Sometimes it can be impossible to be somber. When instead of memorializing an impossibly fantastic friend and human being who might not want to have been memorialized in the first place, your inclination is to play Motorhead’s Ace of Spades on repeat, laugh because it’s so absurdly relevant, and post a photo on the blog you’ve been too scared to touch for months. Rachael reminded me of NK’s $50 bandana sweatshirt today, and I remembered that he gave me my first swisher sweet and that we dove off a rocky ledge into a lake with an island of snakes once; barrel rolls. There were biscuits too, and cross-legged close talks, and a lot of baseball games with a lot of ice cream, and I still think Barry Bonds should have walked off the field when he hit 755, though I wouldn’t have minded if either of us had caught 756. There was also Sarajevo and the roses and the Finskis and the mosques, and there will always be the water from the fountain and the beer steins off the bridge where Ferdinand was assassinated. And then there were the hats and the beezies and the fly girls and Sage Francis and the car rides, and the real shit, and I miss you. I’m always watching for Bigfoot like you taught me. And this was an accidental memorial, but I can’t stop smiling thinking about you. Mortorhead helps, Cuddy; that shit slaps.
I had to update the photo. Previously was a fountain in the Turkish Quarter in Sarajevo; drinkers of its waters will have many returns. This photo is just one that makes my heart swell.