Music: Warren Zevon

In college I was friends with a floor full of guys.

I know that must sound odd, but I grew up with only one older brother and no sisters on a small street that had only boys for several years. This meant that in many ways, as I got older, I was often more comfortable hanging out with groups of guys than I was with girls although eventually I learned to fully enjoy the individual charms and advantages of both genders.

But as I say, back in college, at least for the first two years, there was this floor of guys in my dorm. One I was sort of going out with - he was 6'7 to my 4'11, quite a difference no matter how you try to visualize us together; one was a sort of friend from high school with whom I'd always had a twisted relationship; and the rest had a variety of odd nicknames but all were willing to play me at Killer Backgammon, which we would do at the beginning of every evening, waiting for the night proper to take over.

Those evenings together would start almost right after dinner ended, so about seven o'clock. Sometimes, one or more of my girlfriends would accompany me, particularly the closer it got to Thursday night - party time - but more often than not I went alone. So we'd play KB while having a few early beers or what-have-you, while trying to decide whether to go out or stay in and, no matter which we chose, just what sort of mischief we might like to get up to, pacing ourselves because those nights were never properly ended until at least one or more of us had seen the sun rise. OK, at least one of the sunrise watchers was almost always me. I loved those mornings when, having survived another night, I made it back to my own room in the other tower, on the top floor in the building high on a hill, and looked out my window, seeing dawn break golden across the campus.

But getting back to those nights.

In between and around whatever else we were doing, there was always a soundtrack playing. It might have been Bruce Springsteen or the Stones or Led Zeppelin, it might even have been Pat Benatar, but at least once a night one of the guys would put on Warren Zevon's "Excitable Boy" album. It was those guys who first taught me that there was a lot more to Warren Zevon than just "Werewolves of London." There was a dangerous playfulness (the eponymous "Excitable Boy"), there was a playful dangerousness ("Lawyers, Guns & Money"), there was a booming voice like no other ("When Johnny Strikes Up the Band"), there was an amazingly aching tender ballad ("Accidentally, Like a Martyr"). But the one song that always got us on our feet, no matter what else we were doing at the time, was "Roland, the Headless Thompson Gunner." Who can explain it, why a bizarre little song about a ghost mercenary combing Africa for revenge would have such a constant effect on us, would make us sway our beer mugs back and forth like we were part of some rugby team at Oxford, would make us feel more alive and at one together than anything else we ever did?

We all lived in the same dorm through my sophomore year until we scattered, mostly me, to far corners of the campus. As the years went on, I scattered further, scattered faster.

Two New Year's Eves ago, we had a party here as we almost always do. One of the people in attendance was a friend who'd recently returned from the war in Iraq. Because of his National Guard reserve status, he'd been called up to serve his country again at age 50 and had come back changed from the man we'd known before. He wore his camouflage fatigues to the party that night, even his cap, looking very much the soldier he could no longer stop being. As the night wore on I put on Warren Zevon's "Excitable Boy" - only it was a CD now and not the eight-track I'd had in college - because I knew he was a fan too. Well, we got through the first few songs normal enough, but then "Roland" came on and before I knew it, this soldier and I were in the kitchen, arms around each other's shoulders, singing so loudly about the ghost mercenary in Africa that no one else there could really talk over us until the song was done; if they wanted their voices to be heard, they would just have to join in singing.

We did that several more times that night.

I hated it when Warren Zevon died on September 7, 2003, still hate it. His music has so much been the soundtrack of my life, the thread that oftentimes binds me most tightly to other people, some of the music that most makes me feel passionate about being alive. I wish he could have lived forever.

So now that I've gassed on reminiscing here, it's your turn: WHAT SONGS OR MUSICAL ARTISTS HAVE GIVEN YOU THE MOST PLEASURE ON SOME LEVEL, MAKING YOU FEEL MORE CONNECTED TO YOUR WORLD OR REMINDING YOU OF AN EARLIER PERIOD IN YOUR LIFE?

Be well. Don't forget to write.

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