Why does reading this good thread instantly take me back to those carefree days when the air in so amny crashpads had that sweet burnt smell in the air----kind of like alfalfa on a mid-'50s afternoon trip down blue Illinois highways through canyons of tall corn? Peter Stampfell up on stage at the Monday night hoot at Mother Blues on Wells St.----Just him and his banjo croaking out a few. Fred H. and Patty's pad upstairs gettin' high with G. Carlin before goin' down to the club to see Gibson fall off the stage after too much whatever stuff he was into then. It's an aura, friends. A whispy feeling, an olfactory tweak and a remembrance of times to be no more. But it was a nice whiff to get again---like day job vu, all over again !!

Thanks,

Art Thieme