Earlier, yesterday evening, I learned of the passing of a Friend. It's becoming a Syndrome. Guys dying all over the place. I suppose that means I'm "getting old." Fuck. Me, next. (Back of the line, hopefully)
Ian was: A VERY LARGE Scotsman. Tossed Kaber with the best. There was a wrinkled up, used up, fucked up, penis underneath that damned garment. I jest. I'm sure his Joint was fine. Never saw it.
"Don't Let Us Get Sick." I've spoken the same words about most every Human Being I've ever known. The ones that I: "give a shit about," anyway.
I "gave two shits" about Ian. His ashes will be scattered tomorrow. Someplace that he cared about.
He recalled "Hamish" from Braveheart, to look at him. He hadn't forgotten That Rock. The sword was sharp, the shield worthy. Not that he was Mel Gibson's Pal or anything....
I have numerous stories. They shall rest, as he does now.
"The Pain Of Death Is For The Living." -Anon.
"Join me in that place where we all shall tarry." -Anon.
I don't "know" that Ian would enjoy a Irish Catholic Blessing but: "May the Devil know you're dead one half hour before your passing, Friend."
Hoist a pint! Call Spirit! Come Winds! Blow to that place where....
...A dream of you woke me.
-Doc
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