Don't take for granted the things that make you happy.
Several weeks ago, whilst perusing the Interwebs during lunch, I landed on a thread where people shared things that they had no idea would be the last time they experienced them. For instance, one person wrote, "One day you walked into Blockbuster for the last time and you didn't even know it." There were entries about listening to iPod Nanos, looking up movie times in the newspaper, and more. All things that many of us did over and over and over and over, without thinking twice about it. But then, times or circumstances or technology changed... and we never did them again.
For me, the first thing that immediately came to mind was Two Guys. Two Guys was a restaurant run by a Greek family that had been on the main drag north of my college campus for decades. The entire back corner of the side dining room was dedicated to college sports memorabilia. And the main section was filled with awesome high-backed dark wood booths, cozy cubicles where you could enjoy privacy and a saucy slab of delicious chicken parmigiana.
Two Guys was a great place to hang out with friends. I ate there often while I was in school, but once I left, it was my go-to place when I came back to town. I'd meet up with everyone at Two Guys for a meal before we all headed out to hit the town. I loved the place more for the nostalgia and ambiance than the actual food, to be honest. It just made me happy to sit in that familiar space and catch up with my good friends. Two Guys was the perfect way to kick off a visit.
And then, without knowing it... Two Guys was gone.
I was planning a return trip to North Carolina after being away for several years. In the process of contacting a friend to set up a meeting, he let me know that Two Guys was no more. I couldn't believe it. Two Guys couldn't be closed! It was always going to be open! But after doing some online research, I was heartbroken to discover it was true. I was heartbroken. I had just assumed that Two Guys, an institution way before I ever set foot on campus, would always be there.
But Two Guys was just the beginning. Capitol Comics, where I had worked for years, went away. Sadlack's, the sketchy sandwich shop near the Bell Tower, was razed to make way for apartments. The Brewery, Raleigh's famous live music venue, was torn down for the same reason. The Tunnel Inn, the snack bar right next to my dorm where I slung coffee and snacks for three years, was demolished. All these places from my early days were no more. I had no idea that the last time I visited them, was the last time I would ever visit them. I completely took their continued existence for granted.
Out of all the hallowed favorites that went the way of the dodo, however, the one whose disappearance to this day hurts the most was the one I regret not frequenting more often while it was around. A true institution that served Raleigh's music fans for several decades. A place I only visited a few times, but had it stayed open, I probably would have come to rely on a great deal as a collector.
And although I didn't take full advantage of what this venerable establishment had to offer, it did allow me to gift one of my best friends ever with the 70s AM radio pop perfection of...
JOHN PAUL YOUNG.
The main goal of my dorm, Alexander International, was to bring together people from completely different countries and backgrounds and cultures, put them in the same space, and hopefully unite them in friendship. I don't know who founded the program initially, but wherever they are, I want to tell them that, when it came to me and Burhan, they succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.
On paper, Burhan and I looked like a randomized computer match made in hell. He was the son of a Pakistani government minister, a chain-smoking squash champion with a thick mop of curly black hair who loved the ladies and did not suffer fools. Me, I was a lower-middle-class beanpole-thin goofball with a moussed-up Mr. Mister New Wave mullet who drew cartoons and didn't take anything serious. Burhan was going through a small existential crisis at the time, missing home and not sure he wanted to be where he was. At the same time, I was flailing around like a horny puppy who wouldn't stop making bad jokes. He had every right to quietly reach up into my bunk one night and strangle me in my sleep. Nobody would have prosecuted him.
And yet, in some unfathomably weird alchemical manner... we bonded. Over the first few weeks together, our rough edges notched into place like cogs in a machine. And once we clicked... we clicked for good. As that first semester rolled on, it became apparent that we shared some weird intangible bond. Although we were very different in oh so many ways, we just "got" each other.
Coming back to room 114 after class was a treat, because that meant me and Burhan might, at the very least, goof around a bit, but at best, we'd set off on some stupid adventure somewhere around campus. Every day brought some magical, chaotic surprise or experience that only served to strengthen our newly-formed friendship.
Clockwise from upper left: Burhan, Rob, Quang, Abbas, and some doofus who crashed the photo session. The Stanhope Crew circa 1987.
Nothing lasts forever, though. After a couple of years in the dorm, Burhan decided to move off campus. He slipped into a vacant room at the Stanhope house, where my previous roommate Inigo, and other dorm buddies like Rob had moved. But after several months there, he lucked into a much better situation. He met a rich Egyptian guy who had rented an apartment just to make his father happy, but the guy never spent any time there. So Burhan took up residence in a nice apartment with a roommate who was never home.
