Libby insisted Don't Fear The Reaper was our song. By the time we'd had this discussion I'd already bought a ticket to see them play at a strip mall bar in Albuquerque on the off-chance that the bouncer would take pity on me and let me in despite not being 21. He didn't. I ended up on San Mateo at 10pm on a Tuesday, 90 miles from home, with a state citizenship test the next morning that I was forcefully opting out of. I wandered around the freeway greenbelt collecting broken fan belts, while waiting for the midnight showing of Silence of the Lambs. I got home at 4am. I'd stopped dating her before the show and ended up dating her briefly again; Libby was the kind of girl who would get knocked up and end up giving up twins for adoption. Twice.

In your honor I cued up Fire of Unknown Origin for the first time since, probably 1993. You're right - they're a hell of a bar band. I've always held that The Doors are the ultimate Holiday Inn lounge act and what's wrong with music is that everyone pretends that they were somehow more than that. There is a certain purity to Blue Oyster Cult that a band like Nazareth or Deep Purple (another under21 stripmall bar fail) lack.

But I mean I'm in a weird mood. I decided yesterday that I really needed to listen to Def Leppard's Hysteria for some reason, and followed that up with three hours of Shania Twain because fundamentally Mutt Lange is a badass and I will fight anyone who disagrees.

BOC is in a weird spot in my head. It was a centerpiece of a relationship that would have been spectacular if we weren't so busy being dysfunctional. Our ACE scores probably broke thirteen when added together.