It was 1991, and Glen and Daniel had died within weeks of each other. My two closest friends. Glen was the first front desk man that I met at the Josephinum when I moved in and I could tell he saw me as just a punk (classic sense of term) but almost immediately let me in on how the building was owned by the Archdiocese, a cult of vampires who shared drinking blood. He could be mean to me because I wasn’t his type but over time we became sweet and deeply sarcastic comrades. He played John Fahey and Nick Drake on my boombox when we did holiday community work in the lobby, and shockingly had my back when a new agitated Jesuit social worker accosted me about roof access for tenants when Glen was their security (He sashayed away from our conflict, “Well, fuck you, bitch.”) On his last visit to the Medical Dental building from where I’d placed him at Bailey-Boushay, I sped him down Capitol Hill in his wheelchair, knocking over NPCs and tourists who wouldn’t know his royalty here, screaming “Kamiazke!” all the way down. When I cleaned out his apartment later I found he had an entire chest of drawers filled with leather caps and condoms. I found this CD at a pawn shop near where Glen and I lived (around the corner from the mart that had Popeye’s level Chicken) for five or six bucks. I had been familiar with the band due to their Joy D. devotion in the 80s (they kinda seemed like a band version of The Offense zine, all musical art boiled down to Ian and Sinatra.) But this was different, the reviews sounded good, but also my roommate Paul in the Soul Food house (he was the drummer) said I needed to own it. Considering his amazing record collection, ability to woo almost any woman (including my girlfriend, who otherwise wasn’t attracted to any other guys, just girls and wibbly wobbly’s), and the amazing fact that he could kick my ass at wrestling even though I outweighed him resplendently. Got this CD and it became my main soundtrack when I went down to Portland to publish the zine Counter Culture with Mikee of Sometime Sunday, one of my favorite collaborators and a deeply talented raconteur and ringleader. He helped heal me over my recent losses, as songs like this reminded me how much love is loss and sadness is a gift.
American Music Club – Mercury, by Chris Estey
