Secret Agent Fred and I shared a most amusing afternoon recently with an old friend from mrpeenee’s long gone wasted youth. We were tucked into tea at Neiman’s; it was, as I pointed out, the very heart of the One Percent Land. Tea at Neiman’s only made the conversation even odder: surrounded by the most respectable of matrons and the Very Good handbags, we traded preposterous stories about our druggy past. Preposterous because among other things, he claimed I showed up in Austin on a visit once baring nitrous oxide whippets. While it’s true there was a time when I found whippets most amusing in a conscious altering sort of way, the idea that I would cater them is not worth considering. I was poor in those days, sweetie, how on earth could I afford exotica for my friends?
My biggest problem debunking claims like this is my memory of those times is patchy, at best. Sieve-like is probably a more accurate adjective. So when these wild tales about long gone shenanigans erupt, my whole defense consists of spluttering “I did no such thing.” No one at the table even pretended to believe me.
Speaking of drugginess from days gone by, let us consider this newish, bang up version of Pink Floyd’s Shine on You Crazy Diamond. The song manages to hit both the tune’s motha-o-gawd-I-am-tripping-like-a-thousand-screaming-monkeys effect and also a nod to the very bluesy sound those incredibly white English bands were shooting for in those days. Pink Floyd, Cream, Traffic, Rolling Stones, everyone wanted to be Blind Willy Lead Foot Pig Meat Johnson.
I like it.