Maybe because it was the first Monday of the month, where the mundane became weird and the weird became completely obnoxious.
If I had a dollar for every single company store cock-up, I wouldn't be blogging: I'd be banking, partying and sit around in South Beach sipping vodka sours and watching the thongs pass by.
The suck-ass weather didn't help matters much either. My sinuses went Jihadi and forced me to knock back the last sinus care caplet with my morning tea.
It was one of the worst of times to be on my best behaviour. And even that it getting tested beyond its breaking point.
Enough of my life. Here we go...
- Angel eyes on Jeff. Back in the day, Jeff Healy could rock the blues and funk the jazz out of his Strat. Like the other Jeff (Jeff Beck), he could bend the fuck out of his notes while the single coils transmit the sonic fire to the masses.
Most of all, Jeff Healy was a gentleman, a Mensch, a sonic entrepreneur who parleyed his talents to different avenues such as his own hot jazz/blues club in the T-dot.
But, for those who know better, Jeff was a fighter and a survivor. The cancer that stole his eyes didn't steal his love of music, nor did it still the hands that wrenched it out of any Fender that was lying around at any time.
Last Sunday night, Jeff went down fighting.
Charlie was too tenacious, too fast, too ingrained.
Charlie didn't care who he took. Be it man, woman, child, Charlie was a glutton for flesh, tissue, organs and cells.
But Charlie can never take souls. He failed to still Jeff's hunger for the perfect sound and stifle his dream of doing good for the love of music.
Love. Music. Life. The God-blessed trinity that keep me alive fueled Jeff's life, right to the end.
Our existence on this planet is always transient, yet the works and legacies that we create will outlive us for better, for worse, and for those willing to follow in our steps.
Jeff was but one of many. Yet, at 41, he had lived and loved more than people twice his age, if only because his life, like ours, was transient.
For me, 41 is too damn young. My sister's 41. I was once 41. And yet we all felt that there was more work to be done, more sights to see, more mountains to climb.
We'll see you on the other side, Jeff Healy.
My condolences, love and respect to those who loved him. - Gauging Page again. I swear that this will be the last time I take Ellen Page's name in vain again.
A few posts ago, I've mentioned that Ellen may be this generation's Molly Ringwald.
Then, while I was at work, something really hit me.
Ellen is not- repeat, not - Molly.
She's our Christina Ricci.
Or maybe Winona Ryder.
In fact, after watching "Juno" and "Hard Candy", I believe that Ellen has the versatility possessed by these 2 stars.
Having said that, I should just go and get a life instead.
Ellen is simply... Ellen. And I'll leave it at that. - A tale of 2 Steve-O's. As I'm getting next to comatose, I'll keep these 2 items short.
a) Steve-O busted.
b) Steve-O busted.
Discuss amongst yourselves. Which one is more Jackass than the other?
Can you see the difference?
Maybe it's because one of them beat up something while the other one is getting beaten up from all sides.
Who will survive? Stay tuned.
