“What were you thinking?” The end is a good place to start. When the ride was over, in October 1988, we all moved on without regret. As Kath’s analysis indicates, we had spent 3.423% of our budget on the January meeting at Obie’s, where we decided to publish a rock-&-roll monthly and to name it after something warm. What ensued were publishing adventures in the last days of tool-line, perilous IT exploits involving crucial data on the 10-megabyte hard drive that absolutely had to be moved to the new 15-megger (except that you couldn’t), idolatry of a band called Orange Juice and a drink called Diet Dr. Pepper, and hipster psychodrama on a level nobody could possibly care about. Two of us married each other and stayed in Nashville. Of the others, one ended up a marketing director in Brooklyn, one an art-history professor in Bozeman, one a telecom entrepreneur in Berlin. We all went our ways. One of us left the fold some years ago, to be fondly missed. Ladies and gentlemen, The Fireplace Whiskey Journal.On%20the%20Nashville%20rock%20scene,%201988.htmlshapeimage_2_link_0