September 21st, Jigga-What.
The Bong and this Reggae Song.
You know you're getting old when you start hearing The Breeders during WBRU's Retro-Lunch hour. And they're playing songs from REM albums you bought on the day they first came out. Or the DJ spins that Concrete Blonde song, Joey, that seems to mean so much even though you never considered yourself extremely fond of it. Anything you remember hearing ten years ago when it cranked fresh gets your ass feeling all nostalgic. You don't long to go back, but you acknowledge a simpler time, when you were in a different set of spirits. It remains part of you.If they wanna call that place, your place, Retro, well... rock on. You say, "Shake your money-maker", unless you happen to make money with contact explosives or cans of soda.
Outside, as you type, rain falls. Nothing torrential, just good old fashioned rain. Thunder comes and goes, and water sliding off the roof makes that echoey sound as it splashes into the gutter. It reminds you of Those Days, falling asleep on a bed by the window sill, audio-overload in the still, young dark. Rods and cones sparring when you decide to wander back into the bathroom to pee.
You already think of that Afroman pot-smokin' song as belonging to Those Days, somehow. Summer ended, indeed. The thunder rolls again, and you settle on 65% as the percentage of yourself that feels determined to run outside and get wet.
Before watching the firewors on July fourth, everyone gathered around on the grass for a spontaneously conceived game of dual-set croquet. The setup facilitated maximum confrontation, and therefore oodles of fun. You enjoyed burgers and barbeque, a swim; you joined three people and three frisbees for an exhastive game of Disc Multi-tasking, singing along with Debaser. Dangerous business.
Wandering through town, watching the celebration, the gang took turns sucking from the teat of the Camelback, filled with plenty of Red-Bull-and-vodka. You had more in the car, just in case.
You saw glowing necklaces.
That was a good day.
