R.I.P. Skylight Exchange
For those far-flung Chapel Hillians among us, you might not be privy to the sad, sad news that the Skylight Exchange is no more. This is the roach-infested sandwich bookstore/record store in the back alleyway on Rosemary street in which I misspent so much of my early-twenties. In the last few years, it became the Nightlight at night, a venue for all the WTF music in this area, and indeed, the Nightlight is still going strong. But the Skylight, for all intents and purposes*, went out of business. Jay and I went to see the post-Hi Mom! Film Festival party happening there on Saturday, to watch none other than Billy Sugarfix play the theremin and dance around in a marching band uniform in front of multiple screens of other versions of himself --- and the place was startling in its emptiness and - dare I go there? - its *bookless cold-heartedness*. Can I make this any clearer? ALL THE BOOKS ARE GONE. ALL THE RECORDS ARE GONE. Now it's a venue in the more intimidating sense, with bare purple and red walls and a bar and nowhere to hide. Remembering that room with all the shelves of books, and piles of books and piles of records lying around, with all of them gone and replaced only with hipsters, I felt so out of sorts, we had to go walk around and get back just in time for the show, and also just in time for all the paper plates to be already be taken, and piles and piles of Mediterranean Deli unable to be eaten except for the minty stuffed grape leaves which you can snitch with your fingers and nibble sadly, thinking of all of the books being gone and how barren it felt now. I couldn't nibble minty grape leaves fast enough to eradicate the despair I felt, and a man in a marching band outfit and fuzzy drum major hat miming an air guitar solo** on a pogo stick could only temporarily lessen the hurt.
I had the realization later that what made the Skylight such a nice place to be, as the painfully awkward and shy rock and roll star that I am, is that waiting for my turn to play at any number of a bzillion shows, feeling shy and awkward and like an imposter, I could go and browse the books and even read entire Ellen Gilchrist or Lewis Nordan short stories in a corner and no one would bother me. I could fully fold into a fetal ball and read and this was okay for some reason. Waiting to get on stage, the North Carolina author section was right by the "load-in area" and I could glance and gain courage from a younger, snarkier, fatter Lawrence Naumoff or 1971-version of Daphne Athas winking up at me from a book jacket that looked like someone's cat had puked on it.
How many weird things did I see at Skylight Exchange? How many chess nerd tactical analyses? How many people practicing their dramatic Greek monologues? How many Doctor Oakroot open mic performances of "come together" in which the song got faster and faster and faster? How many extra pickles were sneaked to me by Amy Callahan, in the long, dark years before she moved to Ireland? How many times did Brandy Dykhuisen yell at that homeless guy with his incessant erection, to get the hell out, before she moved to Illinois or Indiana or one of those other I-states in the middle of the country I confuse all the time? Oh youth misspent! Oh crouching and hiding in books as emotional refuge, I will miss thee!!!
Basil Womack
* yeah you read that right! it's "intents and purposes", not "intensive purposes"
** yeah you read that right! he was miming an air guitar solo. You can only play an air guitar solo on an imaginary guitar. He was therefore miming an air guitar solo on something other than an imaginary guitar, in this case, a pogo stick. How one might mime an air pogo stick solo, I have no idea.
I had the realization later that what made the Skylight such a nice place to be, as the painfully awkward and shy rock and roll star that I am, is that waiting for my turn to play at any number of a bzillion shows, feeling shy and awkward and like an imposter, I could go and browse the books and even read entire Ellen Gilchrist or Lewis Nordan short stories in a corner and no one would bother me. I could fully fold into a fetal ball and read and this was okay for some reason. Waiting to get on stage, the North Carolina author section was right by the "load-in area" and I could glance and gain courage from a younger, snarkier, fatter Lawrence Naumoff or 1971-version of Daphne Athas winking up at me from a book jacket that looked like someone's cat had puked on it.
How many weird things did I see at Skylight Exchange? How many chess nerd tactical analyses? How many people practicing their dramatic Greek monologues? How many Doctor Oakroot open mic performances of "come together" in which the song got faster and faster and faster? How many extra pickles were sneaked to me by Amy Callahan, in the long, dark years before she moved to Ireland? How many times did Brandy Dykhuisen yell at that homeless guy with his incessant erection, to get the hell out, before she moved to Illinois or Indiana or one of those other I-states in the middle of the country I confuse all the time? Oh youth misspent! Oh crouching and hiding in books as emotional refuge, I will miss thee!!!
Basil Womack
* yeah you read that right! it's "intents and purposes", not "intensive purposes"
** yeah you read that right! he was miming an air guitar solo. You can only play an air guitar solo on an imaginary guitar. He was therefore miming an air guitar solo on something other than an imaginary guitar, in this case, a pogo stick. How one might mime an air pogo stick solo, I have no idea.