prematurely grey

Last night, just before ten, Chris’ cell phone rang. There is absolutely nothing unusual about Chris’ cell phone ringing at any hour, so why am I telling you about this? Chris looked at the phone (he always does–I guess everyone always does) and said hello in his I-don’t-know-who-you-are formal voice. There’s another verson of the I don’t know who you are voice that’s a little more assertive; this was the polite and confused one.

He said, “Just one second, ” and handed me the phone. He mouthed, “John Aielli.”

“Liz, this is John Aielli.”

There was the voice, my morning companion, coming out of Chris’ phone. It was ten at night. For me, John Aielli exists between 9:00 and 1:00. Sometimes he peeks out a little past one, when there’s a funddrive, to tell us how things went in the final push to meet the hour’s goal, after the cows. Apparently, John Aielli can speak at all hours of the day.

Perhaps you’re wondering, “Why was John Aielli calling Lize at ten o’clock last night?” Perhaps you sense a little lack of context, a gap in the story, perhaps related to the narrator’s recent reticence. You may have noticed a drop in activity, some sort of forty days in the wilderness.

Yes, I’ve been thinking of changing the name from Prematurely Grey to Permanently Quiet.

It’s not as though I’ve been sitting here in front of my computer, not having anything to say, over the time of quiet. I’ve been to volleyball tournaments and dance recitals, packed field trip lunches and purchased swim team swim suits. I’ve helped the hobbled dog get up and down, brought her bowl to her, kept her company, read her mind. I’ve become lize@bside.com and tried to help the person in charge of marketing, even though I feel like the middle-aged intern whose every word needs to be edited because she’s a PR novice.

At the same time, I bought some serious shoes (pictures soon, I promise) and realized that the greying of the hair and the booking of rock bands didn’t work together in my imagination. Yes, I am working on the booking of rock bands. I am planning kick-ass shows.

The big opening show for the Bside Roadshow is this Sunday night. I haven’t written my giant group email, telling everyone I know to come out and see “Before the Music Dies” and Guy Forsyth and his secret (even from us) guests. I’m trying to tell people about it when I see them, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to write about it. Not one word.

On Friday, I took screeners of Before the Music Dies over to KUT. It was around two. I’d written John email, telling him I was going to do it. I had four copies–John was top of the list, followed by Jeff McCord, Jay Trachtenburg, and Michael Brown.

Friday was the first day of summer vacation. The pool hadn’t opened. The girls and I had been to Hobby Lobby (Mazie’s reward for a year on Top Honor Roll). It was hot. At least there was a parking spot right outside the Communications building. Campus was deserted.

I walked into the KUT lobby. There was a woman sitting behind the desk with a Wendy’s bag. I asked about getting the DVDs to the dj’s. She was just sitting there. She didn’t know a thing. I poked my head into the big room where they set up the phone bank.

The room was completely full. Full of the entire KUT staff, listening to Stuart Vanderwilt, the manager, talk. I saw Jeff McCord across the room, near the front. I pulled a Bugs Bunny disappearance from the door as soon as I saw what was going on.

I sat in the dark lobby with the girls, scribbling handwritten notes and taping them (with new tape from Hobby Lobby, so there’s the silver lining to that task) to the DVDs. I wrote John’s first. I’d just finished it when he walked from the hall toward the door of the conference room.

“John, I’m Lize Burr. Here’s the DVD I emailed you about.”

I guess we both took the other one by surprise. John looked at me like a crazed fan (good call), took the DVD, and walked into the meeting. A couple minutes later, we heard Stuart announce John’s name and the room bursting into applause. I finished Jeff’s note. I was getting ready to head to the office, to find a mailbox or inbox to put it in when the meeting ended and Jeff walked to the elevator, right in front of us.

“Jeff, I’m Lize Burr. I’m here to give you this screener for a documentary we’re showing next Sunday at Republic Square Park.” He was wearing a purple t-shirt that had some sort of Native American something on it. He’s very tall and a little craggy.

It took a couple of minutes, but he remembered hearing about the movie at SXSW. He knew about the fake pop song section. I asked him to watch it over the three day weekend. He clued in on the date being a week from Sunday and Guy Forsyth playing. He asked me to email him this week. He got in the elevator. We left and went about our sweaty day.

But you want to know about the conversation, what it was John Aielli and I spoke about. What made him call Chris’ cell phone. (Chris’ card was already in the DVD jacket, so I didn’t put mine in. Which is good because I don’t look at or answer my cell phone at ten at night.)

He was watching the movie. He was watching the movie and something made him think. Something made him stop and think and pause the movie and call me to talk about what he was thinking about. Then he told me a couple of stories. And I answered back with related stories. And he said, “Well, we could talk all night. Here’s what you gotta do: you have to give me all the information abou the show.” I suggested emailing it to him at work. He said, “Exactly.”

Why am I not telling you the stories? Why am I holding out? The same reason I don’t write up certain conversations I’ve had with you, Dear Reader. I don’t want any of my friends to think that I’ll expose too much about them or our friendship in this blog. I’m the one with the mother who wrote about me in novels and stories and letters. I’m the person whose life is the basis of blurbs on the back of a book. I’m the person who can’t write fiction because she isn’t clever enough to completely make things up and knows that she can’t base anything on anyone she’s ever known for fear of hurting their feelings, even though the stories and situations are great and they’d be well worth retelling, strung along in some truly fictional way. So, this time, this is the story.

And if I go back to Questlove, forgive me. He’s helping me learn to become a music-promoting, blog-writing, superpower-using force for good.