In typical Burhan fashion, he decided to break in his new living situation by throwing a party. And I decided a good friend would show up with a house warming present. But what to get him? Despite his larger-than-life personality, Burhan was a pretty traditional guy who didn't surround himself with material crap. He liked cigarettes, but those he got himself, in bulk. No, I wanted to get him something fun, something personal, something that would surprise him.
Luckily, he inadvertently provided me with the inspiration for the perfect gift. One of his delightful quirks was that, at random moments, he'd sing fragments of old songs he remembered from his childhood. He never recalled the lyrics correctly, but hearing him mangle these oddball tunes from movies and radio always made me laugh.
One of the songs involved a house with a bamboo floor, and snakes, or something. But the other one he'd trot out when he was in a really, really good mood. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, and a wry smile on his face, he'd throw his arms wide and croon, "Love is in the air, everywhere I look around..." And that usually was as far as he got, before we both would burst into laughter. "Love is in the air" became our secret phrase, a lyric we'd throw out as a punch line to numerous situations.
And when he sang "Love is in the air" a couple of days before the party, it hit me: Why not get him that song? That would be a fun surprise. I knew he didn't have a CD player. But he did have a turntable that was jacked into his boom box. So a 45 would be perfect.
But then cold reality slapped me hard across the face. Although he'd been singing that snippet for ages, I had no idea what the actual title of the song was! And I had no clue who performed it! Burhan was no help, either. Some subtle questioning revealed that he had no idea at all. I was at a dead end.
Then it dawned on me, that if I had any chance of finding this stupid song, there was only person I could turn to: John Swain.
John Swain (middle) at a record show in Hillsborough NC in 1987. (Screenshot from a video filmed by Melissa Bent.)
John Swain was one of a kind. A fixture at Triangle record shows since the 1970s, Swain had been running The Record Hole for well over a decade when I was introduced to the store in 1986 by my friends Erik and Steve. Swain was... Jeez, I hate to be so trite and cliched, but in so many ways, Swain was the very definition of "a character". He looked like a less-tanned Robert Evans. He smoked like a chimney. He had this brusque attitude, as if you were ruining his day by shopping at his store. He would playfully mock you if you asked for a record he didn't approve of. Swain was a dynamic, in-your-face figure. Some people loved him, others were completely put off by him.
But if there was one thing everyone could agree on, it's that Swain had an encyclopedic knowledge of music from the 50s, 60s, and 70s. I mean, it was freaky how much incredible trivia and knowledge he had locked away in his brain. One time I found him holding court, regaling a rapt gathering of devout music nerds with a comparison of the record labels and catalog numbers for obscure 1960s rock singles. It was just pouring out of him, an endless stream of record collector nerdiness that I've never seen since.
So if someone needed to track down a record for which they didn't know the title, or the artist, your only hope in those pre-Internet days was to venture to The Record Hole and pick Swain's nicotine-stained brain.
And that's exactly what I did. When class was over one day, I strolled down to The Record Hole. When I walked in the door, there was Swain, hunched over the elevated front counter as usual. He was reading through a trade magazine, smoke from his lit cigarette curling up into the drop ceiling overhead. He didn't look up as a walked in, he just kept reading and flipping.
I waited a few moments before interrupting him. "Excuse me, John..."
"What?" was his raspy reply.
"Ummm... I was hoping you could help me find a song?" There was no movement. No acknowledgment of my presence.
"The thing is... I don't know the title, or the guy who sings it." He sighed, and I knew I was in trouble. (In hindsight, I bet he got this all the time. Like doctors at parties being pestered by people for free health advice.)
For the sake of my friendship, I soldiered on. "It goes 'love is in the air'..."
Before I finished the word "air", Swain leapt up off his stool so suddenly it startled me. He stepped down from the counter and, without giving me so much as a glance, began threading his way through the maze of tables. I didn't know what to do, so I followed along behind him like a puppy. He stopped on a dime and reached into one of his numerous boxes. Swain didn't even have to flip through all the records, he just stuck his hand in and pulled out a 45 in a plain wrapper. He actually tossed it at me, and barked, "Two bucks." I just stood there, stunned. I was holding a copy of "Love Is In The Air", by a guy named John Paul Young. I finally knew the name of the song, and the name of the guy who sang it. In about thirty seconds, Swain had wrapped up a years-long mystery.
