— • voices —
Modern Grief
OREGO N S LGBTO N EW S M A G A ZIN E
A UGUST 19, 2011
3 5
J ig ]
Punks push against each other in the
packed and sweaty house, the room full o f the
smell o f vegan hot dogs and dirty freebox
clothing. I lean back into my seat on the
threadbare couch, enjoying the cacophony—
tipsy girls with dyed black hair laughing too
loudly, scuffed army surplus boots pounding
up and down the stairs, the growling voice
blasting through the tinny stereo speakers.
“W h at album is this?” I ask the guy beside
me, admiring his handmade “It’s Bobby,
Bitch” T -shirt and the Limp W rist patch
meticulously safety-pinned onto his sleeve
less denim jacket. “I t ’s like the Thermals,
unplugged!”
“Cranford Nix,” Bobby explains, his voice
thick with a four-beers-deep slur. “He was in
some punk bands back in the late ‘90s and put
out this acoustic stuff, too. H alf of it’s about
how much he hated his wife doing drugs, and
the other half o f it’s about how much he loves
drugs. Kind of meta, really.”
“Is he local?” I ask.
“No, Detroit. And he’s dead, sadly. I got
turned on to his work and couldn’t stop play
ing this album, and then a year later found
out that he O D ’d ages ago. I didn’t expect it
to hit me so hard, but I literally burst into
tears in the middle of a fucking basement
show when I found out. My friends thought I
was a freak!”
ing him meant that there was no way I could
be close to him or otherwise have any emo
tions associated with him dying.”
actually were to something, how big a
“That’s really weird,” Bobby observes. “I t’s
space it occupied in our hearts, when it
especially funny comparing it to another re
cent death: Amy W inehouse. I mean, in the
leaves and we are forced to grieve it.”
same way that I wasn’t exactly shocked when
“I know how it goes. This cat I’ve known and I found out that Cranford had O D ’d at that
loved for about eight years recently died...” point in his career— frankly, it was pretty log
(Note: Yes, I am the guy who shows up at the ical— it wasn’t exactly bizarre that Amy’d die
punk rock house party and sits on the couch at the time she did, either.”
talking to strangers about pets. Hardcore!)
“Sadly, no, it wasn’t. But still, everyone im
“Aw, buddy, I ’m sorry to hear that.”
mediately grieved for her!” I note. “Social
“Thank you. Anyway, I had this photo o f media went crazy about the news for days.
myself and him from years ago, and after I Suddenly, everyone was the biggest Amy
found out the news, I put it up on Facebook W inehouse fan around, and needed to pub
licly process their grief.”
as an R.I.P. message.”
“O h, modern grief!”
“This is the confusing part to me,” Bobby
“I know, who needs widow’s weeds when ponders. “Loss is constant— it’s just a symptom
you have a Facebook wall? Anyway, I didn’t o f living in the material world, you know? But
expect the responses. First off, everyone as somehow the grieving isn’t constant. Some
sumed that the cat was mine, which makes where inside us, there’s a line that defines when
sense. However, when I cleared up that he loss is okay and when it’s devastating.”
wasn’t mine—just a good friend’s cat I had
“But where is that line?” I ask, raising my
known for years— a surprising number of voice over the din o f the party. “How close to N ick M attos is by no means a punk— but they
people reacted as though I didn’t have the something do we have to be to justify mourn sure throw fu n parties. Invite him to your show
right to mourn him, as though my not own ing its loss?”
at nickmattos@justout.com.
i--------------------------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------------------- -----------,
remember to breathe
BY N IC K M A TTO S
“ Maybe we find out how close we
“I’m starting to think that we don’t get to
know that in advance,” Bobby says, his dilated
eyes locked with mine. “Maybe we find out
how close we actually were to something, how
big a space it occupied in our hearts, when it
leaves and we are forced to grieve it. I found
that out when I burst into tears over Cranford
Nix, you found that out when the cat died, we
all found that out with Amy W inehouse if we
hadn’t already learned it a million times over
before her. You don’t get to choose when grief
is going to hit you—you just get to feel the
bruise, and let it compel you to spill a little in
memory o f the people you’ve lost.” And, with
solemnly closed eyes, Bobby splashes the con
tents of his fifth beer onto the dirty carpet.
“Shit!” I laugh, shocked. “Someone’s not
getting invited back.”
“W hatever— I wasn’t invited anyway! And
look, the carpet’s filthy already.”
I look at my glass o f soda water, then back to
Bobby. “To Cranford,” I say, holding it up in a
cheer, “and Amy, and Panna the cat, and every
one else who left their bodies and went on to
the next adventure.” I tip my glass, watch the
liquid fall through the air and sink out of sight
in the dirty carpet, and smile. J#]
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