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There was a time, around 2009 or so, when Maria Grace and I would practice every Saturday or every other. We'd drive down the street to Weaver's Way, you know, whenever we'd get there. Whenever she'd get to my place on the long, scenic drive from Doylestown.
There were so many things I never learned about Maria until later, huge life details, big events, traumas and experiences from he formative years. But it was the drive down to WW, where she always figured out a way to plug in the device into the car sound system, with the tape or something, and it was always Elliot Smith. She kind of looks like she can be his sister or his cousin.
We called him Patron Saint Elliot, and imagined him as our very own band saint. We imagined t-shirts to sell at some point, when the band was more set-up with a holy image of our Patron Saint, but thought about copyright laws and other headaches.
Our other t-shirt idea that never happened was a shirt that said, "brunchtice," a term Maria coined, because the rehearsal consisted of about three hours of local food preparation, fair trade coffee French pressed, a table set with plants and maybe about thirty to forty-five minutes of actual singing. All the things that made Portland and Elliot Smith's time great. There was the occasional Starbucks to-go cup, which, given the multinational monster it had become would make Elliot Smith turn in his grave.
And he's turning. Just read recently that Starbucks is using eggs harvested in battery cages for their breakfast sandwiches. And who knows what's in the coffee anymore. It's very certain that the African coffees are not fair trade and only a few remain as actually fair trade or organic. Money, money, money.
And after the gamers hacked me half to death after the NPR appearance in April and the criminals stalked me and stole my violin ( in retribution for having the cops called on them--long story), and I had next to nothing, Maria showed up in shambles herself and we went to the diner like that, like two zombies who somehow survived the end of the world and I leaked out some money I didn't even have to buy us a fancy hour and a half long can ride, through the scenic route, up to Doylestown and the cab driver's name was, yep, Elliott.
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