You are more than a memory.

You were a guy Patty and I chased around town; from The Fabulous Rainbow Tavern to Scoundrel's Lair to the Mural Amphitheatre. You always said hello to us by name (even though you probably thought we were a tad bit annoying.) You were really cute, though, and of course sang like no other motherfucker of our generation.

 

Fast forward years later ... you were a guy Michael and I saw around the neighborhood, like that time you were seated near the window of an Alki eatery and my family stared and tittered at you and your companion (again, you probably thought we were a tad bit annoying.) But hey, you were who you were as we explained to our eight-year-old niece that you sang like no other motherfucker of our generation.

 

And as random as it sounds, a care package I mailed to Mauritania while Ron was serving in the Peace Corps shined light on some rather dark times.

 

We've all fallen on black days, Chris. Some of us can sit back and laugh at the absurdity called life. I know that's not so easy for others. None of this shit really makes sense, does it? All we can do is hold on, help others, and make art which is exactly what you did the entire time you spent with us. I don't blame you for the decision you made, but I'll be crying for a while as I listen to your music.

 

The wind howled in a recognizable four-octave frenzy last night and shook our house. You are free and a part of everything now.

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[Rlargusa]

He lived louder than love.