Un Reve Sans Consequence

In my mind, a small plane of suspect registry has just landed in Bulgaria. The sole passenger, a tall, taciturn, jet-lagged fellow whose blocky black glasses inexplicably have one lens fogged up exits, a rucksack of clothes on his back, a guitar case in one hand, and a coverless copy of Rossignol's curiously titled tome "Origins of a World War" tucked in his pocket. With a nod to the pilot, he heads off, on foot, away from any sign of civilization. At a barely discernable crossroad miles from the airport, he meets a man whose name consists mostly of consonants and exchanges a few grunts and a complicated series of hand signs; after which he is led to a half-collapsed thatch roof shed invisible from the roadway. There he exchanges a handful of grimy bills and a carton of U.S. smokes for a dilapidated but serviceable motorcycle and a hand-drawn map. And before the dawn breaks, he is on his way..

Some of you know, or have heard, that my dear friend brin - Crow - passed out of this world the other night. He was one of the first two friends i made when i joined the theater, re-introduced me to the experimental music scene, turned me on to the Dresden Dolls, Madame P, Electric Six and Boris, Plastic Crimewave and Celebration. He taught me sound design and basic lessons in automotive mechanics. He brought the iMac i'm posting from back to life after it conked out the third day i owned it and to this day he - and his step-daughter Iris - have user profiles i see every time i log in. He could keep rhythm on a bass drum and tap a snare with the head of the guitar he was playing at the same time. He wore bowler hats with goggles before steampunk was big, tailored jackets and t-shirts over tight bellbottoms, while living in a trailer at the end of an abandoned rail line. Drove a 65 Rambler wagon, or maybe an 84 AMC Eagle on jacked-up wheels, to eat breakfast at the Steel Trolley Diner. He called himself a biker and rode a Honda 750 named Annabelle. He called his band, and sometimes himself, madbunny, and made music that could range from incomprehensible noise (on rollerskates) to gentle dreamy ragas. He understood the dichotomy between growing up in a backwards ohio town and living amongst the arts intelligentsia of a city, and could walk in both those worlds.

Right now i can't fathom that he won't set foot in either one again, not in this form. Farewell, crowboy. i hope the skies are clearer where you're flying now, the guitars give exactly the sound you want and never break a string, and all the classic cars only need worked on when you feel like it.