I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead

This morning as I was driving to get the dog out of the kennel, I heard what sounded like a Warren Zevon tribute. I hoped it wasn’t that I thought it was, but in fact it was – Warren Zevon died yesterday at the age of 56. There is no sense is any of us being more maudlin about it than the man himself was, but I’m still sad. He had a grim acceptance, but I’m not as strong as him or as Russianly fatalistic as him. I’m glad I got to see him on what turned out to be his last ever tour. Nothing profound to say about it, just a little dull ache for a man who has given me nothing but joy. Sleep well, piano fighter.