Will the real Titus Welliver please stand up?
I am Catbirdman. I don’t apologize for that fact; it’s who I am. It’s a name, sure. All of us are spouting names. Often called handles, they signal control. Where is my domain? Over which acres do I lord, upon which sharecroppers do I cop? What is owned and what is shared? How much can I handle? Names signify roots. Names root out good and evil; they document souls; they illustrate ideals. Names name that moment when, beset by buzzing flies and collapsing roofs, we stand up and dust ourselves off, upstairs and downstairs alike, remaining your faithful and obedient servant,
[signed]
And now, fuelled by anger, I will post this to my blog: I am Catbirdman. I haven’t been your bitch. I haven’t sold out. I’ve lived through the birth and the death of cool.
My friends and neighbors are in the above photograph. Bob and Cathy. They come as they are and they accept me likewise. I had dinner with them tonight, and we shared unedited opinions on veganism, religion, horror, Crispin Glover, and much more besides. We ventured into the most divisive of terrain, only to resurface repeatedly as neighbors in this murky and sweltering swim through the pool we dub reality.
Sagittarius: The Truth Is Not Real
Following that I headed on into the night life. There I met divers characters, all of whom I’m still trying to sort out:
1. Buck. Not Showalter. But he co-owns this place, and when he bought it, it was actually known as Showalter’s. True story. We laugh about that and trade well-meaning stabs into the anonymous night, when suddenly it’s revealed that he was the drummer for Arbouretum the night I saw them do their 45-minute rendition of Sister Ray. That prompts questions about the mysterious figure who held up the Subterranean cue cards a la Bob Dylan, and the joint that got passed around (which I passed on)…
2. …when out walks the bass player in that band. I recognize him right away, but already I forget the name.
3. ‘Cine (Scene?) was there too. Short for Francine.* I have no idea how to spell it, but I’ve met her before, and even had her and some friends at my house for an after-party, just last week.
4. One of what turned out to be 2 or 3 different blokes named Matt. This one was lanky, had a t-shirt with a top ten list, tuned in to popular culture, and he turned out to be a connoisseur of comic books.
5. The dude in the Cubs shirt, who looked familiar. Never did place where from, but he said he was in some videos. And you, I said, to the man sitting next to him on the bench, you look familiar too…
6. …’Have you seen Lost? he asks. Immediately it clicks. “The Man In Black.” Are you really him? “I’m really him” he says. Whoa. This was the dude in Lost. I take a picture:
I walk inside, and meet up with:
7. Dave, the bartender, whom I’ve seen countless times before. He’s in the band Celebration. They were signed to 4AD, and I squee’ed over that one night when I was drunk, embarrassingly. Dave is always who he is. Simply. Authentic.
8. Monica. Sitting next to her at the bar, I make conversation so that I don’t deny her claim on being human, just as I am. She’s winding down for the night. Her companion Raul is around here somewhere…
9. …Raul walks up, with a handlebar mustache. The compliment is obligatory, so I pay it, but to my credit, I do resist making a reference to Rollie Fingers.
10. In walks Jamie, who wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t called him. An insurgent social studies teacher on summer break, he makes the scene. He’s lived here forever, and knows the names, the labels. I was just blowing smoke (does that make me a [smoke] monster?) earlier; it is Jamie who’s seen the death of cool. And still he stands up to be counted: a Scene Man. But he doesn’t start and end there. He too is vulnerable to a truer reality… but I will not betray the secrets of the Confidence Man.
At this point I was officially part of the scene.
11. Another Matt.
12. The “Canton” crowd (in other words, the ones you’d find on Canton Square on weekends here in Baltimore)- i.e. the “frat” folks in the bar playing Toto on the jukebox and singing like it’s karaoke night. They draw the gentle scorn of my table, and now they’re coming near…
13. …and one of them tells me his name (forgotten… sorry)… and says to vote for a particular candidate… ew, politics, yuck….
14. …and a second “Canton” dude introduces himself to me, whom I later introduce myself to properly, and his name turns out to be “Steve-O” [sic]. The hipsters I was with couldn’t have hung with this conversation, but I actually find myself entranced by Steve-O’s tale: at just 24, he can no longer raise his left (throwing) shoulder above his neck (and yes, he demonstrates). Just a short while ago, there was a deal on some table somewhere worth 1.5 million dollars. He could have pitched for the Atlanta Braves farm system. But after his old man beat the shit out of him (and I swear to our loving Lord above, I can not reveal the reason why in this blog, to respect his privacy and all, but rest assured it is absolutely harrowing), he blew out his shoulder and no longer can throw 93 mph, or throw at all for that matter. For this he blames his dad, and baseball (“I fucking hate baseball” he says). But his mother is a saint, and by the way she’s running for office, and that’s why he’s up here from Florida, and one can only conjecture why he’s made himself so drunk this evening… the poor guy can barely form a sentence… my heart actually cries for him…
15. Matt’s female friend, an old Baltimore fixture, whom Jamie knows. She barely gives me the time of day. So that’s all I will say about her.
16. Which leads me back to ‘Cine. I compliment her hat (it is cute on her). I extend all the expected courtesy of someone who has been under my roof. But then she trounces my one brush with fame: “Oh, the ‘Man In Black’? That guy’s a poser. He’s just Jimmy from the hood; I’ve played foosball at his house…” So it wasn’t Titus Welliver? I think to myself, but he seemed so authentic… Does that make him the Man In Grey? No – I know who he is. He’s the Man in a Gaussian Blur…
And then when the bouncers throw us out for the night, and we’re ready to disperse, ‘Cine almost comically announces her plans for an after-party in a manner that was clearly meant to bypass my detection… Well, what do you know, I am being brushed off. And I have done nothing to besmirch the coolness factor here, at least not by any standard I have ever been shown.
Which leads me to the end of this exciting evening in Baltimore. I was seething at that moment, to have it topped off by such insolence. But that begs the question: who am I? Am I someone who demands respect? Have I really seen the death of cool? I felt like years 30 through 35 brought about that death, and I no longer needed to posture. I have no will to preen. Yet tonight, I was proven wrong. I hate to say it, but ever since I left my neighbors’ house this evening, I felt like I was posing for a pin-up poster that’s already been outgrown, torn down, and labelled past-due.
In the end, I am a misanthrope. I don’t have the patience for the post-post-post- crowd, and I’m sick of all the disclaimers. Just admit you’re a stinking, scheming animal. Make the Scene regardless of how it seems. And if you’re the Man In Black, call a spade a spade. Be the Devil and be done with it. But if you have some good in you, be authentic.
The Louvin Brothers: Satan Is Real
*Not her real name.