Missed Connections: Sarasota, March 18th 2020

Nostalgic for a time of peak Nostalgia

This story is part of a collection, A Gaucho Throws the I Ching

You were my son’s preschool teacher. Well, technically, it was a co-op which means different parents volunteer to be the teacher’s assistant on a rotational basis- education as communal experience; it takes a village to raise a child- that kind of thing.  For us, we didn’t want to just warehouse our kid in another Montessori school: lonely, obese women facilitating independent, student-driven learning for a thousand dollars a month- no, thank you.  I objected to the price and Cyla wanted us to spend more time with the kids. It made sense. You were happy to see a Dad volunteering: out of sixteen kids only one other Dad volunteered.  Cyla and I took turns, which meant that once every month I came into the Sarasota co-op to chase little Haasim around.  I’m a realtor, and my busiest days are weekends, so I was able to take off Monday on a regular basis to volunteer- networking with the area families was good business practice anyway.

Did you actually need glasses?  You looked so natural without them that I wondered if it were an aesthetic choice rather than a physical necessity- casually made and lightly considered, of course. Your looks were flawless enough to be an afterthought- one which you didn’t take for granted but didn’t necessarily ruminate on either. A careful balance which you seemed to master. 

Considering her strengths, I understand that Cyla is a very passionate woman- a career woman.  Her Zumba classes have really taken off. She’s at the point where she’s teaching other Zumba teachers how to teach Zumba.  In case you weren’t aware, this is a high Zumba honor- the fourth-degree black belt of Zumba study- and should be treated with respect. Much of her time is spent organizing team meetings with other Zumba teachers; she is comfortably situated at the top of the Zumba hierarchy. Cyla was instructionally gifted, this much was clear, but she lacked your soft maternal touch. You provided nurturing guidance without chiding; without the inboarding of joyful movement techniques meant to instill a sense of early fitness philosophy. 

You had perfectly straight teeth and soft skin. You were in your thirties but looked twenty.  You made teaching sixteen children look easy.  You read wonderful, wholesome stories without a political agenda or the inclusion of transgender characters.  Classics, to be cherished- but only through your voice granting them new life, as read in your cheerful and enthusiastic tone- not the strained manner which Cyla sometimes lapses into when she’s already late for another Zumba team meeting. 

Being a dad-volunteer, I naturally assumed the role of a coach and devised obstacle courses on the playground for the pragmatic purpose of running competitive time trials hoping to separate the weak from the strong; those with athletic potential from the ones doomed to wither and die amongst the weak. This seemed important to me at the time.  First, they would go up the ladder, down one slide, then up a second ladder and down a second slide.  Nelson, who’s dad had played semi-pro ball, was Haasim’s main rival.  On one trial Haasim got as low as fourteen seconds!  Nelson had thirteen but I told him it was fourteen-and-a-half. If Nelson wanted to win his dad should have volunteered. When I arrived for volunteer duty, you immediately flashed a smile. You were happy I’d keep the boys running for an hour before nap time.  You were only polite, respectful, and concerned when Haasim had lice.  You came up to me and whispered “Haasim seems itchy today,” doing that cute mousy thing you did with your lip. You weren’t judging me- you understood that these things happen. That my child wasn’t neglected or dirty, but maybe I ought to tend to it. 

Your daughter was older than Haasim.  You were married.  I didn’t care.  After eight separate times watching you masterfully pack snacks and do art projects- listening to you read to Haasim and the others, I must admit: I fell for you. I thought that maybe if you joined our family, Haasim wouldn’t be so bored- that he would be occupied intellectually and spiritually; not merely distracted by innovative dance moves doubling as a serviceable fitness routine. 

You became my parent partner- even if only half-heartedly. A designation existing only on paper; only in my deepest of daydreams.  We had a small handful of excellent times- like a limited series on premium cable, but without swearing; without nudity… We’d talk about real estate and school zones.  We’d talk about our children’s futures as if we could author their destinies- what we wanted for them; what they may want for themselves. A contingency plan should these separate and distinct desires not meet in the middle... When Covid hit the co-op closed.  I can’t even visit inside the school anymore.

***

To add insult to injury, our lost era doesn’t even have a soundtrack.  At least with 9/11 we had the Strokes. Throughout 2001 the Strokes had been bubbling below the surface of popular music.  After their debut EP, there was an unprecedented bidding war- maybe the last of its kind- as record labels scrambled to sign them to a multi-album deal.  The Strokes came on like a flash of lightning, seemingly out of nowhere, but in reality, they came from money and success.  In stark contrast to the grunge era of the 90s, the early 2000s revamped in the style of classic and catchy rock tunes.  If the haughty nihilism of Kurt Cobain and Chris Cornell, coupled with the moralistic preening of Eddie Vedder represented a clean break from the excesses of 80s hair bands, the 2000s needed its own clean slate.  The transition was to go from the murky Seattle sound, which owed a lot to Creedence Clearwater Revival and Jimi Hendrix, to New York City glitz and glam. The Strokes wore skinny jeans, smoked like chimneys; they were frenetic, friendly, and beautiful.  Unlike the tortured anguish of the Pixies and Nirvana, Julian Casablancas and company had swagger and confidence.  They made rock n roll cool again. 

