Had I had a hammock in the summer of 2002 before I left for a trip to England right before I ran away to New York, I would have been swinging in it listening to Bjork's Vespertine while reading Hesse's Siddhartha. Instead I was lying on a rickety lawn chair. I finished Siddhartha on the plane ride to England (soundtrack had turned to a lovely Beatles-Brunch inspired mix made for me by an old friend who hates me because I never visited her in Florida and I don't return phone calls, my bad, still got love for ya). I didn't read on the 12-14 hour flight back from Europe because I was sitting next to a high school English teacher from Ohio who wanted to talk to me about the AP exam (fml moment right there). Half-way through I pretended to be napping while listening to a live cd of Van Morrison I had bought in Victoria Station before we left. He asked me what I was listening to, I told him, he said he had just spent weeks in Ireland and was sick of Van. I told him I had just spent a whole sr year in AP English and I was sick of Dostoyevsky and Shakespeare.
That summer the song I found myself most often be-bopping around to in my Dino-undies (not sexy, but as Emily Doobz Badfish once proclaimed, Dinosaur Underwear Rock!! even if I'm getting to old to admit they're waaaaay better than lace) that summer would have to be Weezer's Island in the Sun.
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