The Flippist Archive vault is closed today.
It will reopen Monday, with a special report from ICELAND.
The professor thanks you for your patience and understanding.
Tom thought back on that summer years ago: we were young; the girls were beautiful; everything was glorious; anything was possible. THE SUMMER. The band was playing every week, finally getting into a groove, having some money was nice, too. And it was truly glorious, at least for a couple of songs every night. Kevin, who had way too much talent to be playing the club scene, was on fire. His vocal performances would often stop the show—people stomping and screaming until the band would play an instrumental just to give him a break. Everyone else in the band had improved too, excepting Ned, the drummer. It was an odd situation. He was technically the most advanced musician in the group, his mastery of rudiments and his previous experience in a variety of musically differing bands—each playing at a high level—should have been a perfect fit for the situation, but the only thing that really fit him was a twelve pack of Special Export beer—“green death”—his beverage of choice. The previous winter’s gigs had been great, transcendent at times, but by summer Ned had upped his intake of barley pops and, by the time of the Labor Day LSD caper, he was history. Although the other drummers that auditioned were capable, none could supply the solid foundation that the group needed. It was a nervy decision that I was glad I didn’t have to make. He didn’t act like he held a grudge, but his death from COPD a few years previously made it a moot point.“Look who’s here! The Queen of the Egg Dance!”
The abortion summer. That’s how I will always remember it, three procedures among six of us. The love songs the band played were a dirty trick. Or was that how it has always worked? Rock ‘n’ roll hoochie-koo. We were only 18. Not that that’s an excuse, our mothers were mostly married by 18, but they got old in a hurry and spent a fair amount of time crying. But the guys in the band weren’t in any hurry to grow up. After that summer we did put our collective feet down—no more abortions. Later, a couple of us did marry some of the guys in the band and we did have babies. I dont think our kids made our mistakes, not that I’d know, the morning-after pill, you know.
The old house had seen its share of parties, one of the older neighbors remembered that it had once been a tippling house in the 1930s. She also remembered the “horse-faced woman” who entertained teenage boys in the back bedroom. There was also a stash of “medicinal” whiskey bottles that had been left in the attic by a serious drinker. The previous owners were Hispanic, nice people from San Antonio, who had sold the house to us when the freeway expansion plans feel through. Because of that we were left in limbo for several years. We did have a good twenty-year ride and made out OK on the resettlement deal when the freeway did go in. We had our share of house parties, none a classy as this one, but the idea was exactly the same, except for the egg dance: ‘A little song, a little dance, a little seltzer down your pants.’ Friends old and new, getting together, kicking off our shoes, forgetting the crushing weight of our mundane lives for a few hours.“How’s retirement going for you?” asked Tom.
After my stint at the Junior College, I returned to the big University.
Webber Park was already a half-century old when I began to use it in the late 50s. It was actually a complex: a swimming pool; a library; a skating pond; a creek. It even had its own little waterfall (pictured above) in addition to the standard picnic tables and walking paths.
More Objets d’art from Flippist World HQ.
More film randomness from 2004
The Ruth Galloway Mystery Series
Miscellany from 2006…
Another Guitar Post!