There's a small pocket of Delaware that encourages young, successful, single people to bludgeon their brain cells and livers with alcohol. My 1990s memories of the place are beyond fuzzy -- they're fractured and gray. This is for the best. I have a hunch that total recall would engender great waves of shame. One scene remains particularly vivid, though:
A typical beach condo, a couple of good friends, a bunch of their friends, and lots and lots of bottles. My friends are used to the routine. Their friends are downright invincible. I reach my fill before anybody else does. While everybody is still ingesting mass-quantities in the kitchen, I stumble into the living room to commandeer the stereo. A small pile of classic-rock CDs. Exile on Main Street. Sweet. Turn volume knob from like 4 ... to 7. Press play, it's "Rocks Off." Bean bag chair. Immediately, in my half-numb state, I'm not paying attention to Mick or Keith. Just Charlie Watts, that masterful, gentlemanly thump: Charlie Watts, man! Listen to that! I'm experiencing a sublime blend of exhilaration and paralysis. Song plays for a couple of minutes before anybody notices that really loud music is coming from the living room. People trickle in and out, concerned that I either need a beer, or need a buddy. Nah, man, just listen to Charlie Watts! The general response is like, "Are you sure you don't want another beer? Come and do Jager shots!" I pass out somewhere around "Tumblin' Dice."
(read the complete and ongoing Secret History here.)
It's kinda cool for me to have some insight into these narrative chronicles. I remember I whipped a basketball into the back of Ronald V.B.'s head in the Governor Wolf gym during a S.H. hoops practice, man that kid just had it coming, and Coach M. totally let it slide. But maybe I should'nt have posted this here in the area tagged Grotto Pizza.
Posted by: rob d | August 07, 2008 at 14:43