Cold Pizza for Breakfast

There's been this mysterious white car with Maine plates parked in our lot since Friday. Yesterday, Steve put a note on the windshield asking them to move it, or else. Steve's been all preoccupied with the car. 

This morning, I, enhanced, late, with coffee, walk down the alley to the office back door, a two-minute-long walk that gives me the opportunity to watch Steve park, adjust, repark his car (a boat-like late-model Benz), into exactly the same position it started in. Sometimes I think Steve is enhanced.

I'm pretty focused on his obsessive maneuvers behind the wheel, but I do notice that the mystery car is no longer occupying its illegal space. I say good morning and ask him how he is. Steve says 'You know, okay.' I say 'At least the Maine car is gone!' Steve points, straight ahead, to a point that would be directly beside...oh, yes. There is the Maine car. Literally five feet to my left. 'Oh,' I said. 'It's just moved'. He goes 'I had to call the police', still all cranky about it, but at least I made him laugh. Then I trip up the stairs on my way to the door. 

Then I realize that I'm wearing a black-and-white striped top and a black skirt. Yesterday I wore a black-and-white striped dress. I feel like this is something to avoid, although I do it all the time. It used to make my brother laugh, my fondess for dressing like a mime.

Crack Rock

Guys.

I am crazy about Frank Ocean.

Like, I know, 'woohoo, Katie, you and everyone else who listens to r&b, congratulations.' But it's more than that. I haven't listened to an album over-and-over-and-over again like this since...well, since Fiona Apple's new album came out a few weeks ago, but she's my soulmate, so that's sort of an anomaly. Anyway...'Channel Orange', my goodness. It's on Spotify, it's on iTunes, it's on his Tumblr, there's like, a thousand ways you can listen to it, so just go.

And not to be ungrateful, Frank, but it's about g.d. time. 'Novacane' came out like, a year and a half ago. I remember exactly where I was the first time I heard it - in a rental car, lost in New Bedford, looking for some old shipping magnate's house to take pictures of in the rain. I stopped at the Visitor's Center to pee and get directions (Dear everyone who works at the New Bedford Vistor's Center: you are fucking delightful humans, and your facility is lovely) and when I got back to the car, the first song on the radio was Mssr. Ocean's debut. The DJ was like 'Okay, I don't even know guys, this dude is on some new school Prince shit, and it's...it's just crazy, listen' and he played it, and I was like 'OH MY GOD THIS GUY IS SORT OF ON SOME NEW SCHOOL PRINCE SHIT, AND IT IS CRAZY' and then I totally missed the turn and forgot the directions and ended up in Rhode Island, which like, isn't hard from New Bedford, but still.

So then 'Swim Good' came out, all that 'Nostalgia Ultra' business, and he did some shit on 'Watch the Throne' that was pretty ill, but not enough! Of him. So I pretty much decided 'this guy is never coming out with a full album because he hates me' and I half-forgot about him, because I have ADD and I am not medicated.  Or not, whatever, sometimes there's just a lot to think about.

Then, recently, I'm sure you've heard, he wrote this really lovely post on his Tumblr/blog/whatever about his first love, who happened to be a man. And mostly I was like 'Oh shit, Frank Ocean's album is dropping soon!' (I actually think stupid shit like that) because, honestly, if you can fall in love with someone, isn't that just nice enough on it's own? But the internets went batshit, and it made me think about how true it is, that hip-hop and r&b are so straight-centered, and it was pretty fucking brave and beautiful and honest of him, to put that out there, and then Pitchfork gives Channel Orange a 9.5, and fuck, guys, this might make a difference.

Some of the songs are girl-centric, some are pretty gender-neutral, and then there's something like 'Forrest Gump', which besides having an adorably smart chorus, is totally progressive in that sex-light I've been talking about. I mean...I don't know quite why everyone's always so focused-insistent about hip hop's homophobia issue -- of course, I get it, it is, but it's like everyone trips over themselves to talk about how homophobic hip hop is, when, in reality, is indie rock so much better? Is ANYTHING? Go anywhere. Even 70's glam rock. Mick Jagger was apparently fucking David Bowie for half the decade, but he's still singing about Angie* and heroin. 'Channel Orange' might be, after a full lyric breakdown, the most interestingly sexually progressive mainstream album like...ever?

Oh, and also, IT'S FUCKING AWESOME. I've listened to 'Thinking Bout You' approximately 85 times in the last four days. (I know he released it last year but I missed that.) Even if you don't give a crap about anything I just talked about, if you like music, just listen to this shit. Actually, first, look up the performance of 'Bad Religion' he did on Jimmy Fallon last week. Watch ?uestlove's face. It's crazy to see someone you idolize get that 'Oh my fuck' look. It's amazing.

So, to reiterate: Guys. I am batshit crazy about Frank Ocean. Get yourselves there.

*And I know, Angie was Bowie's wife? The 70's were crazy.

Twenty-eight years ago yesterday, my parents, leaving for the hospital, asked me if I wanted 'an Andrew, or a Jessica'. I responded 'neither', and assumed the matter was settled. The next morning, when Nana informed me I had a new brother, I believe I nodded and asked what was for breakfast.

Things I remember about our first meeting: the room was yellow, there was the tiniest tube of toothpaste I'd ever seen by the sink, and the chocolate Tootsie Roll Pop I'd left in Papa's car for safekeeping melted by the the time we got back to it.

We shared a room, briefly, right after he was born. I remember waking up one night and shouting "MOM! THE BABY'S CRYING!" at the top of my lungs to indicate my displeasure, which looking back, feels almost adult. I was disappointed - in my parents, for bringing home this squealing piglet, and with the piglet itself. Late night wailing? Really, baby? Aren't we better than this? (To note, my brother was a delightful baby who slept through nights almost immediately, so this was probably one of the few nights I was inconvenienced, but I'm an asshole, so of course I remember.)

