“‘Jimi Hendrix died,’ my stepdad said through the window in the radio room, or maybe I just overheard him announce it to someone through that black microphone. I did know, even at ten, who Jimi Hendrix was. I was surprised my dad knew.” Marisa Mangani on recurrently remembering the death of a legend.
“I ignored that thought and said, I’ll bring his first album in tomorrow, if you like. You can borrow it and burn a copy, and he said, thanks, though really I don’t think he cared either way, or was particularly interested in hearing this DJ Rupture, it would make him look uncool, and even if he did end up liking it, he couldn’t say so, not in public anyway, or to me.” Stephen Mander tells the story of a CD he’s never getting back.
“Once, a boy received a low grade, the lowest we could receive: a “U,” unsatisfactory. I remember he had sandy hair and very blue eyes. I think his name was Tommy. He cried, loud, heaving tears that made him hiccup and splotched his face red. Eventually, a nurse escorted him from the classroom.” Carla Dash on avoiding undue effort.
I should not have traveled; this much became apparent. I remained delicate since a previous surgery six months before. Yet I had succumbed to the lure of possible happiness. I am a law professor and had been invited to a conference in New York. I dashed off to Manhattan and drank like a bacchante. I…