Oh, Arrested Development. My senior year of college, I was the president of the social committee, because nobody gets more done than a man who’s trying to sublimate his sexual needs. Among my duties was booking bands for big campus events, and for our big spring concert in 1994, I secured Arrested Development. It seemed like a smart choice, because they were about to release their sophomore album, Zingalamaduni, and immediately drop off the face of the earth forever. By this time, we were all familiar with their idealistic message, and in their rider they asked for spring water and buckwheat pasta. I took the campus activities van to pick them up from the airport, and there they were, in their dashikis and Dwayne Wayne granny-glasses. They even brought their elderly spiritual advisor Baba Oje, who would sit onstage in a rocking chair through the entire show, offering his silent benediction. It was all so promising, so utopian, so early ’90s.
On the ride back to the hotel, Baba scooted up to my seat, fixed his serene eyes upon me, and asked, “So where the pussy at?”