Hey, buddy. Look how hard you’re rocking.
“Real hard.”
You did that good.
“I heard there’s some new guy now.”
He’s not like you.
“No?”
You were…special.
“Sure, okay.”
I ran into some of your friends the other day; some of them looked good.
“That sounds right.”
…
I should go.
“Wait.”
Yes?
“Nothing.”
Oh.
“I fixed that door. The one–”
Upstairs.
“–upstairs that wouldn’t shut.”
That’s good.
“Painting over the baby stuff; figured I would.”
Please, Garcia.
“He would have been three in March.”
Don’t! Just don’t.
…
Hold on: what the fuck is this?
“No idea: high as a witch’s tit, man.”
(With thanks to Mr Completely for the engiffination of the jammy goodness.)
i don’t think i understand, but maybe i do. i hope not, i mean i hope i am wrong.
Just awoke from this dream: mother was selling weed and large thug-like man was not happy she had not sold it all yet, and was not happy about the quality of the product even though he was the supplier. Thug man spots my guitar and starts asking questions about it and plugs it into an amp. He becomes irate about the acoustic Martin guitar (no electronic guts or pickup) not working and about my mother selling poor quality weed. John Perry Barlow walks out of the bathroom and starts teaching the man how to adjust the guitar and gives a lesson on electronics and frequencies and polarity. Thug man says “fuck this fucking thing,” gives money to my mother and walks out. WTF?
What is this, Edward Albee?
This is making me sad.
At his best, he sounded as if he were about five seconds ahead of everyone else in time.
i miss him.