I Think It's Called Inspiration

As I get older and contemplate what it means to officially be an "adult," I'm enjoying being in the presence of creative older folks who still retain the spark that first ignited them. I'm thinking specifically of people like Killing Joke's Jaz Coleman, a ravingly-brilliant madman who, I can now say from first-hand experience, is both outraged and relevant a full 30+ years after breaking onto the scene. And Tim Kerr, another one of these guys who, despite all the opportunities to retreat into a life of mundanity, continues to make art and do cool things with his life.

These are from last month's Come One, Come Y'all show featuring Tim Kerr and others at Needles and Pens, one of my favorite SF institutions, which deals in exciting things made by ordinary people. The first few are Tim's, the last piece is by Rich Jacobs. Nothing to say except just read it and go do something.











And finally, John Ross, an SF countercultural legend described in the Guardian as "a poet, journalist, and unrepentant shit disturber," who passed away last week. I just learned about him this morning, but he seems like a righteous guy. Here are my favorite parts from his rememberance.

There are so many stories to tell about John that it's hard even to begin, but my favorite was his tale of the day he left Terminal Island, the federal prison near Los Angeles where he served more than two years for refusing the draft during the Vietnam War. The warden saw him to the gates and shook his head and said, "Ross, you never learned how to be a prisoner." And that was pretty much the story of his life. He lived every day in the spirit of freedom and social justice.

John, as I expected, left very specific instructions for his remains. I quote: "I ask that my body be rendered into ashes and the ashes distributed in the following locations: [names a bunch of places including SF: "strewn along the Mission 14 route and deposited in the planter boxes outside Cafe Boheme" and Mexico: "dumped in the ashtrays outside the Hotel Isabel and on the sidewalk outside the Hotel the Cafe la Blanca"]. The remainder of my ashes should be rolled into marijuana cigarettes and smoked by participants in these scatterings.