. . .
Sometimes the things that change your life happen with a big neon sign, like a job offer or an unexpected death, and you always remember exactly when they happened. But oftentimes those things happen and you’re not exactly sure, because they take time to show results. But this is how I remember it.
So while Ron “Doc” Morse walking up to me outside of the Olympic Tavern — in the Tower District, in Fresno, for those of you who weren’t part of that scene — at some point during the awful, no-good summer of 1988 and suggesting we play in a band together absolutely counts as a life-changing event, I just didn’t know it at the time. How could I? I was still mourning the demise of Blackbird Stories, the band where I learned to play the drums for reals after years of flirting with it — I wanted to do it as a teenager, but I thought I was already too old to learn an instrument, a position that I smartly abandoned at 24 — who broke up for one of the dumb reasons bands broke up. And Doc’s band, the Sleestacks, had also recently broken up, as well.