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where I was off to. I shrugged. She could see that I hadn't achieved ignition, much less blast
off. So she advised that I come back in and sit on the sofa and relax, because it was New Year's
Eve, and love was all around us, and because she had a special surprise, and besides all that,
Ray Haney would arrive in no time with a baggy full of acid, uncapped. Ray had called to ask
if we could help him cap his acid—to put the loose powder into the empty gelatin capsules,
by hand, four hundred hits of it, give or take. And to think how we'd scrambled to round up a
measly baker's dozen.
It just goes to show you. Anyway, Ray was offering samples, in case anyone needed a
sample, in case anyone might want to check out '71, '72 or '99 while we were at it. What a
laugh. What a goof. Yet we took his meaning.
So I went back in, de-rigged and sat back on the sofa, resigned to a New Year's Eve of love
all around us, though for me it would be squeezeless and tripless. Maybe it was a first lesson in
letting go of that which is desired most and that which is desired second most. In a minute or
two I noticed an odd quirk in the reality/cosmic interface. Marcia's surprise was Led Zeppelin
II, which she laid into place and carefully lowered the needle to the groove—
Led Zeppelin II?
You got Led Zeppelin II? Never mind that it was fifteen bucks, which was nearly half my
share of the rent back then. It was brand new, out only a month or two and plain unavailable
in the heartland till Marcia batted her baby blues at just the right dude who worked for this
amazing radio station—FM—where they played real music and had hardly any commercials
and none of that Top 40 pop crap. This dude scored advance copies all the time, including Led
Zeppelin II! And he gave it to Marcia! Sure, he wanted to ball her. We were okay with that,
considering the offer. Most of us had only heard about Led Zeppelin's second album and that
it was even better than the first.
Even better?
Oh, right. But the Chosen Few who actually heard it had soberly confirmed.
A righteous moment of silence ensued as the record spun under the needle's sibilance that
bolted into prayer, such as it was:
You need toolin',
Baby I'm not foolin'.
I'm gonna send you . . . back to schoolin' . . .
Bedom bedom Bomp! On first blush, first gasp, first absorption of first sound waves we knew
it was a groove for the ages, not to mention the moment, which would linger in history forever
as a moment eternal, and so it was, perfectly synchronizing time and place and mood and love
and, yes, the feeling. The words floated out of the box and across the room at eye level, visibly
readable in their own talk bubble, and I read along as I clearly heard them—but it wasn't really
hearing; it was absorbing, assimilating into all as all accepted as everything—this was the os-
