From the commentary:
"He" responds to nothing. I've never seen "his" genitals, and I'm sticking to that story.
Yeah, just like you don't know how the bear poop and torn fur got in that hotel room, either. Sure.
I think I am forced to aid your historians' addled memory, since that seems to be what you are relying upon. You seem to be mixing your metaphors between the First Rusty, and the Second Rusty. It’s called confabulation, and your kind are known for it. The virgin voyage of the Rusty sessions did not contain Alceste, nor any readily identifiable females of the species. Alceste and Colyp still lived in Spain. Cocoa NoGogo was a pining wad of Irish rejection. When you say "late fall" of 1992, it is somewhat an understatement--it was so "late" in fall, that it was actually the beginning of winter, 1991. I was in my first year of medical school, you were in your first year of law school, and Bundy was trying desperately to be like you. And you were trying desperately to be like me, because I had already finished my first set of exams for the semester and had about 2 weeks to kill over the winter break. You, however, had yet to take your exams, and kept winging about wanting to "do well" on them. Bundy had driven down for the weekend to see me in the world's largest natural seaport, since he needed a break from the law school application process, continued defeat with such, and his grueling life as the page/piss boy at Crowlen, Heffeweisen, Mooring, and Rubenstein (“Wait!” he says. “No RUBENSTEIN”, he says. “Not in THAT firm!”). Don’t you recall the famous call he made—the first and last, as you pointed out—on Monday, saying he was sick and wouldn’t be in? He was completely distraught at having pulled a fast one, and we cheered him on, ignoring his career concerns. It was early a.m. due to the one-hour time difference, and I believe we started drinking sangria as soon as he hung up the phone. He moped for hours and through the entire 15-hour drive back home, and has never completed a Rusty session in satisfactory fashion since.
It was a cheery, yet dark time. We were all a bit disenfranchised with little self-esteem due to our ages and positions in life. The winter solstice was upon us, and I cannot remember seeing the sun at any point after departing. I recall no evidence of daylight during any part of the trip, except as we departed sunny Norfolk, VA. It was about 70 degrees without a cloud in the sky there. Bundy and I had been out drinking the night before with some of my school-mates, and were faced the next morning with no plans for activity and a three-day weekend in front of us. We sat staring at each other in my apartment there, and I said, “Let’s go and see Cocoa. Why don’t we just jump in the car and drive to Chicago? I’ll drive my car.” He laughed and said yeah, right, and we were the right age and percent bored, with no plan, to jump in my starship and head for the sky. Did I mention that the environmental controls on the starship Enterprise were faulty? We had no heat driving to one of the coldest place on Earth, the windy city of Chicago. We had on hats and gloves, and our breath was forming an ice sheet on the inside of the windshield as we journeyed ever farther into the cold, dark night toward Chicago. Jeers from the toll-booth operators bounced off our frozen hides, and we responded deceitfully “nope” when they would ask our blue little faces if our heater was broken. “Nope. Why?”
“Because you can’t open your hand to release the quarter.”
We skirted the bottom of the glacial remains we call the Great (or at least Pretty Good) Lakes, too cold to become drowsy, and anticipating arrival at our friend Cocoa’s house. There weren’t really any cell phones or GPS devices then. Though we were flying in a very sophisticated space vehicle, I have no idea how we found his house. I think I used a map, and I think Bundy lost his navigation privileges after sending us in the wrong direction several times. We arrived about midnight or 1 am, to discover YOU had been contacted and were on your way. The sun did not rise in the morning, as far as I can remember, but I do remember the session as totally acoustic, consisting of two acoustic guitars, a harmonica, and the infamous shark’s teeth. A box of wine was our beverage of choice, in honor of Spain, though as is typical of America, this box was many times bigger than the Spanish boxes, and contained wine many times worse than its foreign counterpart. We were in the front room of the NoGogo palace. There was darkness all around us as we played, broken only by street lights shining through the NoGogo residence windows, and speckled red Xmas lights within the residence. We recorded on cassettes with a fourth-grade cassette deck, with our new-found one-eared recording producer/sheep perched on top, and we were very, very raw. Much like U2 before they became fat, rich, and lazy.
That, my senile old friend, was the First Rusty. We were fantastic, and those interesting young men with enthusiasm and spirit have long since died. Just look at Bundy and his yearly Rusty faux pas, if you don’t believe me.
The year that you described, with Sitnay and the minivan and Dina and the brand new NoGogo apartment with the “landlord” and the sisters arriving for the party (reception of some sort?) and BoBonna and the horse hormones and her ‘rag’-inspired headache and the snow and the rented cabin and YOU as a human sled with your spiffy big army jacket on the winterized golf course, that, my senile older-than-Brett-Favre friend, that was the Second Rusty. For the record.