No. 202 – Obscured

Performer: Smashing Pumpkins

Songwriters: Billy Corgan

Original Release: Today single

Year: 1993

Definitive Version: None.

I know this is a bit out of the timeline, but I don’t care. Even though this song had been out for more than a year, I didn’t know it until the odds and sods collection Pisces Iscariot came out at the end of 1994. The events I’m about to relate took place not long before that release, but Smashing Pumpkins played a huge role.

As I mentioned nearly two years ago, when I turned down an opportunity to see Nirvana live—due to illness on The Journal Sports copy desk—I did so with the idea that I’d get another shot at a Lollapalooza show (back when it toured) in 1994, because Nirvana was slated to co-headline with Smashing Pumpkins. Well, we all know how that turned out.

Despite Nirvana’s absence, it still was a power-packed lineup that included Nine Inch Nails, The Beasties and some new band called Tool. At the top were the Pumpkins, so I definitely still was game. Unfortunately, my intelligence didn’t match my interest.

I don’t know why I thought this would be the case, but I assumed attending Lollapalooza was like going to the Ohio State Fair: Tickets were unlimited. You just show up at the gate, pay the fee and wander around, checking out the various stages and sideshows. Only the seats in the Polaris amphitheater would be reserved, and otherwise you could come and go as you pleased.

I’d told Debbie about my plans for that day in August 1994, and she thought I was nuts, or at least deluded. I just thought I’d drive out to Polaris the day of the show and hang out in the lawn, listening to music, writing ideas in my poetry notebook and maybe blowing some bubbles while partaking of the hippy vibe. She thought I needed advance tickets, but what did she know? I was plugged in to the alternative music scene; she wasn’t.

It turns out she knew more than I did. Imagine my surprise when I got ready to head to Polaris sometime in the late morning only to learn—I think from Debbie herself, who called after hearing it on the radio—that Lollapalooza was sold out. Sold out?! You mean it’s just like any other concert? What a bummer, man. I put away my poetry notebook and plastic jar of bubbles.

There went my whole day … unless I came up with a Plan B. Plan B formed instantly. Well, what are you doing tonight, I asked Debbie. How about I bring over some pizza, and we have dinner at your place? Although a bit surprised, she immediately agreed, except that she changed it to cooking something.

The invitation was innocent when I made it, but it didn’t take long to realize the purpose behind it. On the one hand, we had done a few things together by now—including dinner at her place—so what was wrong with friends getting together? On the other hand, after Cedar Point, there was a chance that Debbie and I might become more than just friends.

I left out a bit of information regarding that night. After we got back to Debbie’s place, I didn’t go home right away. We still were jacked up from the day’s events, so we talked awhile. At one point, I complained about soreness in my legs from all the walking around we did.

Debbie promptly dropped to her knees in front of me (no symbolism there) and gave me a foot and calf massage. O … K … Nothing more happened that night, but as we all know from Pulp Fiction, a foot massage isn’t just a foot massage.

So that was the backdrop when I made my impromptu invitation, and frankly, I didn’t see how the potential of where this might lead as a bad thing. Debbie was single; I was single. We didn’t have anything else going on at the time. Why not? I saw no downside to hooking up with an older woman. (In retrospect, my thoughts about this particular older woman were about as misguided as had been those regarding Lollapalooza.)

For the most part, the evening was innocent. Time has lost what was on the menu or what in particular led the dominoes to start tumbling, but at some point the talking stopped and the nonverbal communication began.

Before long, Debbie invited me to spend the night, but, she announced soberly, the invite wasn’t “clothing-optional.” We eventually stripped to our skivvies, but we went no further.

We didn’t sleep, needless to say, but we also didn’t fulfill the evening’s ultimate promise either. Instead, we did everything that you could do without really doing anything, and we talked a lot. Just before the sun came up, I went home, so I could get some sleep.

Why didn’t we take the final step that night? We both wanted to, but I think we didn’t so we could assess where our relationship was heading and whether we consciously wanted to move in that direction. At this point, we still could back out without remorse.

We talked about it that week and decided we DID want to go forward after all. The next weekend, we returned to Debbie’s bedroom, and this time the invite had no stipulations regarding clothing. There was no turning back now.