Well, last night proved to be interesting. A blast from the past one might say. It had been a long time since I'd been in a car loaded far past seating capacity, heading out to the wilds of northern Baltimore County to a bonfire. Not since the halycon days of TSSB and outdoor gatherings at John Hicks' mother's vast and rambling erm..estate, shall we say, had I endured such an evening so entrenched in the great outdoors and braving all sorts of elements. It rained, then it stopped. There was mud, oh, yes, there was mud. Luckily, I managed not to, at any point in the evening, fall on my ass. While I muttered and grumbled under my breath about the folly of having worn suede shoes on this of all evenings, and fantasized about being in a dry, somewhat efficiently lit bar-like establishment NOT throwing off great flaming embers, it wasn't a bad time. I got to see some good people, got to put faces with names. There were Natty Boh's, and crust punks, and gutter punks, and standard issue punks, and hipsters, and people who defied categorising, and several dogs wandering about for good measure. While the term "Car Party" was never uttered (I like to think we have a patent on that one, Now-Defunct Crew Gang), when, driving home, James' Laid came on the CD player and I instinctively did the drumroll on my knees whilst in unision it was preformed on the steering wheel, I must say, it was a familiar scene. When earlier in the evening, a sing-along to a song so steaped in memory and signifigance and being so indicative of a specific moment in time, "Ok, I Believe You, But My Tommy Gun Don't" commenced, I felt, as I have on a number of occasions of late, a wierd mix of nostalgia, heartbreak, and just detatched bewilderment, but like I said before, The Past Is Gone, But Something Might Be Found To Take Its Place.