I had a dream about my childhood. About waking up before the day was humid to pick blackberries on a bike ride. The Cranberries could have been(and to be quite honest, interestingly enough, they probably were) playing.
Running shorts and jelly sandals. Perfectly hair-sprayed bangs. Scrunchie. Yes, Carrie was right, no New York native would ever wear one. Regardless, this was the uniform for fun in the summertime.
Remember what it was like to look forward to something? "Tomorrow, I'm riding my bike down the trail and putting fruit in my basket". Afterwards, we hung out Lucas style on the underpass/concrete graveyard near the local college. Tagged into oblivion, only druggies hung out there. Is that the first time I saw a recreational needle? Maybe?
All I know is that it was cool. Cool because it was new. I'd discovered the dirty side of my small society, while participating in an all American pastime, eating berries off of bushes and bike riding around my sleepy southwest cul-de-sac. Maybe that is THE all American pastime, juxtaposition of the saint and sinner.
Who needs to make jam when you can pretend you like the smell of cigarettes underneath the freeway? Not me.
