Music Fans

Subject:     Sam He Am
From: slojimi@moc.com
Date:     August 31, 2008 7:10:58 AM EDT
To:     Gabriel@codeowl.com

Mornin’ Son! Had a visitor last night, blast from the past—your past. Didn’t want to bother you because I know Silas hasn’t  been sleeping that well. But I think you should check in on Sammy, our late night guest, see if he’s OK, and maybe try to get together with him and the rest of your band of yore.

Little after ten, we’re watching some tube and during a commerical, muted as we do, hear footsteps on the deck. Look out and see a guy by that little post light we leave on all night. I yell out, Who’s there? and get back, Mishter Gabe Dad? Again, Who are you? answered by, Sammy yknow Gabe’s old pal! Well, he’s pretty much lubricated and pretty upset. So we sit out on the screened-in porch, Lois makes us some coffee and the two of us listen to his tale of woe.

(Back story [would that I could capture Sammy’s rendition]: Sammy’s up at Green Bridge playing golf with some guys from Sussex after which they had some beers at Vance’s and were arguing about bands and Sammy got highly insulted that these guys had never heard of Weaving Katrina and he got highly insulting to a young lady at the bar who happened to be named Katrina and he got tossed out and started wandering down the road when he saw our little beacon and thought he recognized the place from back when he was still in his teens and you guys used to drop by from time to time and hang out on the deck.)

All right I’ll try for his voice. Went something like this:

Snot freakin fair man! We worked sooo damn hard. And for what? Playing thoshitty bars and getting shit on. Not like we was foolin ourself but to die an be buried in Sussex. Haint right guys. Haint picked up the axe in months. Why freakin bother! You know how old I am, oh sure you do. Whym I still cutting lawns, huh? Landscrapin my ass. Still jush mowin. Gabes moved on, huh? Wassat, conputers? Wassy do? Desh job? Sit on his ass all day? Poor freakin guy—sho mush protenshil… Oh, heh, lookit, lookit, lookit. Shtevie senme dis. He doan even play no more. Jush wrisem down. Shtories of our lies man…

Pretty much passed out on the porch. Stretched him out on the sofa there. Fed him and drove him home in the morning. You should call him. He wants to talk. Oh, and thanks to camera-always-at-the-ready Lois, here’s Stevie’s lyric. She thought you’d like to see it. See what you’re missing back home!
Love from us,
The Guidance Department