Stephen Mejias

It kind of happens intuitively, like breathing or crying or finding your way back home. Every year around this time, I scan my compact disc racks and watch as my hand reaches for The Flaming Lips' 1995 album, Clouds Taste Metallic. I put the disc in the player. I sit back. And I listen, and I remember.

This weather is pointless. Pointless! What's the use of all this snow and ice? Don't tell me it looks pretty. I'm just not fit for this sort of cold. It's days like today after windy winter nights like last, when the temperatures plunge into the single digits and my apartment's old pipes freeze, that I wish I had an entire fleet of fiery amps to keep me warm.

In his essay, "Can">http://stereophile.com/asweseeit/890awsi/">Can We Agree to Disagree," Peter W. Mitchell states:

Pete gave me the two fingers.

At the top of what I'd later learn to call "Arthur's Peak," I looked out onto the jagged, gray city and felt immortal.

I often wanted to turn back, in fact, but Pete was so damn far ahead of me that I couldn't even get his attention. I kept following.

We walked and walked and walked&#151stopping in pubs along the way&#151and gradually became more and more lost.