19:14 - October 19, 2002
the hippie's guitar part II
... except a different hippie, and a different guitar, and the threat of death if I ever call him a hippie again. He came and sat down across from me while I was reading at lunch yesterday and started talking to me, so I invited him hiking with Andrew and Chris and I. Needless to say, Andrew and Chris didn't wake up this morning in time, despite the fact that they told me they'd leave their door open so I could come in and jump on their beds and drag them out. When I finally talked my way into their building and went upstairs, their door was locked. Fuckers. So guitarboy and I went by ourselves.

Somewhat surprisingly, it was fun. One-on-one with strangers doesn't usually do well for me, but we just talked about music the whole time and the scenery flew by. Frank Zappa, Squarepusher, Silver Apples, etc... most names people wouldn't drop if they were asked to. He has a band. His band is GOOD. Coming from me, that's an unusual compliment; usually I listen, make faces, and hand the CD back with little comment, but up on this mountain, listening to a song called 'Fire Flower' on his iPod, I was fucking impressed. He had scores in his backpack; I had scores in mine. Our camping backpacks, and we both thought to bring scores, like they were a necessity or something; water, crackers, camera, music scores.

When we got back I went straight for my room, introvert tendencies hard at work, to lay down. First I called Paul because he'd left a message. But before I'd lied my way past Lorrie on the phone at the front desk, Nick was back in my room, sporting a guitar in one hand and a jackknife in the other, prepared to make Annoying Funky Sounds very Loudly whenever any of my roommates walked by. I approve wholeheartedly, Nick, wholeheartedly. A few Looks from my roommates and they had locked themselves in their own rooms, or other people's rooms, including Nick's room; his roommate is friends with the Boozehounds downstairs and can be frequently seen piss-drunk in the adjoining room to mine with my suitemates. They all gave each other knowing looks when they saw us jamming together; guitar and keyboard and flute. Of COURSE they WOULD find each other, said the Looks.

After awhile I told him he could borrow my recording of Zappa live somewhere, and then I kind of keeled over into my bed and fell hard asleep. When I woke up three hours later, Nick was gone, the door was closed, and his guitar was propped up in the corner, complete with pick. When I went over to return it, his room was empty.

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