Here’s my spleenvent: I found this picture under my desk this morning. It’s me and my girlfriend Lori Blue, the night our all-girl punk band played at the St Louis Music Awards in, I think, 1998. Lori wore her famous naugahyde Nehru suit. I remember my silver-sparkle Les Paul wouldn’t stay in tune no matter what I did so I sucked even worse than usual.
Lori was an awesome drummer and all-around good egg. Drugs and booze and a gun killed her about a year after this photo was taken. I still think, maybe every day: if only I’d been able to get her out here to the country in time. To the fucking simple life, you know? Where the air isn’t heavy with closing-time desperation, and leaning against a fence with a cup of coffee in the morning, listening to horses chewing hay, would have been a pretty good reason not to kill herself.
I know, I know. But fuck, you know?
Morning-after edit to late-nite wine-drinking post: During fits of maudlin regret and bathetic nostalgia, I always forget to remember that old Lori was as dirt-averse a girl as ever whacked a snare. She wouldn’t have lasted five minutes out here in Manure Pile, Texas. Also, she never drank coffee.