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Irony Rich Blood | PJ Newman

Irony shakes its steel-gloved fist at me. Must be because I once got drunk and did a number on its garbage cans. Well, OK, so I got drunk more than once, but I usually send the dog out for garbage can duty.
This I mention because lately I rented the first 2 seasons of Dead Like Me, a Showtime series about Grim Reapers set in Seattle, but filmed in Vancouver.
No, cheaper union hands.
This I mention (now getting to the point) because no sooner than I began watching the series that I was informed of the passing of my friend Jack Slater (chronicled earlier in these pages).
Yesterday, I received word that another friend died. I wrote about a recording road trip last year (see “Read the Directions Carefully,” posted 4/27) and told about a small coffee shop owner who befriended me and made parts of the gig more bearable. His name was Evian, he had just purchased the shop and was on his way to great things.
A few days ago, his brutally murdered body was found dumped by the side of a road in Oregon.
Fuck, he was just 20 and he had his whole goddamned life ahead of him.
I was 20 once (I think!) and even though I was a fuckup and probably had pissed off more than my fair share of people at the time, nothing I had done or could conceive of doing warranted that.
If justice or karma exists, please make those responsible for this pay most horribly.

Sorry to begin like this, but I just couldn’t shake it off easily. Good things have been happening, though.
In health-related news, my blood sugar count has dropped another 80 points and I’m just 10 above normal.
My clothes are becoming roomier and my energy level has increased dramatically.
Better living through science?
Probably just a major decrease in alcohol!

On the work front, the job I took solely for the money has actually become a passion. I’m genuinely enthused about the gig. Changes are happening. Granted, fuckups still occur, but at a radically reduced rate. I just need to be the Typhoid Mary of Hope for the crew and maybe we’ll have a summer season with a lower homicide rate.
I’m still planning on setting up a small organ harvesting area in our backline tent at Bumbershoot. More as it develops.

The malaVista record seems to have frozen in its tracks. After the group listening session where nobody listened to anything but their own voices, the project sits in my hard drive developing nanobots.
Garey and I recorded a gospel concert 2 months ago featuring a 13-piece horn band, two 30-piece choirs and a pair of bagpipers, whose whereabouts are still unknown. The leader of the project has now decided that his vocal performance weren’t up to snuff, so we (I) have the pleasure of overdubbing all lead vocals on a live concert with lots ‘o’ bleeding.

I was out in the front house cutting fake lumber for the new front porch and wraparound deck, but it’s cold and raining (and Seattle), so I decided, dear readers, to blast this off. I was just invited to a barbeque tomorrow, but if the weather holds, they threatened to drag the grill by the door.
Don’t they recommend that you don’t do that indoors?
Film @ 11.

Have a better day than me.