Sunday morning I played at Steak Hut, a little diner on the corner of Trumbull and Lafayette. They always have music on Sundays, usually folk or bluegrass. Saturday night, a friend killed himself, so the diner was populated with hugs and grief and my slow somber songs.
I lost it during "Patriots..."
"Will you please sit on my knee and will you comfort me, I don’t really want to leave..."
as Louie joined in with a vocal harmony and Marquita played trumpet.
This winter broke my heart to peices.
Monday, I borrowed a bike trailer to take my xylophone downtown and try to hustle up some money. I made $2 in an hour and a half then got kicked off the property in front of the Compuware/Hard Rock Cafe.
A crying homeless man gave me one of those dollars while the suits scuttled by with their sagging bottoms and clean-shaven sneers.
I hadn’t spent time with you in years Dave. You helped me in a time when I was truly in need and I’ll never forget you for that. You brought people together with such grace and elegance, with your cool intelligence and depth of heart, and you became a cornerstone in our community of misfits.
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