Beyond the superficial trappings of the New York City skinny jeans and cheap jackets was a snapshot of the big apple as a modern-day Rome with the most talented and prestigious flocking to the post-Guiliani era city. The lead singer, Julian Casablancas, was the son of a Spaniard: John Casablancas.  John Casablancas was born in Manhattan as his parents escaped Spain during the Spanish Civil War- his father, a banker and his mother, a model.  John Casablancas was educated at Le Rosey boarding School in Switzerland and married three times.  His second marriage was to Jeannette Christiansen, who was Miss Denmark in 1965- she later became Julian Casablancas’ mother.

When Julian joined Le Rosey in high school, he met Albert Hammond Jr.- the son of a songwriter who wrote for the likes of Celine Dion and Whitney Houston. His most famous song may have been “The Air That I Breathe” which managed to hit no.6 on the Billboard Top 100. Julian met Strokes bassist Nikolai Fraiture at the bilingual school Lycee Francais.  Drummer Fabrizio Moretti was the son of an Italian nuclear engineer from Brazil.  Nick Valensi had a French mother and a Sephardic father. 

A band composed entirely of European emigres, refugees from the European civil war, who met in the epicenter of the world empire: Manhattan.  Just a few years prior Mayor Guiliani had “Made NYC Great Again.”  It was just a year out of high school that The Strokes began demoing music for record labels.  They had a goal to conquer the world and did on their debut album- a rare feat! The timing of the release was remarkable. Already out in the U.K. and Australia by the summer, This is It (2001) was delayed in the U.S. until October.  Due to the ubiquity of Napster, This is It may have the distinction of being the most popular album to only sell one million copies.

This is It had frozen the frivolous world of September 10th in time like kodak funsaver cameras. A memento that you savored like casual photos you saved on your dorm room wall.   The name forebodes the anticipation of nostalgia- similar to As Good As It Gets (1997), where Jack Nicholson asks patients waiting to see a doctor: “what if this is as good as it gets?”  What if bar hopping in Manhattan at the end of the millennium was the final Dionysian heights of Western Civilization?  The first hints of a coming dusk.

Impossible to know if they understood their work as prophetic. The album’s lead single was prescient: “Last Night” told the bittersweet tale of a couple’s final night together.  Unlike the whining of Kurt Cobain’s class of alternative rock junkies, Julian Casablancas came across like a cool guy chatting up a beautiful woman- more reminiscent of the rough-around-the-edges pretty boys of 1980’s glam metal.  This same breezy confidence lies beneath the surface of “Someday”, their most popular song: “In many ways, we’ll miss the good old days.”  Casablancas pairs wistful teenage nostalgia with a hope for the future. In his world; in a perfect world; in a pre-9/11 world: there could be both.

In every video the Strokes were smoking and looking beautiful.  The Strokes captured the zeitgeist in a bottle, leading the way for the final hoorah for pop-rock bands like The Killers and the Arctic Monkeys.  The rest of their career they spent either too diligently trying to chase that moment in time or attempting to outrun the shadow of their peak. They may be the last generation of bands that dated European supermodels- the last iteration of the rock god persona.

For a missed connection this may seem like a digression, but this moment in time- right now, as I type this- could be like what the day after September 11th felt like for someone who lived through 1999- what Lou Reed described as “Sunday Morning.”  An economic crash may have wiped out your portfolio, but at least you could remember “Last Night”- at least you had “Someday” to talk over with friends at the pub.  Now there is no shared culture to hold as nostalgic unless you count the sterile cosplay porn of the Marvel Universe.  We all use the same algorithms to have tailor-made content provided personality profiles we unwittingly committed.  We have become our own niche audience.  The draconian and tyrannical response to Covid has created a nostalgia for nostalgia- a deeper longing for longing.  With increasingly polarized niches I can’t rely on referencing touchstones with you, Sarasota Day Care Coordinator; the pain of our missed connections strikes harder.  If I would have known that March 18th would be the last time I saw you- our theoretical “Last Night,” ending well before dusk; painfully before dusk- I would have caressed your cherubic cheek during naptime and motioned to go to the shared unisex bathroom together. I think about the shared unisex bathroom a lot now.

After September 11th we had images of falling bankers and courageous firefighters etched into our shared memory, a clear and punctuated part of our shared experience. Two decades later we have thousands of streaming media options and a lying media determined to keep us apart.  Your maskless face; your soft, milky skin; piercing eyes and a warm smile.  Melanie, if you’re reading this and want to reach out, call me at Real Estate Sarasota and Manatee.  I’ll be working from home but I’m sure I’ll get the message.