Peter Hamlin and Nina Frenkel took this song on a dreamy, animated ramble, and we’re totally dumbstruck and thrilled with what they came up with. Load the video fullscreen and give it a look… We also gave this little interview to IFC on the making of video for its premiere on their site. [and, hey, update: Nina and Peter won a 2012 International Motion Arts Award for this flick! Pretty serious stuff...]

Among that quiet, I read a friend of mine’s memoir through letters: Public Apology, In Which A Man Grapples with a Lifetime of Regret, Once Incident at a Time. Dave Bry and I went to high school together, in Little Silver, NJ. He was a year ahead of me, so I didn’t really know him until we sat next to each other in Physics class my junior year. We spent it just getting by, grade-wise, and writing each other vulgar notes. I don’t remember what we said, but it was an ongoing contest based on out-doing the last response. I remember feeling uber-clever, and I’m now quite confident that this too is worthy of regret. But thank god the evidence is missing.

I re-connected with him through an old high school friend, so we’d seen each other sporadically over the past 4 years. Then I got word that he was doing a few readings from his new book. So of course, I went.

I can’t really think of a better book premise – you mine everything you’ve ever regretted from your life, and then write an apology to the main co-star of each story. And I’ve never understood those who say ‘life’s too short to regret’ or something along those lines, when I am FULL of regret over ways I hurt others over some silly spur-of-the-moment comment or action. Or the worse stuff, those digs that I actually intended. I mean, what are people actually DOING while they’re busy not regretting? I need a tutor. But that’s an aside.

There are hilarious entries, including a letter to Jon Bon Jovi apologizing for tossing beer cans into his yard, while simultaneously demanding an acknowledgement of the weak-as-all-get-out lyrics to “Wanted Dead or Alive”. You can hear Dave’s building hysteria throughout the letter, simply in the punctuation. Brilliant. There are deep, cringing tales, like ruining a Bob Mould concert and getting publically told off by Bob himself before the encore. There are of course the cruel love apologies. There are the letters that open wide Dave’s teen-aged periods of self destruction and drug use, a result in some ways of the anxiety that accompanies the tragic desire to be accepted (as we all want in high school – hell, maybe forever -), and a diversion to avoid coping with his father’s terminal cancer.

I told Steve I couldn’t read Dave’s book before bed, as I’m vulnerable to stories of violence and the horrific things people seem to do to one another with regularity. I am basically a weakling. So I rationed myself to daytime subway rides. When I’d crack it open at night, Steve would gently ask me, “Do you really want to read that now? I mean, you said…”  Right.

Would this book would punch the average reader in the gut the way it did me? I think so indeed. Dave writes with such honesty that you feel all the complications and messiness of being alive – how life is chopped up and uneven and there are some things you really never resolve. You just keep going. And maybe purge it all in a memoir. Then read it to everyone you know on your book tour, egad! Oh, and if I haven’t said as much, buy this book. Not because he’s my friend, though that does count. But because it holds the promise of side-splitting laughter. And it’s got its share of the dark side, as any self-respecting read should. I mean, I might have been able to write something like it. Except I’m pretty sure my letters would have closed with something like this:

So I’m sorry.

But you have to admit you were a total dick, too.

Love, Erika

Click here to view the embedded video.

We were in Austin and environs for the Thanksgiving holiday this year — seeing family, playing a few shows, and washing ourselves in wond’rous Texan goodness. Here are a few photos from the trip. Special thanks to Bruce Curtis and Kristen Warnick for keeping the camera shutters clickin’ while were there.

Me: I’m here to rent an electric guitar for the week.

Him: Ok, sure. For you?

Me: Yes.

Him: (Looking over my shoulder) Ok. (Pause.)  Not for the guy in the Jeep?

Me: (I look over my shoulder to see Bruce reading The Onion in the front seat, his door open, one leg casually hanging out on the car’s edge. Longer Pause.) Uh, no. Still for me.

Him: Ok. How about you go pick one out?

He points to wall of guitars, so I proceed over there for a few minutes and choose a Fender Mustang. Mostly because Liz Phair plays one and secondly because it’s a gorgeous baby blue, and I haven’t played this color of guitar before. I’m excited. I return with it, they put it in a case, etc. and meanwhile, I’m asked to fill out their rental agreement. Name, address, band name, email, etc. Then… three personal references. Bruce is one of them, our friend Elizabeth, and I leave the third one blank since I don’t know anyone else who lives here. I mean, I know Patty Griffin lives here, but will she vouch for me if they call her? That’s the big question.

Him: Ok, we need three references, and one of them needs to be a relative. (By now Bruce has come in to hang out.)

Bruce: I’m a relative, her brother-in-law.

Him: (Ignoring Bruce, who, by the way is 6’8″ so it takes a practiced and professional eye to ignore him.) How about you put your mom down there?

Me: My mom? But she doesn’t live here.

Him: That’s okay. Put your mom down. That’ll be fine.

I really don’t remember the last time I had to list my mom as a reference for anything, but I guess the rental guy figures if I don’t get a decent reference from my mom, it’s pretty bad. Now I’m imagining him calling her:

Riiiinnnnng Riiiinnnng…

Hello?  Erika rented a what? Oh, I see. So why are you calling me? Mmm hmmm. Well, I’m sure she’s good for it. (Click.)

Or…

“Hello? What? Why are you calling me? AGAIN?!!? THAT LITTLE… you know, she’s been this way for years and at some point I just had to cut her off…. Yeah, good luck! She’s probably in Mexico by now… hey, throw her in jail for all I care! If you can catch her, that is. She has to learn but that’ll never happen if I keep bailing her out!! I’VE HAD IT!!!!! (click.)

Regardless, I put down my mother’s New Jersey address and phone number. As he’s running my card ($1100 deposit, $18.40 for the actual rental for 1 week) – he makes conversation:

Him: So, you here for the holidays and just want a guitar to kick around on at home for the week?

Me: Kind of. I’m here for the holidays and we have two shows this week in Austin and Johnson City.

Him: (Look of utter incredulity.) Oh! You have shows?

At this point I’m wondering if I look like an alien or a werewolf and nobody who loves me has had the heart to tell me. Though actually, aliens and werewolves are pretty rock-n-roll. Maybe I just look like a totally boring mom? Who rents guitars to play on the couch with her girlfriends? (Which sounds fun, by the way, and I’m not above it.) Is it so confounding to imagine that I might actually need a piece of musical equipment to play music, maybe even in public?

(Radio silence).  Guy gets up, walks toward back of store, out of sight. New guy shows up, hands me the receipt and guitar. I thank him and leave.