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Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 27, 2001 || 12:35 am

So Bonehead fell back into my life. I laugh with glee, because maybe a few other people will fall back in as well. Then the gut-check kicks in and I go, “Unhhh, wait a second here, that prolly means some ugly shit will start dropping back in as well, and no matter how strong I think I am on any given day, I know at base level that I am ultimately not THAT strong.” The second time up onto the wagon was more difficult and left me with more hollow eyes and scabbier knees that never seem to heal. And let’s not even talk about the night sweats that I never seemed to have before that almighty desperate and psuedo-euphoric time….

So seeing Bonehead is great, but I let him know that I am still dead and gone or at least very far away from others. Bonehead’s hip. He gets what I am saying. He has my number and we talk and laugh and he still has that “ahhhhh” way of speaking that makes everyone assume him to be just another dummy, another gear-happy motorhead that couldn’t even spell his name right on your friendly local battery of I.Q. and/or placement tests.

Bonehead’s laid-back sexiness, his Jim Morrison-esque intense good looks (lorday-mama, them sharp blue eyessss!) and throwaway sensuality aren’t lost on me, but they never ran roughshod over me, either. You’re just destined to call some people ‘pal’, much to the amazement of your girlfriends, who would lose all morality and dignity just to see him naked for a couple of hours –nay, minutes.

In short, Bonehead is way cool, junior. Some people are great fun to run into again.

Eventually, as somewhere in me I knew it would, conversation turned to Seth. In all actuality, it happened after several conversations, and I was surprised to discover that it didn’t hurt quite so much as talk of him used to. No, it didn’t hurt at all…until later in the evening, that is, when Seth’s sideways grin and beautiful hands started to haunt me. So I took one glass of wine, and then another, because conjuring him up is so fucking vivid. My God, I loved my grandmother, but I can’t recall her half so vividly as I can recall Seth, and his brother Josh thinks this is funny because it takes him much effort and even then he can barely recollect.

I, however, can hear Seth’s voice as clear as if I had just spoken to him, can recall the way that he spoke through his teeth and the sound of his chuckle. Another one with sex appeal to spare, that was Seth, and my female friends (not to mention a couple of male ones) wondered aloud why we were never making it, even casually.

I guess the passion was so focused in the music that it never had to travel a physically intimate route. The mingling of bodies just couldn’t compare to the plateau of richness that mingling our souls together in song could have produced, so there was never sexual tension even while invisibly thumbing our noses at the “it’d be like doing my sibling or something” reasoning.

Making music with Seth was a glorious thing, and I will probably never know a musician as fine as he was. Had he lived longer than what he did, there is no telling where kismet would have landed him. I always felt really honored that he chose to play with me, because I know without a doubt that he was light years beyond me. He had crossed paths with some of the musical GREATS, I mean the BIG CATS, and it was obvious that they respected him and his talent. Hell, they’d ask him for input, but Seth was so easy and self-effacing that you would never have known that he had this innate inner hearing, this monster gift that set him apart from others and put the mark of One Who Would Be Known on him.

Moral of the story? Never hit a gas main while driving massively fast in your new ‘Vette, or you’ll become fodder for any number of impassioned fifties “Dead Too Young” doo-wop tunes.

My glib nature is what keeps me from rending my garments and tearing out my fucking rock star hair, har-dee-harrrrr….

Seth on the brain, Seth on the brain, and I can’t shake him, no-no, no-nooooooo.The last song we ever played together was over at Marvin’s house. It was an impromptu jam, just for fun, and we travelled through genres with mad abandon, someone blurting out the name of a song and we’d all dig in, howling.

So hearing ‘Amie‘ by Pure Prairie League really fucks me up inside when it occasionally falls into my earspace. Then I think about how, after that one, everyone put away the instruments and we consumed mass amounts of Rolling Rock and made up dirty limericks. The evening ended with us dancing around the living room, singing along with old negro spirituals (courtesy of the wicked righteous Alan Lomax) and then falling asleep in an exhausted, jumbled pile on the big sofa. Happy times, lawdy, happy times.

And did I tell you that I miss Seth enormously?

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

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