…we were all wearing forced grins and our best black shirts, and we had hoped then that the crowd could sort of wash us in a way (cause we’d been bathing with sand and after a point you’d rather just stink). We wished that the thousand-head mass around the fires would be both alibi and punching bag and hold onto our liquor while not minding our breath. It would wait up with blue lights and a stocky polyester chest to deliver a stern warning, which we would treat as a  blessing. Yes, in that time we could wish for some wonderful things. I remember Carrie was still bored then. Still, like a miracle, non-plussed by the exuberance, and then by the panic that had come with that year, which was the strike year for those of you not paying attention…