Sunday, August 04, 2002

Hey Lisa! Martin Patrick was one of kibble eaters at the choloform party. There might have been others, but Martin is the one I remember. Cabin co-proprietor, Chip Dollinger had a really big dog/wolf (what was his name?) and no less than a hundred pounds of bagged dry food stacked was on the porch. If you sat on the stack, your feet wouldn't touch the ground. The pieces of kibble were so big they seemed like sausage balls. Popping the kibble was such a lovely gesture.

Bill, I think you were the first person I met in JC. I was in Joe Corso's Political Life class and you were hanging out in the poly sci dept and introduced me to Heather who was standing at the opposite end of the hall in the Philosophy department. That is hilarious about you guys drinking at John's.

Here's a story and a rant.

One cold nite Nina and I were the only ones home at the Hippie House. The fire was dwindling, we were broke, hungry and butt-ass cold. Wood needed to be chopped, and for some reason (probably herbal in nature) we felt that we were not up to the job. The only food in the kitchen was popcorn, peanut butter and corn cob jelly. So we popped the pop corn and mixed it up in a white plastic bowl with the pb and jelly. We were sitting back to back for warmth on top of the cold wood stove as the last embers were dying out, eating the sticky mixture with our fingers, when we heard what sounded like an army invasion on the porch (thick boot heels on cranky wooden floorboards). The door flies open and Susan swirls inside followed by Brian, Donnie, Martin, John, Mike, Lynne, Heather, Robert Blevins and who knows who else. Every person who came thru the door had a 12 pack of beer and was wearing a black leather jacket except for Susan (woolen poncho) and the Blev (a light gray Members Only jacket). Nina and I, with had our hands in our white plastic mixing bowl, could not have been more happy to see MEN capable of chopping some damn wood and building a fire.

Brian stuffed the stove FULL of wood. The stove-pipe glowed red and the varnish on the antique mantle bubbled and wheezed. "What a bunch of reckless boobs," I thought. But, they brought beer, so I bit my tongue and then watched as Donnie (mumbling something about Quaddafi's enemy lines) "shot down" my battery-operated, flying airplane which was tied to the ceiling, whizzing in circles. John donned my pink heart decorated scooter helmet and repeatedly head-butted the wall trying to knock a hole in the plaster. Escaping the madness I went outside to the porch and spotted Martin across the street at the pay phone. I went over. He was calling Paul Westerburg -- just to chat, I suppose. It was his second choice. Peter Buck wasn't home.

Right now I am listening to Westerburg's new record (Stereo/Mono) thinking it couldn't possibly be 17 years ago that all us young bastards were high on "Tim," thinking there was something special about that place in time. Standing on our toes in china doll shoes, we could almost see past the horizon to a post-Reagan, post-MTV, post-pre-packaged-bullshit world. Seemed something meaningful and good was about to happen.

There's no point getting older if you can't claim a bit of wisdom along with your gray hair, so, here goes: The meaningful and good stuff was happening right in front of us. It was and (still is) up to us to head-butt the wall, to shoot down enemy planes, and to place a call (or two) to "greatness" -- just to chat. We thought the world was fucked up then, with Reagan and Iran/Contra, and the "War on Drugs" and shitty corporate rock and roll. Take a look around. The stakes are higher now and our responsibility is greater because we wield more power as full-grown adults. Don't settle. Demand the good shit (from ourselves and our leaders -- or better yet, lets just lead for a while). Write more songs. Blog. Have a good day.


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