Dark Star and our Scars
At the second or third Schwagstock, I was still a little trippin from the night before when I heard a dog fight happining out in the gravel road. There was Dark Star, my friend's black chow, a dude wearing a spiked dog collar, who had been going around bothering everybody all night babbling unintelligibly, and his tan chow, rolling around in the gravel, teeth locked on each other. I had forgotten, at that moment, about how chows are like a guy wearing a really big sweater and that they can turn around in their skin, when I grabbed D.S. by the scruff with both hands to pull him out of the broil. I can't blame him for turning and down clamping on my forearm. Like if a friend was in a bar fight and I grabbed him by the back of his shirt to pull him out, I wouldn't be able to fault him if he turned around swingin. So, the fight was over and I had four holes in my arm. My buddies wife is a nurse so I got all patched up with a warning not to drum anymore for a few days. 16 hours later, I forgot. The night was just giving way to the faintest light, light that wasn't coming from the fire we were drumming around, when I noticed the tiny red dots in a fine spray all over the drum head and my right pants leg. P.S. Some time later that summer, I did something clumsy, which I can't remember but probably had something to do with bottle rockets, and Dark star wound up with a permanent scar. I apologized and he was so macho that he acted like it was nothing. We wear each others mark. He is gone now. . . . but not really.
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