I’ve Got Your Letter; You’ve Got My Song.

The Foo Fighters/Weezer show got me thinking last night. Here’s some stream of whatever…

It was the first weekend of October. I had been single for a few weeks after a year-plus relationship. I was nineteen. Of course, all of this added up to devestation. Nineteen-year-old males just can’t handle break ups when they think they’re in love. Hell, no teenager can, regardless of gender.

The first weekend of October in Aurora, Indiana means the Farmer’s Fair, a typical street carnival which was just beginning to become a shell of its former self at the time. You could get some okay carnie food, and you could watch the parade, but that’s it. The important thing is that Farmer’s Fair meant all the college kids came back to town for the weekend. Since I had transfered to the University of Cincinnati and was now living at home again, this was important.

I guess it would have been Thursday night or thereabouts when I shagged off to Benny Turner’s house. It was me, Benny, and a girl I’ll just describe as S. Benny had the new Weezer CD, Pinkerton, with him, and he made us listen to it (he didn’t have to try hard or anything). I remember the squeal of feedback followed by the four taps on the ride bell that began “Tired of Sex,” and just like that, I was in love again.

We listened to Pinkerton all the way through, the three of us talking about nothing and listening to Rivers Cuomo pour his heart out the small, tinny speakers of Benny’s radio. I felt a charge of adrenaline shoot through my system at the end of “Across the Sea,” and I sat in shocked silence through “Butterfly.”

Wow.

That night, I kissed S when I left Benny’s. She came over again on Sunday, and we kissed some more. I never called her like I said I would, never visited her at school, and never even emailed her until I moved to Austin three years later. I screwed up something that could have been very good for me because I was heartbroken and weird, nineteen-years-old and already more worried about my bald spot than being a good person.

I saw S maybe once, twice again. She wouldn’t speak to me either time.

I lost her.

But I still have Pinkerton, and it still makes me feel the way I did that Thursday night in October of 1996.

I wish I could get my head outta the sand
’cause I think we’d make a good team
And you would keep my fingernails clean
But that’s just a stupid dream that I won’t realize
’cause I can’t even look in your eyes without shakin’
And I ain’t fakin’
I’ll bring home the turkey if you bring home the bacon.