I'm happy to say that my present was a big hit. When I arrived at his new place, I told Burhan that I had a surprise for him. I placed the 45 on his turntable and dropped the needle. When he heard the first few bass notes bubbling out of the speakers, his eyes almost popped out of his head. And for the next hour or so, as the rest of the guests stared at us, we'd play "Love Is In The Air" and sign along loudly and badly to John Paul Young's catchy disco hit.
Although the actual 45 has more than likely been lost in the shuffle as the years went by, "Love Is In The Air" never went away. Burhan and I could be shooting pool, or having dinner, or prowling the Raleigh social scene, and inevitably we'd stumble across a situation or a hot chick that would cause us to lock eyes and sing in unison that classic first line.
"Love Is In The Air" is the ultimate in-joke between two long-time friends. With a little inspiration and a two dollar record, I'd laid another stone in the foundation of my burgeoning friendship with Burhan. A friendship that's still going strong three decades later. And it was all thanks to the irascible John Swain.
The only thing that remains of John Swain’s legacy. I want that sign so bad….
I have a confession to make, dear reader. I had every intention of getting this article written and published weeks ago, but something happened that derailed my creative endeavors. Without going into the gory details, I'll tell you that I lost the use of my left hand, which is my dominant hand. It's now been over two weeks since I've been able to do anything more physical with my left hand than gently wipe away tears of frustration.
This was the worst possible appendage to go bad on me. It's the hand I use to operate my mouse. I grab the steering wheel with it. It's the hand that pops open my cat's food cans. My left hand is, for wont of a better phrase, my "anchor appendage". Without it, I'm as helpless as Chuck Schumer in a House bill negotiation.
And it was this kitten-like weakness that informed my theme this time around. I was originally going to lead with the premise that every town needs a good indie record store. (And I still stand by that opinion.) But losing the use of my left hand, combined with that "last time ever" Internet thread I mentioned earlier, put me into a much more reflective frame of mind. I was made painfully aware of all the things I've taken for granted over the years.
When I graduated in 1989, I still made pretty regular trips to Raleigh, where I would see friends and hit all the old haunts. At least once every couple of months, I made the drive down I-40 and plugged myself right back into my happy place.
But when I left NC for CA in 1995, I didn't give a second thought to what might happen once I was away for a protracted period of time. Call it cluelessness, perhaps. Or immaturity, maybe. (Looking back, I tend to go a little more harsh, and call it pure unadulterated arrogance.) I selfishly and naively expected that everything I loved about college would never change. The campus, the businesses, the people... every single thing that meant something to me would stay exactly as it was when I was in school, frozen in a warm amber of narcissistic nostalgia, every molecule waiting in still silence until obediently springing back to life as I rolled into town.
Places like Two Guys. And Capitol Comics. And The Brewery. And Sadlack's. And the Tunnel Inn. All these landmarks from my not-so-wild-n-crazy college days were supposed to stay exactly as I remembered them. But they didn't. They were erased from the face of the earth, victims of time and progress and development. They only live on in the memories of the people who were lucky enough to be there at the time. People like me.
That list definitely includes The Record Hole, although its reason for closing was for an event more jarring than urban renewal. To the shock of everyone who knew him, John Swain passed away suddenly at the beginning of July in 1991, a little over thirty years ago. When he died, The Record Hole died. The doors remained locked, the lights remained off, and his beloved store went away for good. As a result, I never set foot in Swain's domain ever again. I had no idea that the last time I walked into Swain's musical wonderland, to purchase Burhan's gift, was the last time I'd ever walk into The Record Hole.
Losing touch with these personal brick and mortar temples is one thing. Losing touch with actual flesh and blood people, however, is an entirely different thing altogether. Over the years I've made a point of securing lines of communication with the people that matter. Most everyone I care about is a text or email or phone call away. I know I'm guilty of not reaching out as much as I should, but that doesn't mean all my friends aren't on my mind in one way or another. I just find myself battling my own inner demons at times, and I don't want to drag that energy into my interactions with my friends.
But hopefully my issues won't last forever. I'm doing my best to overcome them, and to bring that renewed sense of who I am back into my friendships.
In the meantime, everyone out there, don't think I don't care. I do. Immensely.
There's no way I could take any of you for granted. You make me too damn happy.
As a bonus, here’s John Swain’s memorial video.
BIO
Don Stroud is not the famous actor and world-class surfer of the same name. He is the non-famous California transplant who became an award-winning film editor and - finally - an award-winning screenwriter. He loves cats, sushi, comic books, movies, music, and Cherry Coke. What's that, dear? Oh yes: and his wife. You can follow him on Twitter, where he pops up sporadically, at @DonStroud2.