04 April 2006

No, I call him Terp.

July 1998 - The day after the last entry I did. Somehow we managed to find the Mishawaka Amphitheatre, outside of Ft. Collins, and on the side of a mountain, a pristene whitewater river rolling behind the stage. The stage was set on sand, there was outdoor seating and grassy, er, near-knolls. There was a small pen I could put the puppies in, with the band's dog.

I was pregaming with Zoe, and reading Hunter S. Thompson. Because I could. Evan was nearby, and we were chatting with he and another fellow. Suddenly, as I read, an eerie silence descends. I look up and sure enough, there is Jon, standing up and grinning down at me, almost manically.

"Hey," he nudges my toe, then squats.

"Hey," I answered back, not entirely sure what to say. Everyone else fled. Chickenshit fuckers.

He sat next to me. "I wanted to apologise for the other night. I didn't really mean what I said, I was just tired, and people were pulling at me from every direction, and I just wanted to go to bed." I shrugged.

"It's cool. Whatever."


"Whatever." Since I've grown older, I've learned whatever is also usually a synonym for fuck you and I think it was in this case as well. But we sat and talked away the hour til he went on stage, and then I went in search of Evan. He was mid-Phish tour, and had a 5 gallon bucket of goo ball mix in his car, to support himself on tour. He gave me his keys and a spoon and waved off the money I tried to push into his hands. A half hour later, stoned out of my mind, I ran into Lisa, who handed me half of her small bag of mushrooms.

There are only two memories of the night after that. The first is me holding Terp after the show, and everyone breaking down. Jon came up to me, pet the puppy and said, What's his name again? Terrapin, I told him.

"Hey, that's a cool name. What do you call him? I bet you call him Terry, don't you? That's a fucking stupid name for a dog if you ask me." A sneer. Again, silence. Or to use a more current phrase - shock and awe. By everyone around us.

"No," I answered quietly. "I call him Terp."

"Oh that's cool, hey Terp. Hey buddy." Sneer gone, he continued petting my dog.

The second memory is sitting at the camp atop the mountain opposite the road, campfire roaring, Erik to my right, playing guitar, and yelling at me in front of 30 people. "Damn it, Tip! I know you can sing! Stop fucking around!" Well tune your fucking guitar to E and maybe we can entertain some people! He did, and we did.

As hard as it is to believe, the saga really gets more and more weird as it goes.

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