In Abington, I asked my mother what she thought he'd sound like when he talked. It seemed like it was taking forever for him to talk. He pulled my hair. He splashed in the tub. Baby brothers were not really doing it for me.

I used to charge him hourly rates for playtime. I shamelessly cheated at every game we played, stealing Monopoly money right out of his baby-banker hands, kidnapping newborn children out of his plastic car (there are no Amber Alerts in the Game of Life), quitting as soon as he threatened victory. When it was his turn to hide for hide-and-go-seek, I would sit in the living room and read, occasionally calling out 'Where are you? You've hidden so well! I might never find you!' Which, little dude shouldn't have bought any of that mess, considering he was ALWAYS hiding in the fucking hall closet.

Pretty typical evil big sister stuff, made more-than-a-smidge meaner by my brother's sheer adorableness - that was one cute little kid, all big eyes and bowl-cut, chubby-limbed, then charmingly gangled, with a heart so full of gold, goodness just radiated out of him. Years later, when anyone would laugh about my childhood cruelty, I'd claim my brother had been born too good for the world - someone had to toughen him up. Which is true, I suppose, but truer is what my father would tell us whenever we'd get into a bad row: "It's just you two. You don't have any other siblings if this goes bad. You only have each other."

And it was true. Overall, we had a pretty idyllic childhood - the kind I'm scared kids don't get anymore - bike rides to the playground, half-assed plans to sell lemonade or rocks to all the people that didn't walk down our street (we had some minor success with the lemonade, but only because we set up in the outfield of a baseball game that was about to start, and the coach bought out our supply just to get us off the field). No cable, no internet, no cell phones, remember all that? We played two-person baseball in the front yard, watched Indiana Jones movies and the same weird Stephen King miniseries over and over, invented Roller-Kickball in the playroom (Don't play this if you value your coccyx.). And it was - just us. Occasionally we wished for another one to hold the other end of the jump rope or shag fly balls, but that was about it. 

When I was 21 and he was 18, we both happened to be in relationships with people at the same college, a four hour drive away. So we drove up together. I'm not sure exactly when, but some time after perfecting a really ill duet sing-along to 'Midnight Train to Georgia', we stopped being merely brother and sister, and started being friends. I doubt I'll ever have a better one.

My brother is the reason I love hip-hop. R&B and I have a relationship that goes back lifetimes, but it was AJ that got me into hip hop. I did indeed rock the Mobb Deep mixtape he made for me until it popped, sometime in the year 2000. He introduced me to Rawkus, to Rhymesayers. When I was on my way to see Atmosphere at the House of Blues in New Orleans, he asked me who was opening. I checked and said 'Brother Ali'? My brother said "Make sure you get there in time to see him." And, sure enough...

My brother's the reason I don't have more black eyes. (Okay, the transition between these two paragraphs makes it sound like Brother Ali punched me in the face, which DID NOT HAPPEN. I just became obsessed with his music. But that made me laugh so hard, I'm keeping it like this.) This might be somewhat shocking, but I can actually (usually) catch things when you throw them at me. I can make difficult catches! This is because my brother is merciless, and has been throwing things at me for years. 

My brother made all the Real Talk live. So I've mentioned before, our dad really encouraged the talking. But Andrew made it practice. As I've also mentioned, one of the things I miss most about living together are the monthly 'let's drink all the wine in the house and rip butts and cry until 3am' nights we used to have. I mean, it was mostly talking and watching music videos, but still, my brother can make me cry faster than almost anyone, and I'd bet it works both ways. We've got all these feelings, son!

My brother is the reason I accelerate into turns. I only do two driving-related things with consistent proficiency: turning, and parallel parking. My brother taught me the turning one. It's also a pretty excellent metaphor for life. If you're doing something, get in there, all the way. It may seem scary and counter-intuitive at first, but it'll make the transition a lot smoother. 

My brother got me to throw my scale out the window. He may not remember this, or realize it, but it was him. And of course, I just threw it out my bedroom window where it languished on the backyard concrete for a year, but I reserve the right to post-adolescent dramatics. It was a big deal, sort of. He would get it. I've never owned another one. 

My brother continues to remind me that people can surprise you in the most delightful ways. Watching someone grow up is the craziest, right? I mentioned this to my parents last year, and my mother noted 'Your brother is older than you now.' And it's true! He is! And it's so fucking cool! Job-and-school-and-fantastic-lady-and-awesome-dog-and-house-and-couch-that-you-bought-from-an-actual-store cool. Seriously, three years ago, this kid was consuming two Steel Reserves and half a bag of Lay's Barbecue potato chips for dinner with some regularity. He accelerated into the turn, and it's been really fun to watch.

My brother is my context. Siblings can have their own special world's - language, phrases, that weird richness of private jokes and  immediate understanding, all the way back to your soupiest childhood memories. It is the most particular kind of context. And I think it's something you only get once. Siblings know it all - where you came from, what it was like, how it made you. If I ever need to remember who I am, I have no further to look than him.

So, Andrew, on your twenty-eighth birthday: thank you for being the best baby brother a girl could've had. I am so happy Moms and Pops refused to exchange you for a new stuffed animal. Thank you for putting up with me, and my crazy, and for letting me see yours. Love you, Beets. 

Love, 

Your Big Sister

ps: I still have your 'Reasonable Doubt' CD. It is in pristine condition. I somehow snapped 'Capital Punishment' in half, though, so I owe you that.