Jammin' Mon

T-Bone said: Yea, I got that for you because you need to chill out.

He referred to my suite of Bob Marley tab book and cd.

It's a new, weird thing that I don't really think adheres to my personality, because I'm anal retentive about everything. Thus proving T-Bone's the point.

So I find myself, very shortly thereafter, and in a no way related series of events, in the quintessential jam band basement of suburbia.

Everything about the experience screamed a teenage life I ducked out on while rock climbing, watching Audrey Hepburn movies, and making gnocchi.

I arrived in my little car with a tinful of homemade cookies. Puffy coat, fluffy gloves, hair all tangled in a giant scarf-- and not knowing anyone in the house except Pippin who, last night, had gotten a tad defensive of jamming 'cus girls always fuck up the creative flow.

Teen Sister answers the door after Dad yelled stuff. Between two and five dogs bark. I wonder frenetically how I will say things. Hi! I'm here for Pippin, Hi, my name is Kiddo, is your son here? Hi! How are you—point me in the jam band direction? How do you do, I'm here for the band.

The labs jump all over me I'm so thrown off I don't even introduce myself. I'm escorted to the basement door: “Pippin! Your Friend is here!” Teen Sis smiles and walks off. Dogs continue jumping and sniffing my crotch. I side swipe into the cellar and clump down the stairs, trying to pull my scarf off and purse back up my arm and getting over the four dog gang bang I just pulled my girl parts out of.

The basement has a couple plastic christmas trees, country kitchen style wardrobes abandoned in the last century, a semi circle of seven distinct amps, a rack of guitars, a bass, and a drum kit I am stunned is actually on a cheap persian rug—who knew, all stereotypes are genuinely rooted in basement reality.

My adorable friends screw together a genuine steel drum. It's silver and pretty and sways, and makes noises like fairies alighting on stars. They discover problems with two amps, a cord and a bass. One compromises to play the bass like a dulcimer, and the other finds the trippiest sounds a little keytar can spew. We eat my little choc chip cookies and I wish, for the umteenth time I were talented.

It is the afternoon, and no one thinks of drinking alcohol. Pippin asks “I have flavored water, and water flavored water—what do you want?” No one even thinks to smoke things, like I had half expected.

They, and therefore me too, chill out like only 15-year-olds should be able to.