ON PETE

Of course I liked him. Who didn't? I'm just saying I didn't like his music that much. It was just too much of a thing, ya know, too much of a communion. I once took Henry to one of those horrible festivals at the river park and there he was, up there all hunched over his big, long banjo. "Is that Bob Dylan, daddy?" Henry asked. "That's Pete Seeger, Henry. He's a very special person. He lives here in Beacon. He lives right on the mountain." "Oh. Can we go now, daddy?" You could barely hear anything over that crowed. They were all on their feet, clapping, and singing along to This Land Is Your Land. Uh, God, you should've seen those creatures. Few groupings of people disgust me as much as what surfaces at something like that. I don't like be around anyone singing and clapping anyway. I mean, unless you're up there performing, keep your fucking mouth shut. I don't even like it when people sing Happy Birthday. And these people around here. I'm serious, I'd much rather brave the crowed at one of those monster truck jams or something. Their type of positivity should never be trusted. To believe in humanity like that. But, anyway, you know, I still respected the hell out of him. But what I really liked was seeing him around town in his orange hat. I also liked that he always wore Wrangler's. I'd see him shopping for produce at the farmer's market or at the health food store, and it was just the way he picked things up, the way he held things, the way he would study a vegetable or a piece of fruit. That was enough for me. So rest in peace, Pete. You certainly deserve it.