I just got back a bit ago from the wake of a dude I went to college with. We weren’t really friends, but we were friendly enough when we saw each other. He was an SOU rat, so was I, and at Seton Hall, where I was an undergrad, if you were in that it was pretty much you vs. the universe. Not that there wasn’t the occasional piece of shit, but by and large, most of us could agree that everyone else was much worse.
The plan was to go early and avoid the after-work crowd. Something about that kind of thing — “Nice to see you, wish it was better circumstances.” — just doesn’t do it for me. I was in and out of the thing and came back to the office to do more work and have a beer before calling it a day. I imagined it would be empty when I got back here. It isn’t. Whatever. I’m not really in mourning. Like I say, we weren’t close, and as much as I automatically internalize every little fucking thing and make it about me, I wouldn’t call myself devastated. No sympathy comments, I guess is what I’m saying.
Weedeater‘s first album, And Justice for Y’all showed up in my mail the other day — another in the recent swath of eBay purchases. The auction, oddly enough, went off at 3:49AM, and as my habit is that of last-second bidding, I set the alarm for 3:42 and was just conscious enough by the time the intervening seven minutes had passed that I could bid. The Patient Mrs., bless her heart, rolled over, grunted a sincere “What the fuck???” (three question marks included), and promptly went back to sleep. It was $27 after shipping, which in a more lucid state was probably more than I’d look to pay, but fuck it. At quarter to four in the morning, I wasn’t going to lose.
It was one of the original inclusions I made when I started my Amazon wishlist (probably six years ago now), and in all that time, it never once showed up as available on the site. Sleeping Village reissued it in 2009, and I think that’s out of print now too, but I wanted the Game Two original from 2001 and it was relatively cheap compared to “not available,” so I made it mine. Having just come back from watching some poor kid’s mother and sisters cry over him while he’s sitting in his coffin with his band’s CD by his hands, the cover-up makeup clashing against his skin-tone to mask the immediacy of flesh’s decay — incense burning to cover the smell — Weedeater‘s the perfect comfort.
Billy Anderson mastered the record, Arik Roper did the art, and what I most hoped about it — that Dixie‘s bass fuzz would be in tact as it is on all their subsequent records — turned out to be precisely the case. I might have felt like I paid too much money for it until I heard the opening of “Monkey Junction,” which vibrates so hard it should be used to relieve back pain, and fuck it. Just fuck it.
When I go, I want Sabbath and booze, and volume.
Here’s to it.
Tags: Game Two, North Carolina, Weedeater