Performer: Robbie Robertson
Songwriter: Robbie Robertson
Original Release: The Color of Money
Year: 1986
Definitive Version: None
OK, today’s post is neither
long nor too heavy, I promise.
The first time I saw The
Color of Money, I was McKayla Maroney—not impressed. I don’t know what I was
expecting, maybe more pool trickery, maybe a happier ending. Maybe I just wasn’t
ready to absorb what Scorsese was trying to tell me, I don’t know.
Whatever, after Debbie and I
broke up, The Color of Money was on HBO, and I wanted to see it again, because
I had forgotten so much about it in the 16 years hence. This time, it hit me
like a sledgehammer break, and it became regular—almost essential—late-night
viewing in 2001-2002.
I did a lot of late-night TV
viewing in those days. It fit my post-breakup depression. Besides, I knew I
couldn’t listen to music in my room, because my next-door neighbor would hear
it and come over in his bathrobe and bang on my door—or just call the cops,
like he threatened. I had to confine my music listening to the day unless I
wanted to wear headphones.
So my routine became coming
home from work and putting on The Color of Money or Fight Club, or both, and
having a glass of wine or two, or a whole bottle, and sit in my otherwise stark
apartment feeling sorry for myself.
Actually, the living room
was about the only room, aside from my bedroom, I guess, where I got it
together enough to put up decorations or even arrange the furniture so you’d
want to spend any time there.
I had a four-room apartment
with a basement, and the only rooms I ever spent any time in aside from the
kitchen were my bedroom and the living room. I had boxes piled in and around my
unused dining table and chairs for months before I at least decided to make
that room at least presentable.
And I never did reopen my
baseball room. The whole point of getting a two-bedroom apartment when I moved
out was so I could rebuild to some degree what I had at the house, but in the
nearly two years I lived in my Clintonville apartment, the second bedroom was
nothing more than storage for dozens of boxes of pennants, books, posters,
baseballs and caps all waiting for a day when they’d again see the light of it.
To a certain extent, during
this time, I was, too.
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