Ester's Feathers

For the last two days I have been corresponding with a guy who found me on FaceBook. My FB status is almost perfuctory - I set it up years back and have done little to update it. He had to fill me in on who he was, since I didn't remember him. And no, thank God, I hadn't slept with him. I was just in a band with him. The worst band I've ever been in. The worst band which also was the only band that bore my name. He, seemingly, has nothing but great memories. My memories, the few I have, include our first gig, which we got after I'd just joined them. We didn't have a name. I know, some idiot suggested (probably me): Let's call it The Cha Cha Samoa Band. So, the booking agency was able to give a name to the club that we then drove like maniacs to get to, in Salem, OR. We did, as I recall, an inordinate amount (in my opinion, anything more than zero is too much) of Robin Trower covers. It was one such song, the one that starts with drums, that we opened with. The drummer screwed up. AND STOPPED. And started up again. And fucked up again. AND STOPPED AGAIN. Perhaps he did this just twice, or maybe it was 20 times, which is more like what it felt like. I think the gig was for a week or something, but they fired us that night.

Now this guy is really nice. He sends me some MP3s, only one could I bear to listen to, and this pic. I'm fuzzy on the details, but I don't remember any Rocket Morton bullshit, I just remember we called it TCCSB. In my own personal fever dream, I left shortly after the Eugene debaucle, but perhaps not. Perhaps I went on to be a giant woman with four tiny guys with bad hair. I think the drummer is the shirtless guy looking all cocky. Confidential to drummer guy: I don't think you have a lot to be cocky about unless perhaps it's your cock, but thank God, I wouldn't know. Or at least wouldn't remember...