the rix mix

On Sunday around 11:30 pm I phoned my friend Edie & fessed up to being an ass for the past year plus. She didn't dispute this, neither did she lecture me or rub it in. She was just very glad to hear from me. "It's Palm Sunday & I happened to be thinking about asses. I would've called you at 3 am if that's the hour it hit me that I absolutely had to stop being an ass." To Edie, this is a compliment. She believes a long friendship is worth a call anytime or day or night to make a reconciliation. This is a person who twice delivered me to Robert Wood Johnson hospital in New Brunswick at six am for scheduled eye surgeries, & that was no more a natural hour for her than it was for me. I don't think I've ever done anything comparable for her. For over two decades, I mined her insider fan's knowledge of jazz & of what's called "The Great American Songbook" & directly applied what I learned to WFMU programs. There are probably three dozen poets, musicians & artists who have leaned heavily on Edie at one time or another for support during periods of great emotional stress. After a particularly beloved girlfriend left me ten years ago this spring, I was over at Edie's house several nights a week for many weeks from about 10 to after-midnight mostly just watching sitcom reruns, chatting about music & books, & drinking decaf she brewed in an unpredictable electric percolator: When that one finally fritzed out she bought a new equally bipolar machine. During my long periods of reclusive behavior, she refused to abandon me; the occasional letter, postcard, phone message continued to show up. Because Edie doesn't go online, it's impossible for anyone to substitute e mails for genuine human voice contact or a sheet of real paper. I realized a long time ago that Edie's daughter was a very desirable woman & I would've made a play for her if I'd had a skilled trade & a pickup truck, & known how to use power tools. But if I had those I probably wouldn't have met Edie.