Today of course is the day we commemorate the death of David Bowie, now six years in the past. Although, if immortality is measured by continued presence in the culture, who is more immortal than he?

As it happens, a new song by the Jazz Butcher popped up in my Spotify feed today. This feels very apropos because it’s starting to seem that before kicking the bucket Mr. Fish made his own Blackstar — an album that he knew would be his last, although as far as I know he didn’t have cancer or anything; he just sensed that his time was nigh.

“Running on Fumes” is a particularly extreme example of the song that combines jaunty music with the bleakest of lyrics. From where I’m sitting it sounds like a poison kiss from beyond the grave:

I’m gonna throw a party and I’m gonna take requests
Send out invitations to the people I detest
They’ve been dying for some entertainment, you know the rest
Because we’re running on fumes, running on fumes, everybody’s running on fumes
Lemmy and Bowie and Prince all gone, everybody’s running on fumes

Make your own entertainment
That’s what you’re gonna have to do
Make your own entertainment
While you slowly come to understand
Your stupid dreams aren’t coming true

I mean, ouch. Though I guess the fact that it exists at all must be testament to the fact that on some level he felt like it was worth making.


On a much, much happier note, through a fortuitous combination of circumstances my beloved and I were fortunate enough to be present for Klay Thompson’s return to the hardwood last night. I took a bunch of video, because of course I did, and I won’t get carried away with it but here’s my favorite: Klay warming up with Steph Curry, also wearing a #11 jersey.


There was magic in the air. A little of it still lingers in my lungs — and hopefully that’s all. Over and out for now.