Jack Hamilton writes: I remember a discussion we had once, in a gas station, about blue jeans.
My only pair of blue jeans; there's a mixture of loving remembrance and pain to wear. The last time I was in California, Rob had extended his extraordinary hospitality, and had offered to take myself and another motsser visiting -- it was Interop '90, in the fall -- from the UK out to supper, then to a bar.
"You'll have to wear jeans," he said.
I didn't own a pair of jeans. "Umm, OK, I can buy a pair after the show today. What kind?"
"Levi 501s."
No problem. I went to the giant jean store on Church St and bought a pair that felt wonderful and (I thought) looked great. I met Rob later at the restaurant.
"What do you think of the jeans? Perfect, eh?"
"Nope. Wrong colour."
I had bought the light blue, soft prewashed jeans to go to the C&W bar.
I think of Rob every time I put 'em on.
