Wreck of the Old 97 – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
The “Old 97″, a Southern Railway train officially known as the Fast Mail, was en route from Monroe, Virginia to Spencer, North Carolina when it left the track at Stillhouse Trestle near Danville, Virginia on September 27, 1903. The wreck inspired a famous railroad ballad, which was the focus of a convoluted copyright lawsuit.
Beck, 1994. Yeah, I love Beck.
Here’s the story of my introduction to the man’s music. This is a little bit of a guilty pleasure for me, and because I’m feelin’ it right now, I figured I’d write about it instead of some lame ass bullshit about my progress in Pittsburgh, which is going great. Thanks for asking.
Back in 1993, I was finishing my first year at YSU and had the world by the cogliones, only I didn’t know it yet.
See, my first year at college was pretty much a disaster. Ask anybody. I had a real hard time when my high school girlfriend broke up with me during finals week of my first quarter of college. I remember walking over to the convenience store across the street from campus and buying a couple 40’s of Budweiser and a few MoonPies, pounding the beers and damning myself over the idiot bitch that I was fairly sure fucked up my life forever.
Now, after those two 40’s I called the new boyfriend at his parents’ house and “invited” him to come get a pair of panties and some Polaroids that I no longer had any use for … and, well, he declined my invitation but my point was made, nonetheless.
By the time 1994 rolled around, the girl had come running back, and all was right with the world and the three other girls I’d moved onto simultaneously since our original breakup. Really, I couldn’t have been stopped. Not by anybody at that time, at least.
I was working two full-time jobs, keeping up a full schedule of classes and fucking everything that moved — including the bitch that broke my heart in the first place. And let’s face it, when you’re a 20 years old in Youngstown, it really doesn’t get any better than that.
One night, I dropped the malignant bitch off at her mom’s house after a few hours of dirty VHS-recorded sex at my apartment and went to a party with some of my newer friends. The hostess, another girl I didn’t have time for, smoked a ton of pot and wouldn’t/couldn’t get Beck’s Mellow Gold out of her CD player.
I remember that night I was heavily into a Blues Brothers phase and brought a couple bottles of Night Train with me. I drank both of them, and spent most of the later part of the evening puking in the parking lot outside her apartment building. I finally passed out on a reclining chair, the grooves of Mellow Gold the only constant until morning.
To this day, every time I hear a Beck song, new or old, I can’t help but get nostalgic for those days and that night in particular. I don’t know what that makes me now, but I can’t say I’m sorry anymore. I had fun. And I needed to.
I met some really cool folks that night too. There was this other guy named Joe puking in the parking lot at the same time I was, who ended up killing himself a few years later but was a fantastic poet then. The hostess, a girl named Amy (wish I could remember her last name) was the editor of our literary magazine and her brother ended up working for the Clinton administration in some capacity, if I remember correctly.
I’m sure they’re both doing great things these days. I wish I’d kept in touch.
