Losing My Edge

Elliott here --

As wedding planning goes forward, I think my subconscious is coming to terms with the fact that my freewheeling days of unending hipness are behind me. No doubt I was, perhaps, too into my own thing for a while. Consider, for example, Deb's 24th birthday, in front of Poly Esther's Culture Club, where she uttered the now-infamous line, "Girls don't like boys with blue hair, Elliott."

Still, there's a little part of myself I'm leaving behind. That part of me is kind of like an appendix -- something personal evolution has rendered useless -- but it's a loss nonetheless. And so I come to the meat of this entry; the dream I had last night.

To wit:

I'm hanging out in our New York apartment with Kurt Cobain (lead singer of Nirvana and a general pariah, in case any parent-types don't know). He and I are just sitting around, shooting the breeze, getting along famously. Turns out he's a really nice guy, and it's kind of exciting to be getting along with him, because, like, what the heck are you supposed to say to Kurt Cobain? But we have plenty to talk about...

So, Kurt goes to light a cigarette, and I say, "Kurt, listen, would you mind opening the window and blowing the smoke outside?" He's a respectful guy, so he agrees.

While he's smoking, he gets lost in thought, and our conversation drops to a lull. I notice my guitar leaning against the wall, and I think to myself, "hey I could play guitar in front of Kurt Cobain. It would be so cool if he thought it was cool."

I pick up the guitar. Kurt watches me. He doesn't wince or anything, so I suppose he's OK with it. I strum a couple of chords, and quickly find my groove. I close my eyes, forget he's there, and rip into a tremendous solo where I perform impossible feats of dexterity. I play rhythm, melody, and bass parts simultaneously. I summon huge bursts of perfect feedback. I do it with ease.

"Wow, that was awesome," Kurt says.

"Awesome?" I think. Would he even use a word like awesome? Is he being sarcastic?

From the look on his face I can tell he's sincere, though.

He finishes his cigarette, then comes to sit next to me.

"Do you mind?" he asks, and I happily relinquish the guitar.

"Do you have a pick?" he asks.

I find my little sandwich baggie of guitar picks and hand it over so he can choose one. He fingers through it. Then he stops. His face darkens. He reaches into the bag and draws a pick from it gingerly. The way he holds it reminds me of the way Deb might hold a container of Chinese food that's been forgotten in the back of the fridge and subjected to the rank, mold-inducing effects of time. Kurt holds the pick away from himself and lets it drop onto the coffee table.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Is that from Bernardaud?" he asks.

[For the sakes (primarily) of clarity and (to a lesser extent) self-interest, let me mention that Bernardaud is the manufacturer of the fine china in our wedding registry. For more information on Bernardaud, see our registry . I understand it makes an excellent gift...]

And the way Kurt asks me if the pick is from Bernardaud is totally humiliating. Humiliating on the order of a seven year-old being chastised by schoolmates for wearing velcro shoes because he - OR SHE - is incapable of tying shoelaces.

OK. He. Let's not lose sight of the big picture:

Bernardaud. Velcro. Embarrassing.

So, I realize that I'm no longer not cool enough to be friends with Kurt Cobain, and then...

I wake up. Deb is there. And I think to myself, "Well, Mr. Cobain, I might not be coool enough to be friends with you, but you sir are not lame enough to be friends with Deb." And I'm lucky, because I'm not just friends with her. I'm more than friends...and that's all I could ever ask for.

Yessiree, I woke up this morning into a beautiful day.