My neighbor (bless her heart) gave me this book for Xmas, and, like I knew I would, I read it cover-to-cover in pretty much one sitting.

I guess they were my (substantially more talented and successful) peers, more-or-less, but even now I can't say that with any sort of real belief or sincerity. Sure, I stood and played and sang on some of the stages they did, but I never got any closer than seeing them live a bunch of times and, in the holiest of moments for me, interviewing Westerberg backstage at a Madison WI gig (where I mortified myself by asking the man what high school he had gone to - we were both from Minneapolis - and receiving a very uncomfortable silent pause in response, followed by a polite demurral ("I don't like to talk about that, man"), but they were always the drunken sloppy gods in my sphere.

Those were sure some magic times, in retrospect, and like every youngster, we never thought they'd end.

But they did.

And I'm insanely grateful that I had them and equally grateful that I - and many of my friends - survived them with limbs and lives intact and no obvious scars (although there are tons of psychic ones).

Cool.

(And, yeah, it's a great book, but probably only if you had some sort of fire in the iron of those times.)