This week I celebrated the wonder of paper. The newsprint kind, card stock aged 46 years, and a laminated card that’s been with me for the past 37.

Let’s start with newsprint! Last Sunday, top ten day all around! I finally got to give my dad the LATimes with my essay-ode to him on Father’s Day. I’d been carrying this secret since March, but wasn’t totally sure it would happen until the Monday before the publishing. My friends, I was sooo nervous. Had all the feels, as the young’uns say. Not that I didn’t doubt his reaction would fall somewhere between thrill. love, and wonder, but the nervous-making thing had more to do with the expressing of all those emotions. No great secret here: I can be exquisitely uncomfortable around extreme emotion. Whatever it is: uproarious laughter , soul-gutting tears. I just don’t know what to do with my hands, my face, my voice. But that’s a topic for another time. Alright, fine, I’ll go there a little now. As long as I’ve been over twelve, I’ve noticed that when I’m swept away in a deep feeling, there comes with it an out-of-control sensation. Well of course. That’s the point, isn’t it? high and low emotion is by definition the letting go of some bit of control and feeling. Somewhere along the line I decided that wasn’t a good look (or a cool one) and I would stop myself from just going for it. I’ve worked quite a bit on it–knowing it, exploring it, accepting it, and going from there–so I sit in a place much more able to let myself go than I used to (thank you therapy and all kinds of other time-developed things) but yet, always aware of it.

So, that stated, last Sunday was a biggie. And giving this essay to my dad was one of those wonderful moments where I knew I didn’t have to say or do anything. Just hang out with him and enjoy it. And they were–and continue to be–awesome. There was surprise, happiness, some overwhelm, the chance to tell him how it all came about in print, and how true it all was. No matter that he might say, “Aw, I don’t deserve this.” (Possible I got a bit of that emotional discomfort from him?) We then went out and had a tasty fun brunch.

Another amazing thing about my LATimes piece was the fact that people dropped me lines via my laurendeanspencer.com website. So all throughout Friday and Saturday I kept getting alerts that I had a message waiting. It reminded me of the thrill I’d get seeing someone on the subway looking at SPIN and wondering if they were reading a piece I’d written (this was pre-internet times, for those who remember). The messages I got last week were really cool ranging from a woman telling me the story of her transatlantic flights to spend time with her dad, who passed last year, to a woman who wanted to know if my hair was real, and if it wasn’t, could I please share where I got the wig. But there was one message that stood out: “I just enjoyed reading your piece in the L.A. Times and wondered if you could be a long-lost junior high school buddy of mine. Bravo on the piece and welcome back to California!” Because I am crap at remembering anything before my behind-the-wheel drivers test (so scary) and then it can still be a bit spotty after that, her name did not ring a bell. But she was in fact that buddy. And her memory is amazing not too mention her way of preserving artifacts because after I told her I went to South Pasadena Junior High, she wrote back: “If you saw Elton John at Dodger Stadium in 1975, it was likely with me!” Holy, Captain Fantastic. YES! The pieces came back and when she sent me photos of her school ID from back then along with this ticket (so incredibly well preserved. Why was I not as conscious with my stuff?), my mind was blown. Not only did I remember her, but the experience of my mom dropping us both off at Dodger Stadium at FOURTEEN years old. Us going to the show. JUST THE TWO OF US/fourteen to see ELTON JOHN. Then my mom picking us up after. In the parking lot of DODGER STADIUM. Mind blowing again. How did that even happen? I envision it like that great scene in Almost Famous (top two favorite movie ever) with Frances McDormand dropping off Patrick Fugit (whatever happened to him BTW) at a concert. (1:41 in on the trailer). Side note: My dad once dropped a friend and I off at the Forum, going to see Van Halen, maybe, and he’d brought a thermos of martinis, then sat in the parking lot listening to a baseball game and having his cocktails until we turned up and he drove us home. Yep, them’s were the days!)

Anyway. My point. This piece of paper paper took me right back to a specific time, because of course it did. No matter how hazy my memories, these formative moments were and still are so real and hearing from my old friend, someone I’d lost touch with and who happened forty-plus years later to read words I’d written now, then she got in touch is just … well, I’d use the words mind blowing again, but I think there’s a limit. So what fires me is just how weird and synchronic the world can be. I was here, I left, I came back. I wrote about it. I was then brought all the way face-to-face thwap back to some really good moments of pure pleasure. I can’t say I remember anything but happy adrenaline from looking up on a stage, general admission and as I remember it close enough to see him in his sequin Dodger Uniform with Elton 1 on the back and LA on the cap. The heat, lights, crowd, euphoria of the music and the moments. Melting, smiling, just so happy. I’ve been aiming to achieve that level of abandon and merge with sound ever since. And I’ve succeeded quite a bit. (notwithstanding the one time I merged too much with the music after someone spiked my coke at CalJam II and I thought Ted Nugent was actually on fire. And that was not good.) But this knowledge of music’s power is also a reason I’ve found disappointment in it over the last little while. The seeing-behind-the-curtain business of it hacked away some magic. Maybe my expectations are too high. But yet, this specific memory became a happy gateway for others. And for that I’m profoundly grateful.

And on another laminated card stock situation: This week I got an email from the NYPLibrary telling me it was time to renew my card. I blithely wrote back saying I was out of state, so what was the best way to renew from a distance. And Bernard, from the help desk wrote back, “Alas, [yes, he actually used Alas. I love librarians. so. much.] … Our funding comes primarily from New York City and State taxpayers, as such … we must restrict access to e-books and database resources for non-residents.” So in essence, I now must give up my NYPL card. The one I got while probably wearing a sweatshirt whose collar had been torn off à la Flashdance, a tank top underneath, a load of o-ring bracelets inspired by Madonna, and a hairstyle I was never happy with. I lived in the Lower East Side and went into the branch on Tompkins Square Park. I’m taking this loss much harder than I might have thought. I mean, I have a library card for our local A.K. Smiley, which is awesome beyond, but it’s not yet holding the history this red&blue card holds. Of afternoons in the Rose reading room at the main Fifth Avenue branch where Patience and Fortitude, the stone lions out in front, would greet me before doing hours of research for my graduate thesis on Henry James and Edith Wharton. The branch across the street where I’d look at magazines before going on interviews for said magazines so I knew their style but didn’t have to purchase them. So. Broke. at the time. The Washington Heights branch I rode by on my bike from work where I’d have books on hold. And on and on and on. But at some point soon, my card will expire. And that’s the way of time. And I’ll get a new card since I’m sure we’re not done with the city yet. If there’s one thing I learned from this week, it’s that surprises and history go hand in hand.