Hours felt longer in 1990. Every night I'd spend those long hours aimlessly walking the streets of Monterey, CA, with my trusty yellow Sony, auto-reverse sports Walkman, auto-reversing the hell out of Bleach. Hours spent walking, smoking, auto-reversing, auto-avoiding going home to an apartment shared with crack-smoking roomates, two shut-in cats, a rabbit and a dying relationship. Hours spent hypnotized by the first accessible and relatable rage of a man whose death I would later scoff at in the heart-hardened way of a man-child unable to deal with mortality. I didn't spend hours mourning that man, not then anyway. I'd venture to guess that over the past 23 years, my mourning might cumulatively have hit the hour mark, but I can't guarantee that. I think I owed him more, because he certainly gave me more. So today I'm going to meditate on the toe-hold we all have on mortality, with the softened heart of a Dad steeped in hopelessness, fear and rage that has softened a little over the years, but not so much that I've lost touch with the negative creep inside of me. RIP Kurt, and thanks for helping me navigate those long, dark hours.