Peter is the shit. In the mail, I receive a mysterious package containing an unmarked video. The last surprise he sent me was a 1980s Wendy's training video. This time there is some 60s jazz - Coltraine, monk, mingus, etc. - but afterward there is some peculiar filler. Really peculiar. Grainy, blurry footage of the inside of Peter's bedroom and two seated figures with acoustic guitars. It's us, from god knows when. It appears we are rehearsing some songs. I have never seen it before and have since learned it was recorded with a camera hidden in a pile of laundry on Peter's dresser. What a fucking nut! That he would do these kinds of things was well known at the time. Once he video taped himself breaking into the middle school and sinking the (much reviled) gym teacher's desk and chair into the swimming pool. My guess is that it was shot in winter '88-'89. I can tell because I've got a Syd Barrett/electro-tendrilled hairdo. I was getting more conservative in my latter highschool years. Gone are the Rev-War style pigtails of freshman year. This was when Peter and I were in a band called the Toads.

Included in the package was a photo copy of a local newspaper story about a school christmas concert in which the Toads appeared and how they proceeded to decimate the parent/student/teacher audience. But there is more to the story than what was reported by the press. And now, after nearly 15 years, the truth can be revealed.

It was a highly unlikely gig for the Toads. It was a school 'pops' concert to showcase the choir, school band, ensemble singers, etc. The Toads had no affiliation with the school, but were invited to play by way of the kindness of Miss R, the Performance Art teacher. We were asked to close out the first and second halves of the program which consisted of awful broadway numbers and out-of-tune holiday classical music. Real horrific shit. To be in the audience was to long for deepest impenetrable sleep, i.e. - death. Meanwhile, in the green room, the Toads had locked themselves into a closet and were busy preparing themselves for their set. Peter brought his portable bong, and Cutter had a 750 of Cuervo Gold. Nicely enhanced, we emerge from the closet just as Miss R enters the room. She is smiling, telling us it's time to get to the stage, then she realizes our doings, and suddenly looks ready to burst into tears. She just stands there and glares at us, saying nothing, but the overwhelming weight of her disappointment is too much for us to bear and our heads sink to the floor as we shuffle past her toward the stage. We are drunk & stoned & shocked, standing in the dark, waiting for the curtain to open, wondering if we were officially busted. But when we are introduced and the lights hit us and we see all the people; when we heard Travis's oldman(rest his soul) drunkedly yelling, "Do the White Album!!!!" over & over & over; when our amps sputtered and crackled and came to life as we turned up the volume; and when the girls started screaming and dancing, we caught fire. Our first song was Funk #49 by the James Gang, and it killed. I don't remember much else except for seeing Mr. Clowe plugging his ears, and how the audience went completely berzerk after I sang the line, "a couple more shots of Whiskey, and all the women 'round here start lookin' good," from New Minglewood Blues. I think we also played some Rolling Stones tunes. Whatever we played, everyone loved it. Certainly, it was a good night for the Toads. Probably our best performance ever.

Five months later, the Toads were killed in a tragic wagon collision.

Peter said he recently ran into Miss R (now Mrs M) at the supermarket. Right away he brought up the Christmas Concert. Pete asked her why she didn't bust us, and she said,"well if you bombed, I figured it'd be punishment enough, but you played great, so I let it go. Still, couldn't you guys just go outside for crissakes???"