So I head out the door at 4:30am for an easy spin down the canal. Cruising along, just me and the moon. No one else in sight. I get about 15 minutes in, and I see a crisply dressed gentleman walking towards me. He has on a short sleeve button up shirt, a field vest covered in pockets, a pair of shorts, wool hiking socks, a well cared for pair of hiking boots, and the kind of hat that Hemingway would wear while hunting lions. Over his shoulder is slung a canvas bag.

He stops, leans over the rail and and looks at something in the water. He then pulls a surprisingly large camera out of one of the pockets on his vest and starts taking pictures.

Does it matter that Buddy faded away? I suppose it does to those who loved him. It does to those who were there while his flame flickered... They had to feel it. They had to sit there. In their loss. And feel it.

But when you watch this video. When you feel how hot he was burning in that moment... Does the way he faded away diminish it? Does the flickering of his life, and the way it reminds us of our own flames... 

Does that change the fact that Buddy Rich burned as brightly he did?

No. The dude was a blow torch.

What matters is this moment. What matters is that he lived. What matters is that he burned.

So, the Cherubs have a new album out... It kicks ass. It's like Buzz Osborne and Kim Gordon had a bastard love child. The child, named Be Sharp, was raised on a diet consisting entirely of prunes and leftover Thanksgiving turkey. The prunes were cooked via low voltage electricity. The current was generated by wrapping 38 D-cell batteries in aluminum foil and gently rubbing them through the fur of newborn Siamese-twin Persian kittens. The kittens, joined at the genitals, were abandoned by their mother, but lovingly raised by a pygmy goat named Alice. Alice suffered from halitosis. Her owner, seeking to cure Alice's skunky breath, invented an animal mouthwash made of acidic oils distilled from orange peels. The orange peel mouthwash killed Alice, but ended up being repurposed as an environmentally friendly solvent, and made Alice's owner an overnight millionaire. Years later, Be Sharp (Buzz Osborne and Kim Gordon's bastard love child... Remember him?), who had grown up and became a world famous thief, stole all of the money. He spent it on cocaine, several tons of glitter and 67 disco balls. He packed the cocaine and glitter into the disco balls, along with fistfuls of firecrackers. He hung them from the ceiling of the Fillmore right before a Cherubs concert. He blew them up during the second encore. The disco balls, not the Cherubs. The audience went ape shit. It was fucking awesome. Just like this album. Go buy it. Go buy it right now. 

I started a new project. It has consumed me... Eaten me whole. It has taken on a life of its own, and now I have this living thing in my grasp, and I am trying like hell to not squeeze too tightly. It twists and turns and dives of its own volition. It's a helluva ride. I have been going back to Bukowski quite a bit for inspiration. This poem in particular has been resonating:

I was sitting on the couch, laptop on lap, struggling with a graphic I have neither the skill nor the software to create. I had a random playlist cranked through the TV, and a Sex Pistols song came on. The screen saver is set to show album covers. I looked up, and this is what I saw...