Drinking With Ghosts

Previously, I blogged about unearthing some microcassettes recorded from college. In the spirit of Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas, I had affixed the recorder to my chest, with intentions of making sense of the audio tapes at a later juncture. All these years, I had remembered the first time I had this idea. And long have I daydreamed about listening to the audio from those lost tapes.

And I got more than I bargained for. Tonight, I went through the stack of tapes, but there was much more than I initially thought. Recordings I had completely forgotten about.

Funnily enough, some of the recordings were from what I have come to consider iconic experiences, the quintessential escapades. This means nothing to you, probably, but... it's remarkable that, of all of the nights I wish I could relive, two of the most memorable of them are on tape. What a find! And I journeyed tonight. Oh, how I journeyed.


Saturday, September 14, 2002.
Once in a while, I think back to this particular weekend. This was the essence of bachelor freedom and leisure. J.G. had two friends visiting from St. Louis, and the four of us just screwed around for a whole weekend. Pour some White Russians and watch The Big Lebowski. Sit on the porch and listen to Beck. Hop into a car, see what happens. Split up, and there's your first mistake; before smartphones, it wasn't so easy to keep tabs on one another, and for poor Josh, it was like herding cats.  There was much ado about male bonding. Quirky music and bourbon.

Of all the places I've been, of all the people I've met, and of all the stupid things I've done... that weekend encapsulated all of the most desirable elements of that era: no deadlines, no responsibilities, just a bunch of laid-back dudes without girlfriends, looking for a good time. Cool autumn air and an abundance of alcohol. Youth and invincibility.

Although I try to wax poetic, I fail every time I try to describe it. I can't explain the appeal of that particular weekend. It was what it was. And it has never been duplicated since.

But I fucking have part of it on tape. A personal treasure.


Friday, February 21, 2003.
Take all the people from the aforementioned iconic weekend and erase them. Erase and replace them. Because one of the key players, the enigmatic character J.G. had since abruptly and without warning dropped out of Truman, turning my attention to another crew. You know who you are. Remember the green house on Franklin Street? Yeah, you do! How many times did we, as a group, waste whole nights there? And how many times since then did I wish I would time travel back, just to sink into the couch and indulge in the vodka-fueled banter? Well, tonight I finally got that wish.

That was the night where all those pictures came from. Strangely, I forgot that I was also recording audio to accompany the photos. This was back in the days of 35mm, too. When you had to actually develop the film. I know I'm just rambling to myself here, that no one reading this actually gives a shit, but I can't tell you how blown away I am that I unearthed these tapes. How grateful I am. And how badly I am kicking myself for not recording more precious times.

I remember that day well. Earlier, I went to Days Inn for live music as part of the annual Jazz Fest, as put on by Phi Mu Alpha. In the lobby beforehand, I had caught the last ten minutes of Tears of the Sun on TV, while drinking a Tom Collins. Later, sitting int he back of the private event room or whatever, I was left with a feeling of remorse for not focusing on jazz. It was a great time.

Afterwards, I drifted back to the green house on Franklin Street, to meet my posse for an even better time. And that is where the recording began.


(There was also the Macon Incident, Operation David and Goliath, but we don't need to talk about that right now, at least not quite yet. But I am amazed and grateful that I have it on tape!)

Hearing the voices of old friends and even some ancillary characters whom I barely remember at all, it was quite an experience. Two of the most memorable (and forgettable!) nights from college, revisited.

The reason I blog about this is for those of you who were involved (without naming names) to know that you still matter to me, and you always will. If only we can find a way to keep that camaraderie alive.

"You okay, Jim? How do you feel?"
"Young! I feel young!"

I guess I am just a sentimental fool.

There was also an undated tape, which, based on context, must have been just a little bit prior to my senior recital in October 2003, which was just a living room chat with me, Adam Hardin, and my then-roommate, eventual-groomsman Justin McAninch, and his then-girlfriend, now-wife Melissa. A nice bonus.

However, two of the microcassatte tapes from the lot were of interviews from my time at BGSU, after Truman. Naturally, I immediately ejected those tapes, lest they fuck up my good vibes. I put them off until later this week. After all, it only makes sense to delve into BGSU after immersing myself in Truman tonight. And I am overdue for a return to some of the unresolved shit from grad school, so this is a logical pivot point for such a transition... which will probably be my next blog post...

And so, in an unexpected and weird way, I bid a fond farewell to Truman State University. Until we meet or reminisce again.