Perhaps it was my lack of commitment that prevented me from making friends. I spent my days listening to records and trying to ingratiate myself to a roommate named Aimee who had grown up in Olympia. In my vision of Olympia, it was mythical. It was Paris or Berlin in the ’20s, it was the Bloomsbury group, it was the cradle of civilization. I sensed Olympia would be my salvation, where I needed to end up. It was also tiny. I assumed that every denizen of that town was a young punk, walking around with a bag full of 7-inch singles and a fanzine, and in a band. But Aimee had never heard of these
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