Yesterday afternoon I found myself amongst professional musicians on a rooftop patio in a steep, sleepy section of Silver Lake. Not too many "cool guys" own houses over there, so one would not have to endure the constant drone of a band that sounds like Interpol trying to sound like Joy Division ripoffs blasting out of a Jetta. Though you can almost hear the faint sounds of the scene a mere 6 downhill blocks to Sunset. Perfectly trekable in Chuck Taylor's I am sure.

Such serenity obviously yielded a "who's your favorite jazz musician" conversation. Baked, this is where I re-entered that oh so familiar place called the conversation quicksand. I was in over my head in less than a minute. I can talk shit loads about Finance and bore people, but I know that it's pointless, These doodz gave me way too much credit. When you don't know the reference point used to explain the unknown, you might as well forget it, Jack. Two years ago, Jayloose and I took a Friday morning stroll to breakfast.

He told me to check out a band. "The Schiv's, they're like The Shanks, but more spacy like this Sweedish Band called Prison Weapon." Sure. Like so many other great recommendations, I am afraid this one has gone to the wayside, too. My pal recommended some guitarist who wrote one album, he rocked it so hard he had to kill himself. Great. His name was like 4 names and it was all wacky and shit like Funky Joe Winkerbean Johnson or some shit. Sad part is I blame my condition, but I'll Never forget that the Afromen rapped "Because I Got High."