Christmas break, 1979. We'd gone to the Stop-N-Cop in Beacon, to pick up our nickel bags, and, after a quick stop for gas and extra rolling papers, were now motoring our way up Highway 9W to hang out in Poughkeepsie - I'm not sure now whose apartment was the destination. The radio is tuned to WABC, still horribly discocentric, but I had already turned off the venom when I landed at LaGuardia - focus on the fun, dude! It's a vacation!

And, besides, the cheeba has been non-wack this week, like some special dispensation from Santa his bad self. We're passing the joint(s) around...

WABC has their hourly news update: more news about the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan and President Carter's response. My buzz goes sideways; I start worrying about the impending nuclear war - surely this is it this is it! We're on the brink, and hostilities will begin any minute. Any minute! Behind the calm, cool statements of the men-in-suits lies the truth: the missiles will be launched soon. We're all gonna die! We're right here at Ground Zero, aren't we? Well, OK, we're not in The City anymore, but that's where the Russkie ICBMs are pointed. We're at Ground 0.15!

At some point I got over it. I think we lived.

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