Soren and the Lady Velma in happier times.Just over a week ago, my friend Soren suffered a stroke at the age of forty-six and is currently being tended to in the ICU of Brooklyn's Methodist hospital by a capable staff and his solid-as-a-rock spouse, Velma. The two of them were an oasis of (relative) sanity amidst the full-tilt bedlam during my days at the Barbecue joint and I place them at the top of the list of people whom I met at that place that I consider friends in the most real and sincere sense of the term (NOTE: Tracey comes in at number one, but she's more of a sister than a friend), so seeing either one of them suffer just plain makes me angry.
Both Soren and Velma are kind of hard to explain unless you know them, so perhaps it's easiest to make it clear that I had them pegged as a couple of fellow weirdoes from the moment I met them (hey, we know our own!) and what made them a breath of fresh air in that hickory-smoked environ was their quirkiness and great, almost intimidating intellect. While much of the joint's conversation revolved around where a regular could score more weed or the details of the latest dysfunctional romantic soap opera involving the staff and/or regulars, I could always count on the shaven-pated pair to distract me with tales of the agonies of proofreading crappy books (man, can I relate), being enthralled by new examples of quality musical theater — they're the ones who first told me of the excellent PASSING STRANGE before it hit Broadway proper — and their adventures with their crowd at various piano bars (they both sing, but Velma's got a serious set of pipes). And when it came to the couples who frequented the barbecue joint, Velma and Soren ranked as the signature pair, always at their favorite place at the bar, chowing down on the pulled pork and other menu fare, and merrily leaping into conversation with total strangers, particularly when a sporting event was on television and some random bar asshat would make the mistake of saying something stupid about the sport in question, prompting Soren to vehemently set them straight on the finer points of the game. That effect was particularly hilarious because the old school Brooklyn Joe Sixpacks were in no way prepared to be succinctly called out by a bald, bespectacled Hobbit.
One of the many things that Soren and I bonded over was our fanatical love of music in all forms, and our mutual passion for Elvis Costello enlivened many nights once I'd gotten one of our bartenders into the Brit artist's work by burning the guy two CDs of my picks for the best of Costello's work from 1977-1983. Many were the nights where we could be found soused to gills singing "Oliver's Army" or "Big Boys" while the confused patrons stared in horror, and I treasure those moments. And how can you not love a guy who appreciates the warped aural aesthetic of the Residents, as well as championing Renaldo & the Loaf's "A Critical Dance?" And the icing on the cake was that Soren knew of two of my favorites since high school, namely the relatively obscure first album by Slow Children (featuring the deathless "Spring In Fialta") and "Echo Beach" by Martha and the Muffins, so it was inevitable that we'd become pals.
But if there was one thing that made the man famous within the Bar BQ culture, it was his tenacious and tireless ability to argue his ass off. Regardless of the subject, Soren was ever at the ready with his thoroughly-reasoned opinion on matters, and may whatever gods you bow to help you if you entered his arena of discourse without having girded yourself for a knockdown, drag-out verbal Donnybrook. I've gotten into it with him on many subjects and occasions and I consider myself quite fortunate to have not only survived the set-to but also be able to sit here and write about it. And while our arguments often erupted into frenzied histrionics that reminded onlookers of two pit bulls fighting over a favorite squeaky toy, there was never any malice in any of it and we'd often laugh ourselves silly when all was said and done.
When I went to visit him last night in the ICU I had spent the better part of a week steeling myself to face a Soren I was unfamiliar with, and upon seeing him laying there in a hospital bed, all manner of wires hooking him up to a series of monitors, a feeding tube rudely shoved up his nose and down his throat, his glasses not on his face (meaning that for all intents and purposes he's pretty much blind) and him being uncharacteristically silent, I wanted to cry. But then I saw Velma standing by him and offering comfort, so I swallowed my own discomfort and looked to her as a model of how to deal and provide Soren with the support he needs right here and now. Also present were his mother, flown in from Seattle, and his sister from Portland, so with them and Velma within arm's reach I knew he was in good hands.
