Saturday, September 03, 2011
Remembering Suze and Other Things
An old friend, whom I had not thought about for years, called me today out of nowhere. He started, “I don’t know if you remember me, but….” Somehow, I recognized his voice instantly, and said so. “I remember you, Arnie. I‘ve been remembering a lot of things lately. Must be that Facebook thing.” I asked what he’d been doing all these years. He said he’d been “doin a lot of hard travelin.” “Dylanesque,” I thought. I said I’d been listening to Dylan a lot lately (as I knew he had been a Dylan psycho with me back when I loved to see my breath on a cold Chicago day, when I imagined myself walking hunched in the chill with my hands in my pockets and someone like Suze Rotolo at my side). He said, “Hey. Did you hear Suze Rotolo died?” Yeah, I knew it and it had made me sad even though I’d never met her. “Yeah. Too bad.” Suze had been kind of heartbreakingly beautiful in an unconventional way, was a free spirit, and was a true muse to Dylan's genius. (I’d always wanted my own muse. I settled for an audience of 12 strangers). My old friend said he figured I was successful, that he saw me on TV jousting with the press about some murder case. He said he thought it was me but that it didn’t look like me; looked like an old man he chuckled. He said when he thought about me he pictured a young guy with an afro, a cigarette dangling from my lips, and pretty young girls hanging around. I told him “successful” is a subjective concept, I'm alone, the afro and the girls are long gone, and, yes, that was me on TV in the ebbing throes of my career (defending the unjustly accused or at least the accused). There was a bit of an awkward silence and I asked him why he had thought to call. Hesitantly, he said he’d been having “hard times in New York” (Dylan again), and he wondered if I could spot him a little money. He’d pay me back as soon as he got on his feet. He said he knew something was gonna break for him soon. I asked if he was drinking and then I hated myself for asking. He said, “Well, yeah, a guy’s gotta stay warm.” (Sadly, I thought, it’s summer). I told him I would send him a couple hundred dollars. I said not to be concerned about paying me back, but that I wanted him to use a few bucks to buy a modest bouquet of flowers and leave them on Fourth Street in memory of youth, dreams, young girls, and Suze Rotolo.
¶ 8:31 AM 
Written Saturday, August 27, 2011
An old friend, whom I had not thought about for years, called me today out of nowhere. He started, “I don’t know if you remember me, but….” Somehow, I recognized his voice instantly, and said so. “I remember you, Arnie. I‘ve been remembering a lot of things lately. Must be that Facebook thing.” I asked what he’d been doing all these years. He said he’d been “doin a lot of hard travelin.” “Dylanesque,” I thought. I said I’d been listening to Dylan a lot lately (as I knew he had been a Dylan psycho with me back when I loved to see my breath on a cold Chicago day, when I imagined myself walking hunched in the chill with my hands in my pockets and someone like Suze Rotolo at my side). He said, “Hey. Did you hear Suze Rotolo died?” Yeah, I knew it and it had made me sad even though I’d never met her. “Yeah. Too bad.” Suze had been kind of heartbreakingly beautiful in an unconventional way, was a free spirit, and was a true muse to Dylan's genius. (I’d always wanted my own muse. I settled for an audience of 12 strangers). My old friend said he figured I was successful, that he saw me on TV jousting with the press about some murder case. He said he thought it was me but that it didn’t look like me; looked like an old man he chuckled. He said when he thought about me he pictured a young guy with an afro, a cigarette dangling from my lips, and pretty young girls hanging around. I told him “successful” is a subjective concept, I'm alone, the afro and the girls are long gone, and, yes, that was me on TV in the ebbing throes of my career (defending the unjustly accused or at least the accused). There was a bit of an awkward silence and I asked him why he had thought to call. Hesitantly, he said he’d been having “hard times in New York” (Dylan again), and he wondered if I could spot him a little money. He’d pay me back as soon as he got on his feet. He said he knew something was gonna break for him soon. I asked if he was drinking and then I hated myself for asking. He said, “Well, yeah, a guy’s gotta stay warm.” (Sadly, I thought, it’s summer). I told him I would send him a couple hundred dollars. I said not to be concerned about paying me back, but that I wanted him to use a few bucks to buy a modest bouquet of flowers and leave them on Fourth Street in memory of youth, dreams, young girls, and Suze Rotolo.
