#third stone

An old friend and a very good guitar player died unexpectedly yesterday from a heart attack. His name was Mark, and his death reminds me of a Bukowski poem regarding the death of Aldous Huxley and how it hurts a little more, how the world loses just a little more, with the death of someone who can shine a light on it all with their guitar or paintbrush or pen. So here's a bit of the poem and also a link to a song he helped my old band record. He does the solo. R.I.P., Mark. See you on the other side. "...anyway, 69 seemed too early for Aldous Huxley to die. but I guess it's just as fair as the death of a scrubwoman at the same age. it's just that with those who help us get on through, then all that light dying, it works the gut a bit — scrubwomen, cab drivers, cops, nurses, bank robbers, priests, fishermen, fry cooks, jockeys and the like be damned."

Lance KILLING it @ The National Underground last night. Great show! Great crowd! Great fun!