When Velma told him I had shown up, Soren brightened a bit, gestured with his left hand and attempted to speak, but the stroke has rendered verbal communication rather difficult — to put it mildly — and he was clearly frustrated at not being able to get his words out. Soren has an incredibly expressive face and repertoire of body language, so I was able to get some of what he was trying to say, but if it kills me to see such a fierce, even belligerent will hobbled by a condition over which he has no control, I cannot even begin to imagine how he feels. As I said to his mother, it just plain sucks. (She was glad to hear me say that because she had been doing her best to communicate just who and what Soren is to his caretakers, so she was pleased to find that we were on the same page.)
Soren is in for a long journey of recovery and it will be both arduous and painful, but he has the incredible Velma in his corner, a mate who's so excellent that she makes Tarzan say "Damn!," and she'll do her level best to drag him back up out of the wreckage. I've observed their relationship for over three years and marveled at just how well they suit one another, but last night I saw the deepest expression of a human bond that I've beheld since I don't know when. Some people take their wedding vows without seriously considering the meaning of the words being spoken, but seeing Velma's miles-deep concern for her man (bite-sized though he may be) showed me the face of unwavering love in the face of one of the worst things that can happen to one's spouse, and let me tell you right now that it was a powerful thing.
I'm going back to see Soren each evening this week, a task made that much easier by the hospital being located about eight blocks and a couple of avenues away from the humble vault, and I hope having friends and loved ones will speed his healing. I know it's going to take some time, but I want the scrappy sumbitch back in action, ready to kick the world's ass once more, so if you believe in the power of putting out positive thoughts and energy, please spare a bit of psychic juice for Soren, a good egg who doesn't deserve his current situation.
Heal, motherfucker, heal.
Both Soren and Velma are kind of hard to explain unless you know them, so perhaps it's easiest to make it clear that I had them pegged as a couple of fellow weirdoes from the moment I met them (hey, we know our own!) and what made them a breath of fresh air in that hickory-smoked environ was their quirkiness and great, almost intimidating intellect. While much of the joint's conversation revolved around where a regular could score more weed or the details of the latest dysfunctional romantic soap opera involving the staff and/or regulars, I could always count on the shaven-pated pair to distract me with tales of the agonies of proofreading crappy books (man, can I relate), being enthralled by new examples of quality musical theater — they're the ones who first told me of the excellent PASSING STRANGE before it hit Broadway proper — and their adventures with their crowd at various piano bars (they both sing, but Velma's got a serious set of pipes). And when it came to the couples who frequented the barbecue joint, Velma and Soren ranked as the signature pair, always at their favorite place at the bar, chowing down on the pulled pork and other menu fare, and merrily leaping into conversation with total strangers, particularly when a sporting event was on television and some random bar asshat would make the mistake of saying something stupid about the sport in question, prompting Soren to vehemently set them straight on the finer points of the game. That effect was particularly hilarious because the old school Brooklyn Joe Sixpacks were in no way prepared to be succinctly called out by a bald, bespectacled Hobbit.
One of the many things that Soren and I bonded over was our fanatical love of music in all forms, and our mutual passion for Elvis Costello enlivened many nights once I'd gotten one of our bartenders into the Brit artist's work by burning the guy two CDs of my picks for the best of Costello's work from 1977-1983. Many were the nights where we could be found soused to gills singing "Oliver's Army" or "Big Boys" while the confused patrons stared in horror, and I treasure those moments. And how can you not love a guy who appreciates the warped aural aesthetic of the Residents, as well as championing Renaldo & the Loaf's "A Critical Dance?" And the icing on the cake was that Soren knew of two of my favorites since high school, namely the relatively obscure first album by Slow Children (featuring the deathless "Spring In Fialta") and "Echo Beach" by Martha and the Muffins, so it was inevitable that we'd become pals.
