In memento mori.
It's been a tough year so far, and this week was not immune. My friend Jim's grandma died over the weekend.
When Jim and I took up instruments (drum and bass; we predated techno, house, and trip-hop by decades), the only mammal who would house our rather noisy and unpolished collective was Grandma Bozzi, or, as she was referred to with great reverence among all the post-pubescent idiots who were fortunate enough to know her, Jim's Grandmother. (I think some of us called her that to her face, too. Didn't faze her a bit.) She loved Jim, and treated all who crashed that basement (a veritable Who's Who of Washed-Up Local Talent, nowadays) with love and respect that many of our own parents didn't offer. She kept a fridge stocked with candy and Little Hug drinks (those "fruit punch in a barrel" things, 12 for a dollar at Stop and Shop), and she let us smoke (cigarettes, at least in my case) downstairs. The place was available pretty much 24/7, too; many a dim blue hour saw Jim and I wheeling a Radio Flyer wagon, with my semi-monstrous amp on it, through the neighborhood. I could not have played Toad's Place if I did not play South Street first.
Just as we were approaching the end of high school, she took ill and vacated the house on South Street for a time. That was the end of the era, really. We'd spent two years, on and off, in and out, making a godawful racket and practicing our interviews. By that time, Jim had a girlfriend, I had...well, Jim had a girlfriend, and I guess that's the important part. (I didn't date much between ages 6 and 19. That's another rant for another time, though.)
I guess all you need to know is this: God bless her, and God bless everybody who shows such boundless love and hospitality to weird-looking idiots like Jim and I were. Everyone who knew her, or someone like her, is a better person for it.
More later.