Michael Jackson’s dead.
David Bowie is old, but still finds his way onto nearly everybody’s bucket (fuck-et?) list.
Michael Stipe was singing on the radio.
We'd just come off the river. (The river was languorous, a word neither of us had been able to say.) You were talking about the concerts (the bigger ones) that have left their mark on you. Prince was amazing and R.E.M. was near the top, but better still, of course, was Tori Amos.
Of course. I loved that "of course." I relished it, relived it a few times.
I was thinking about my own big shows. Heading home halfway through the Black Crowes' set, not once being impressed by Bob Dylan, and shaking my ass for four-and-a-half hours to George Clinton and the P-Funk All-Stars.
By that time last night I was too tired to shake my ass to anything.
We stumbled into Papas and Beer and found our way to our high-top table. While you walked away to get us salsa I zoned out to the Mexican remix of a '60s girl-band doo-wop number they were playing on the radio.
It meant something.
Everything means something.
Kurt Cobain was dead at 27. So were Jimi, Jim, and Janis.
Does fame just hit you, suddenly? I wonder if it's worth it, in the end.