Your Eyes Have Shot Their Arrows into My Heart, Billy Pilgrim

Kurt Vonnegut passed away this week. What a bummer. He was eighty-four, and after all those years he claimed to be attempting death by smoking he ended up falling down the stairs, injuring his brain, and dying a few weeks later. I am sure he is amused by all this up in Kick Ass Writer Heaven.

My own Kurt Vonnegut story would also most likely amuse Mr. Vonnegut. Back in college I purchased a $20 ticket to see Kurt speak at a church somewhere in the Cities, possibly St. Paul. I drove up to the cities with my friend Ned and a bunch of Ned's hippy friends (well, as close as you could get to hippies at St. Olaf in 1999)from Northfield. For some we reason we arrived in the cities about six hours too early and had to kill some time. So we did hippy things, like browse Cheapos and eat at the slowest, SLOWEST goddamn vegetarian restaurant on the planet. The group took its slow, leisurely ass time and before we knew it we were late for Kurt's appearance. After an agonizing high speed van ride to the church Kurt was speaking at we arrived to find it packed to the gills and even though we had tickets we could not get in. I stood outside and listened as the crowd went wild and an old man started talking in a firm voice, though I couldn't hear anything he was saying. Ned and I, despondent and mad after an entire day waiting for our viewing of literary icon, went behind the church and peed in the parking lot. Okay, fine, we peed on the church while standing in the parking lot. I'm not proud of it now, but we were beyond exasperated. I guess you could say, that moment we learned the true meaning of being pissed off.

So we went back to St. Olaf sad and thwarted, and the next day we learned that the others we'd been with had found a way to sneak up to a balcony after we left and they got to see Mr. Vonnegut speak after all.

Oh, sweet Billy Pilgrim. Kurt, this one's for you.