When I was in high school, I considered my solemn responsibility to sample every substance nature or science had to offer, and absent those requiring injection, I gave it my best shot (sic).

Now, me being the guy in class that grew a beard before most everyone else, I was the one called upon to purchase what Rush calls “Adult Beverages”.

Of course I never had any tolerance for any of it, but I toughed it out just the same. Consequently, I would drink hard and fast just to ge the nasty taste part out of the way, and end up doing things. Not good things.

Memorably, I woke once in a cornfield. In my 1967 Chrysler Newport Custom (known as the Love Boat). Which was on it’s side. Running.

I climbed out of the car, (in retrospect, I have no idea how I managed not to pull it over on top of me) and stood in the cornfield in the cold early october morning, wearing kelly green spandex tights and nothing else. No idea where the tights came from, nor where my clothes got to, but I sat on the frosty ground and waited for the sun to come up.

A farmer with a wierd look on his face eventually arrives on his rattling Farmall H and chains it to what passed for a frame on a 67 chrysler, and brought it back to all fours, just as the sun peeked over the hill. he only ever said “try slowing before that turn next time”. I jumped in, started the relatively unscathed Love Boat, lit a fresh Pall Mall, and motored home.

Never did find my pants.