my freshman year in college, I was hired as a counselor at Camp Tova. This was a very bad decision for all involved. I lacked certain counseling essentials, such as a fondness for six-year-olds and any sense of the activities they might enjoy. “Let’s do some weight training!” I might say. Or, “Who wants to visit the cemetery?”
The crucial thing was this: the arts and crafts counselor was
hot
. She was five years older than me and she went to arts school in New York City and knew actual junkies. To impress her, I volunteered to DJ the first (and only) camp dance party and spent the next three weeksfretting over the playlist. The big day arrived. The children filed into the multipurpose room. Overweening Jewish mothers assembled to chaperone. The Camp Director gestured for the music to begin.
Was it wise for me to open with “Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads? I will say no. Nor was “Shout” by Tears for Fears especially apt. Then I played “Add It Up” by the Violent Femmes, which begins with Gordon Gano wailing,
Why can’t I get just one kiss?
It’s an energetic anthem of lust, which I spent energetically lusting after the arts and crafts babe, who was dancing with a bunch of kids (lustily if you must know the truth). Did the ethical concerns of playing such a song for six-year-olds occur to me? Not really. I was more occupied by its effects on the arts and crafts babe and how she might be induced to grant me
just one fuck
. And why did this phrase leap to mind? Because, come to think of it, Gordon Gano was just about to wail it to an auditorium full of six-year-olds and their Jewish mothers and the Camp Director.
I turned from the dance floor and began a slow-motion dash toward my record player, because this was still a situation I could rescue, I could break the kids into two groups for a quick game of Sharks and Minnows, or Who Wants to Not Report the DJ to Child Protective Services? But Gano was singing too fast and I was too far away and the Camp Director was staring at me with her mouth open. Then I plowed into one of my campers, a lethargic little turd named Corey who continually farted during story hour. It was this collision that doomed me, because you can’t run over a six-year-old and keep going, though believe me I considered it, and thus, as I pulled him upright and brushed him off, I heard Gano’s anguished contralto ask the assembled,
Why can’t I get just one fuck?
I guess it’s something to do with luck
Actually, it’s not.
2. Agreeing to Buy James Cotton Medicine This dates back to my days as a rock critic in El Paso, though the show in question took place 350 miles away, in Lubbock. I had managed to convince my editor that James Cotton was one of the most important musicians on earth and close to dying. The former was possibly true, if you consider harmonica the most important instrument on earth. The latter I made up. The reason I wanted to interview Cotton was that my pal Holden had just been shipped off to Lubbock.
I showed up early for the concert and found his road manager, who led me backstage. As a younger man, Cotton had fronted Howlin’ Wolf’s band and toured with Janis Joplin and done backflips on stage. He was well past his acrobatic days. He moved slowly; his hands trembled.
“You gonna be all right?” his manager said.
Cotton nodded.
Once his manager was gone Cotton turned and, as if noticing me for the first time, said, “You suppose you could do me a favor, young man?”
“Of course,” I said.
“I need to get some medicine.”
“Sure,” I said.
This would make awesome color for my story. What could be better than fetching medicine for a dying, legendary bluesman? I pondered what sort of medicine the old fellow might need. Hopefully it would be something dramatic, such as nitroglycerin tablets.
“We gotta drive somewhere,” Cotton said.
He was whispering and so I whispered back, “Okay, let me get my friend. He has the car.”
“Hurry
The crucial thing was this: the arts and crafts counselor was
hot
. She was five years older than me and she went to arts school in New York City and knew actual junkies. To impress her, I volunteered to DJ the first (and only) camp dance party and spent the next three weeksfretting over the playlist. The big day arrived. The children filed into the multipurpose room. Overweening Jewish mothers assembled to chaperone. The Camp Director gestured for the music to begin.
Was it wise for me to open with “Psycho Killer” by Talking Heads? I will say no. Nor was “Shout” by Tears for Fears especially apt. Then I played “Add It Up” by the Violent Femmes, which begins with Gordon Gano wailing,
Why can’t I get just one kiss?
It’s an energetic anthem of lust, which I spent energetically lusting after the arts and crafts babe, who was dancing with a bunch of kids (lustily if you must know the truth). Did the ethical concerns of playing such a song for six-year-olds occur to me? Not really. I was more occupied by its effects on the arts and crafts babe and how she might be induced to grant me
just one fuck
. And why did this phrase leap to mind? Because, come to think of it, Gordon Gano was just about to wail it to an auditorium full of six-year-olds and their Jewish mothers and the Camp Director.
I turned from the dance floor and began a slow-motion dash toward my record player, because this was still a situation I could rescue, I could break the kids into two groups for a quick game of Sharks and Minnows, or Who Wants to Not Report the DJ to Child Protective Services? But Gano was singing too fast and I was too far away and the Camp Director was staring at me with her mouth open. Then I plowed into one of my campers, a lethargic little turd named Corey who continually farted during story hour. It was this collision that doomed me, because you can’t run over a six-year-old and keep going, though believe me I considered it, and thus, as I pulled him upright and brushed him off, I heard Gano’s anguished contralto ask the assembled,
Why can’t I get just one fuck?
I guess it’s something to do with luck
Actually, it’s not.
2. Agreeing to Buy James Cotton Medicine This dates back to my days as a rock critic in El Paso, though the show in question took place 350 miles away, in Lubbock. I had managed to convince my editor that James Cotton was one of the most important musicians on earth and close to dying. The former was possibly true, if you consider harmonica the most important instrument on earth. The latter I made up. The reason I wanted to interview Cotton was that my pal Holden had just been shipped off to Lubbock.
I showed up early for the concert and found his road manager, who led me backstage. As a younger man, Cotton had fronted Howlin’ Wolf’s band and toured with Janis Joplin and done backflips on stage. He was well past his acrobatic days. He moved slowly; his hands trembled.
“You gonna be all right?” his manager said.
Cotton nodded.
Once his manager was gone Cotton turned and, as if noticing me for the first time, said, “You suppose you could do me a favor, young man?”
“Of course,” I said.
“I need to get some medicine.”
“Sure,” I said.
This would make awesome color for my story. What could be better than fetching medicine for a dying, legendary bluesman? I pondered what sort of medicine the old fellow might need. Hopefully it would be something dramatic, such as nitroglycerin tablets.
“We gotta drive somewhere,” Cotton said.
He was whispering and so I whispered back, “Okay, let me get my friend. He has the car.”
“Hurry
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