Please don't mention rain, please don't talk of trains, please don't mention buildings burning down.

Would that it were not so, but I forget shit. I forget a LOT of shit. In fact, I think I forget most shit. Practically all of it. 

But at least I know I'm not alone. I know that because I have friends (not many, for sure . . . and certainly not you, dear reader 1) who tell me the same fuckin' stories and jokes over and over and over. And when I try to talk to them about a movie we saw together or a book that we both read, they don't remember anything beyond the title. And sometimes not even the title.

So it's not just me. But that doesn't make me feel any better. Because I want to hold on to the books and the music and the movies and the moments of my life. Writing helps. It solidifies some of those moments.

But every little once in awhile something comes roaring back to life in my consciousness.

Like Steve Forbert.

I remember reading a review of his first album, Alive on Arrival, when it first came out way back in June 1978. Probably in Rolling Stone. I was a very faithful Rolling Stone reader back in those days. Something the reviewer said . . . and I blush to admit it, but I'm guessing that it was a comparison to Bob Dylan . . . struck me, and I went out and bought the album. And loved it, played the hell out of it. And bought his second album, Jackrabbit Slim, when it came out the next year. And the third album, Little Stevie Orbit, when it came out the next year. And then it was a couple of years later in 1982 when the fourth, eponymous, album came out.

And for some reason, Steve and I parted ways at that point. I don't remember why. It certainly wasn't for lack of love on my part. Those four albums all remained near and dear to my heart. 

Jo Ann and I got married in 1983, though, and money was certainly not plentiful--I remember our first joint tax return gross combined income was right at $10,000. And I'm sorry to say that shortly thereafter I sold a bunch of my vinyl in A Quest For Rent, and all four Forbert albums went out de dough. 

But a few days ago whilst comic book shopping at The Great Escape I decided to go to The Other Side of the Store for a minute, and as I was looking through the 99¢ records I saw one of those Steve Forbert albums. And then another. And then another. And then another. (You bet your ass I kept looking after that, but that was it.) So I got all of this

for $3.96 + tax. And I've just finished listening to them, and oh, my, what great, great songs. Which prompted me to wonder what Steve was up to these days, and I found that he has all kinds of other stuff out there--like 13 more albums. Bandcamp has all kinds of cool stuff, too. Including this freebie if you want a taste:

Oh, man, I love this guy. I am so glad that he's still out there doing his stuff. I'm hoping that he plays someplace within my Reasonable Traveling Distance so I can see him live.

Road trip, anyone?

1  Which is me pretending to be facetious when I'm actually 100% sure that it's not you, because none of the friends I'm thinking of here come anywhere within three hundred miles of this blog. Which kind of makes me wonder about designating them friends, ya know? But hey, I can deal with it. Motherfuckers.