Sitting outside with Sammy, working on our laptops.
Closing the screen door so that the cats don’t escape, then remembering our last cat died in 2012.
Finding my first skateboard in the garage.
The heart cut-out in the grip tape.
The fake scratches I made in the bottom of the deck so that it looked like I knew how to grind.
Riding Mom’s scooter around the neighborhood.
Playing the Hungry Brain with Warner Brownfield.
Doing the age-old can’t-find-the-opening-in-the-curtain thing.
Warner’s beautiful, free, fun, outsider country music, like Michael Hurley meets Skip Spence.
The friend’s mom who told me “you kept the band honest.”
Having a conversation with a person I look up to, “drummer to drummer.”
The Lyft driver, Luis, who loves the Doors, telling me about the time he saw Robby Krieger at City Winery; about almost getting kicked out for yelling all the song titles after Krieger played the first notes; about meeting Krieger afterwards and asking him four questions (“What was it like to hang with Jimmy? How much acid did you do? What was it like being in the time with all the hotels and stuff?” [I can’t remember the fourth one]); about Krieger smiling and laughing at most of them, but responding to the acid question (paraphrased), “We did more acid than you can fit in a ten-gallon bucket.”
I have to say, I’ve never liked the Doors, but the version of whatever song Luis was playing sounded haunting and kinda cool at 3AM on the empty highway.
How Luis has collected more than thirty versions of “Light My Fire.”
How Luis is disgusted by the grave-robbers who stole Jim Morrison’s head. (I found no evidence online of people stealing Morrison’s skull, but someone did steal a bust that sat on top of his grave.)