What happened in 1979, the year of my girlfriend’s birth?
Eric Clapton married Patti Boyd, the ex-wife of Slowhand’s friend George Harrison. Strangely, Boyd, the inspiration for Derek and the Dominos’ Layla, looks a bit like Becca in The Beatles’ Something music clip. Led Zeppelin, one of our favorite bands, played its last concert at Knebworth, the last time Jimmy Page gestured like a sorcerer in velvet during Dazed and Confused and Bonzo played apocalyptic drums in that famous venue. The guys from U2, another favorite, waxed their first single in 1979. (These days, Bono has become "a politician fronting a rock band"). Frank Zappa released "Joe’s Garage Act 1" and "Sheik Yerbouti," Neil Young staged Rust Never Sleeps, and "The Wall" was erected by Pink Floyd. Other landmark albums in 1979 include The Clash’s "London Calling," The Cure’s "Three Imaginary Boys," and – believe it or not – "Voulez-Vous" by ABBA.
Nineteen-seventy-nine was one weird year. Jazz mystic Charles Mingus and punk rogue Sid Vicious died that year – two rebels with beautiful causes. Disco ruled, the geriatrics of rock slugged on, and a baby – who would soon grow up to be a woman with curls, freckles and a smile that could light up the universe – was born.
What significance does the digit "26" hold? In those numerology charts, "two" signifies a duality – yin and yang, dark and light, Michael Jackson (a black kid singing Ben) and Michael Jackson (a white dude doing Ben Jr. – allegedly). While "six" signifies resolution and harmony, since it is "the midpoint of the Kabalistic tree of life" (whatever that means).
I read other mumbo jumbos about the significances of a person’s date of birth, and about fire signs, water signs and no-parking signs, but I’ve deduced this: Esoteric ideas only approximate who and what we really are. We are the sum of all our actions, and our relationships are the sum of all our moments.
For me, 26 means:
The number of times we fought over very shallow things. For two people who discuss heady topics (the relative merits of artists Gustav Klimt and Egon Shiele, the bean-can philosophy of Tom Robbins, the agelessness of David Bowie, etc.), we argue so zealously about the stupidest things. I remember getting pissed at her ex-officemate, a hairless toad named Kerwin the D.O.M. who repeatedly asked her out for lunch. We fought onboard the Star Cruise Virgo somewhere between Penang and Phuket, and while trying to get to Borders in Singapore before closing time. Yes, our squabbles have gone global.
Twenty-six shouting matches, 26 walkouts, and 26 times we kissed and made up, manically laughing at our cosmic follies.
Twenty-six is the number of species of cockroaches infesting my apartment, which Becca has to endure (even if she hates those filthy flying bastards) because she needs to bring me food, read books with me, listen to music all day, or simply to ornament the condo unit with her mere presence. To mangle a line by Morrissey, she is the lamp that never goes out. And who knows? Maybe an expert from National Geographic will visit my flat and discover a new form of mutant cockroach to be named after us.
Becca has 26 pet peeves (uh, give or take a few). She hates cold food, which can be quite a problem since I tend to develop "science projects" in my refrigerator. (Plus, I could subsist on Chippy and soda all day.) A saucer of liver spread nearly celebrated its first birthday inside my ref. A couple of rubbery biscuits fell and "bounced" on the floor, since they were harder than the tablets inscribed with the 10 Commandments. Even the dude who could part the Red Sea couldn’t crack ’em.
I know what rotten ice cream smells like. Last year, I went on a trip, shut down the ref, and forgot all about a pint of tiramisu. When I came back, the freezer looked like the Swamp Thing’s lair. What a ghastly smell. And as I write this article, there is a pack of chicken nuggets still in my ref, which could develop their own civilization by next month or next year. (I can't wait to see the look on Becca’s face when she sees them.) Yesterday, they were poultry; in the future, they might become a new organism altogether. Discovery Channel might be interested.
Becca also hates old bills. You know, that P20 or P50 bill that resembles ancient Keith Richards or those ballroom matrons doing the rumba with dance instructors with ponytails and leather shoes that could pass off as "deadly weapons." Thus, she keeps a small bottle of Alcogel in her purse like a vial of holy water.
Becca hates coins, too. I want to tell her they are useful in case Congress repeals the law of gravity. (Didn’t a solon once try banning typhoons from country.)
She hates reckless drivers. (Although I never knew such a petite woman could drive like Mad Max with a mission.) And she could mumble 26 different curses while driving on EDSA ruled by buses with an appetite for destruction, the vehicular equivalent of Guns N’ Roses’ Welcome to the Jungle. While we usually sit inside her car like Axl and Slash – without the messy breakup, skull tattoos and assorted neuroses.
"Where do we go… Where do we go now?" as the GNR song goes.
Good question. What’s in store for us? Well, more listening sessions (more of John Cage against the machine). More Mojo and Q magazine-hunting (which has become sort of like an archeological pursuit). More coffee (less cigarettes). More deep and fulfilling conversations. More petty fights (what will it be about next time? Zombie chicken? Dirty money?). More light beer, burnt sisig and spins of That’s The Way courtesy of her DJ friend at Gweilos. More life. More love. More of everything.
After all, there are plenty of things to do beneath blue suburban skies.