But if there was one thing that made the man famous within the Bar BQ culture, it was his tenacious and tireless ability to argue his ass off. Regardless of the subject, Soren was ever at the ready with his thoroughly-reasoned opinion on matters, and may whatever gods you bow to help you if you entered his arena of discourse without having girded yourself for a knockdown, drag-out verbal Donnybrook. I've gotten into it with him on many subjects and occasions and I consider myself quite fortunate to have not only survived the set-to but also be able to sit here and write about it. And while our arguments often erupted into frenzied histrionics that reminded onlookers of two pit bulls fighting over a favorite squeaky toy, there was never any malice in any of it and we'd often laugh ourselves silly when all was said and done.
When I went to visit him last night in the ICU I had spent the better part of a week steeling myself to face a Soren I was unfamiliar with, and upon seeing him laying there in a hospital bed, all manner of wires hooking him up to a series of monitors, a feeding tube rudely shoved up his nose and down his throat, his glasses not on his face (meaning that for all intents and purposes he's pretty much blind) and him being uncharacteristically silent, I wanted to cry. But then I saw Velma standing by him and offering comfort, so I swallowed my own discomfort and looked to her as a model of how to deal and provide Soren with the support he needs right here and now. Also present were his mother, flown in from Seattle, and his sister from Portland, so with them and Velma within arm's reach I knew he was in good hands.
When Velma told him I had shown up, Soren brightened a bit, gestured with his left hand and attempted to speak, but the stroke has rendered verbal communication rather difficult — to put it mildly — and he was clearly frustrated at not being able to get his words out. Soren has an incredibly expressive face and repertoire of body language, so I was able to get some of what he was trying to say, but if it kills me to see such a fierce, even belligerent will hobbled by a condition over which he has no control, I cannot even begin to imagine how he feels. As I said to his mother, it just plain sucks. (She was glad to hear me say that because she had been doing her best to communicate just who and what Soren is to his caretakers, so she was pleased to find that we were on the same page.)
Soren is in for a long journey of recovery and it will be both arduous and painful, but he has the incredible Velma in his corner, a mate who's so excellent that she makes Tarzan say "Damn!," and she'll do her level best to drag him back up out of the wreckage. I've observed their relationship for over three years and marveled at just how well they suit one another, but last night I saw the deepest expression of a human bond that I've beheld since I don't know when. Some people take their wedding vows without seriously considering the meaning of the words being spoken, but seeing Velma's miles-deep concern for her man (bite-sized though he may be) showed me the face of unwavering love in the face of one of the worst things that can happen to one's spouse, and let me tell you right now that it was a powerful thing.
I'm going back to see Soren each evening this week, a task made that much easier by the hospital being located about eight blocks and a couple of avenues away from the humble vault, and I hope having friends and loved ones will speed his healing. I know it's going to take some time, but I want the scrappy sumbitch back in action, ready to kick the world's ass once more, so if you believe in the power of putting out positive thoughts and energy, please spare a bit of psychic juice for Soren, a good egg who doesn't deserve his current situation.
Heal, motherfucker, heal.
2 comments:
Yes, sometimes life does suck. But the good news is the stroke didn't kill him--he's still here, and from what you wrote, he sounds like a fighter, which is more good news. Being surrounded and supported during his recovery by loved ones, friends, a capable hospital staff and people who care will help him tremendously. As you may know, the human brain is capable of high functioning even when damaged. There's more up there than we really need or will ever use, so the experts say. And based on much of the stuff I see on the net, I'd agree. Seriously, Your Buncheness, I'm keeping my fingers crossed and hoping your friend makes a full recovery and gets right back into the flow of life where he belongs. His family, his friends and his place will be waiting.
I've been out of the loop and just now got a chance to read this.
Man, I truly wish Soren all the best. He's a great guy -- and yes, he's very lucky to have Velma by his side.
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