It's 1973. I'm 35 years old, here at the communal Dana House with Lou, 11 years younger. We're sitting around the huge kitchen table with ten or so others, passing around a bottle of tequila, a plate of lemon wedges, a shaker of salt.
Earlier we listened to Pure Prairie League, in person, in the living room where they started several years ago, before they and "Amie" became nationally known. Some of them are at the table with us, but I don't know their names. All I know is that this is SO MUCH FUN!
When the tequila runs out we'll begin passing around joints. At some point I will go to the bathroom to take out my contact lenses and drop one on the floor. Then I'll weep, not because I can't find the contact lens but because I think it must be so lonely all alone down there.
The music will start again and I'll go upstairs with Lou until late tomorrow morning, certain that even though we're on a residential street in Cincinnati, Ohio, we're somewhere near the ocean, because I'm floating on its waves and (you can start the music now) singing "I can see why you think you belong to me..."
Earlier we listened to Pure Prairie League, in person, in the living room where they started several years ago, before they and "Amie" became nationally known. Some of them are at the table with us, but I don't know their names. All I know is that this is SO MUCH FUN!
When the tequila runs out we'll begin passing around joints. At some point I will go to the bathroom to take out my contact lenses and drop one on the floor. Then I'll weep, not because I can't find the contact lens but because I think it must be so lonely all alone down there.
The music will start again and I'll go upstairs with Lou until late tomorrow morning, certain that even though we're on a residential street in Cincinnati, Ohio, we're somewhere near the ocean, because I'm floating on its waves and (you can start the music now) singing "I can see why you think you belong to me..."
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