthday.