Never Going Back
- Fleetwood Mac
So, Last Saturday, I fell victim to what some would deem, manipulative, alterior motives of a friend, and wound up somewhere, where, well, I shouldn’t, and wouldn’t’…EVER have been without his blatant disregard for my feelings (I’m not bitter. okay? OKAY?). With that said, some good, like in most cases, came from the night. Well, a lot of good, admittadly came.
The following of which, will explain why. So, the good comes, wait for it, 1…2…3…right…now: I wound up following some old friends, so to speak, back to their place. My friends Zach and Manuel have a really, uhm, sweet? apartment, close to mine. My favorite person, the man, the legend, first name James last name rhymes with ass…and class…but youll have to guess, as to what else rhymes with sass, if your genuinely interested in the surname of my fellow jewish bretheren, here. Okay, back to the topic at hand: When I say Zach and Manu have a nice apartment, I mean there pretty much typical Allston residence transcends it’s very normal (I will say it’s suprisingly clean, for four boys in a small space) existance and aesthetic, by way of Zach and his inheritance of his dad’s record player, which is beautiful, and then of course, there is the accompanying records, which it kills me to admit, are collectivelly the best mix of dad rock, original, not a redistribution in the bunch, I’ve ever witnessed. It makes my own collection look like pussy shit. Uh, my ego is bruising as we speak.
Then the earth split in half, and formed back together, again, as the owner, whom I’ve previosly mentioned, slid from its’ iconic jacket, the holy grail of vinyl recordings: Rumours. Yes, the same Rumours, that, when we die, and one day, aliens of the future, that are green, and speaking a language similar to the Sponge Bob episode where him and Patrick Star are lost “downtown”, will dig up our bones, and this record…throw the bones back in the ground, and cry of happiness, for they just hit the musical jackpot, and will probably be rewarded such a treasure of a finding with a holiday, because it’s Fleetwood Mac.
It’s Stevie Nicks, and Lindsay Buckingham. It’s Mick Fleetwood. It’s perfection. It’s a completely ridiculous, hypothetical tale, but it’s that good, and you know it. I am cyber bitch slapping you, any of you, that are shaking there heads in disagreement, right now. Rude.
Anyways, like so many of your favorite music writer’s (by your favorite, i mean me, myself..and I…Madi, duh) succesful nights of the past, epic renditions to the tune of the orignal recording ensued; and, well, I must say, for dog shit on his face, Jame’s roommate had an impressive and expansive knowledge for the band in question: as for the dog shit? Well, he doesn’t know, because I doubt he reads this homage to mustaches and scruff alike, but Ethan forgot to shave…I think? at least it seemed like the best rebuttle to his (obviously stemming from jealousy he didn’t have his own) slams against my sparkles.
Sorry, for the side note, and the exclusion of the other remaining parties present at the time: they weren’t so bad themselves, at least in the realm of Fleetwood Mac…and stuff, that is. From that, I concluded, that maybe it’s about time to show up with that slice of pizza, and bottle of vodka, I owe my pending polaroid friend, and well, maybe it’s about time.
Oh, and Dog shit aside, I’ve got to admit, I can make some pretty great facial expressions from across the library…cough cough: I guess, what I mean is, I want these kids, to be my guys, because I’ve got a new piece of glass resembling a pink lava lamp, and it needs more attention, from the right kind of people, from the sass class ass…bass, from the person who owes me a game of backgammon. I want to have so much fun that I’m never going back (to a lame party, at least) again…