I’ve heard so much MJ over the last three days. In restaurants, bars, stores, out the windows of passing cars, ring tones, my girlfriend singing to herself while she potters about the pad in her knickers…
I’m wondering if there’s anyway we can bring him back from the dead so I can strangle him. Enough is already enough.
Having said that, on Friday I experienced what I can only describe as an inexplicably significant sense of loss. A lot of people did, and it was weird.
I felt little or nothing for Kurt Cobain’s passing, even though I was a fan at the time. So when I noticed the vague outline of a void left by MJ’s death on thursday I was a little stumped to say the least. I was making jokes about him as recently as May! Why did I suddenly care? Then I remembered the glove. I had my grandma bedazzle a cut-off woman’s silk glove for me when I was nine.
Sha’mon.

One person sure to be grieving mightily over the pop star’s passing is DA Tom Sneddon. Christ, he must must be in a hand-wringing, white-knuckle, sour-breathed panic! Ol’ Tom better hope the LAPD find something damning in the video player, otherwise he’ll have to plant it just to save face. 15 years is a long time to point a finger. Maybe the discovery of some child pornography would put an end to this relentless wake. Let us hope.
What am I talking about on this sunny Sunday in my underpants with a turtle’s head and the siren song of the percolator calling to me from the kitchen? I don’t know. I do know, however, that it must totally suck to be the ghost of Farrah Fawcett.

Now the phone is buzzing at my elbow. It’s a photographer. We have to shoot stuff today for a malt liquor advertorial. I’m printing off model releases and deciding on a t shirt. I’d rather be beneath a palm in the Pitcairn Islands, sipping Montauk Storms and smoking uncontaminated bush weed with a healthy bank statement in my back pocket and a pile of Robert Sabuda books in my lap, looking out over the South Pacific planning my next swim.
But, I’m not. I’m here. And this is how the day will play out: Gulp down coffee that doesn’t have nearly enough milk in it because I’ve ran out. Catch a train out to Wiliamsburg Bklyn. Meet photog. Drink rum-Not beer. Shoot story. Ride the bike I left behind on friday over the bridge and up 1st Ave. Eat. Sleep.