Love & Fire

The air in greater Los Angeles has been heavy with smoke for more than a week now, thick with the sorrow of flames that seem as relentless as time itself. These fires, roaring across various sections of our beloved basin, are more than just a tragedy—they are the heartbreak of a community, the loss of history, of lives, of places we thought would remain with us forever. The hills we climb, the homes we’ve built, the memories we’ve woven into the fabric of this city—all of it, consumed by a cruel and raging fire. As the wind carries the smoke across the horizon, we are reminded, in the most brutal way, of how fragile everything is. How quickly it can all be turned to ash.

There is devastation in the ashes—people lost, families displaced, lives interrupted, futures uncertain. But, amid this charred landscape, there are also embers of hope. Thousands of strangers, neighbors, and strangers who become neighbors have opened their hearts, their homes, their wallets. They have given time and money, food and blankets, supplies and shelter; done anything and everything they can to help those caught in the flames. There are people walking into the chaos, arms wide, ready to offer what little they can because they know this is what community is—showing up when showing up is the hardest thing to do. When your own home might be the next to burn, yet you still stand, shoulders back, offering comfort where you can.

It is, in those moments, that I feel the deepest gratitude for what we are capable of. For the deep well of compassion that still runs through the heart of this city, even when it feels like the world is burning. This generosity is the thread that will stitch us back together. It is the kindness that will hold us through the worst of the storm, and though it cannot erase the pain, it is the balm that soothes the rawest of wounds. It is the only way forward.

But I would be remiss if I didn’t speak the truth about what weighs heavily on my heart. Amidst the suffering, there are voices—many of them voices I know—that refuse to see the fire for what it is: a tragedy that demands our collective grief and our shared responsibility to help heal and rebuild. These voices, these people, are spreading lies, placing the blame squarely on the heads of public officials, politicizing the horror of this disaster. They point fingers in every direction but the one that matters—at the lives that have been torn apart and the community that needs healing.

It is as if they are so determined to be right that they cannot allow themselves to simply be human. They cannot stop long enough to see the faces of those displaced, the homes that have been lost, the families broken. It is as if their need to score political points and virtue signal to some sort of ideology is more urgent than the very real and tangible needs of those suffering. And to them, I say this: Your cynicism and your anger, your misdirection and misinformation, are only fueling the fire. They do nothing but widen the gap between us, pulling us farther from the truth and further from the compassion we so desperately need. If you can’t help, please consider shutting the fuck up. I mean this from the bottom of my broken heart.

What we need now is kindness, not division. We need hands reaching out, not pointing fingers. We need hearts open to grief, not hardened by a relentless pursuit of blame. We need compassion, not politics. The fire burns regardless of who you voted for; the people who are affected by all this horror care that we show up, that we stand together in the face of something far bigger than any of us can control. They don’t care which bumper sticker is on your car while you do it.

Somehow, some way, we will get through this. Community is the thread that holds us together when the world seems determined to tear us apart. It is the small acts of kindness, the quiet donations, the helping hand that, piece by piece, rebuilds the fabric of what is lost. But we cannot do this if we allow ourselves to be swallowed by the flames of bitterness and division. The fire is already raging outside; we cannot afford to let it rage in our hearts as well.

To those still clinging to the belief that cruelty is justified, that division is a cure, I ask this: Let go. Let go of the anger that binds you to the ashes. Let go of the need to be right. Let go of the cynicism that has taken root in your soul and see what is needed now. What is needed is the same thing that has always saved us—the love of each other, the tenderness we show when we stand in the ashes and say, “We are still here. We grieve with you. We’re not going anywhere.”

If we can do this—if we can be kind, if we can come together, not in our differences but in our shared humanity—then we will rebuild. We will heal. We will rise from the ashes not because we are perfect, but because we choose, again and again, to love and care for one another.

And in the end, that’s what will save us. The love we give freely to each other, the love we offer in the dark places, the love that rises from the ashes like a phoenix, bright and unyielding. It’s bigger than any fire could ever be.

I Only Have Eyes For You

"I Only Have Eyes For You” by The Flamingos is a spectral love letter, a frozen kiss from the past that still burns like the ghost of romance itself. You play it once, and it’s like stepping into a time machine, only instead of traveling through time, you’re unraveling it, dissolving into a world where love wasn’t just a word—it was an overwhelming force, as inevitable as gravity. The whole thing drips with the kind of lush, intoxicating melancholy that leaves you dizzy, longing for a romance that feels as unreachable as it does inevitable. It’s the sound of a love lost to time, captured in the purest, most haunting echo. The Flamingos weren’t just singing—they were channeling a time and a place that no longer exists, a time when romance wasn’t an algorithm or a transaction, but a spell that you fell under whether you wanted to or not. It was real.

The song opens with that crooning falsetto, and right then, it’s as if the world around you falls away, and you’re left with only the voice, the faint chordal plinking of the piano, and the fog that swirls between the two. “I only have eyes for you,” they sing, but it’s not a boast. It’s a confession—a quiet, tragic surrender to a love that is at once all-consuming and strangely ethereal. That line, repeated like a prayer, hints at a deep, fatalistic longing—a love that has to be, because that's all he can see. 

In an age where every sentiment is dissected and monetized, I Only Have Eyes For You holds up a mirror to our emptiness, whispering of a time when love was both a treasure and a tragedy, not something to be swiped left on in a second. It makes you wonder: did we ever really have that kind of love, or was it always just a dream? 

But the haunting beauty of the song doesn’t end there. There’s something ineffable about the way those lush harmonies sweep in and out of your consciousness like a lover’s touch that you can’t quite remember. The song speaks to an existential longing—like standing in a room full of people but only being interested in the object of your desire. Are they close or are they far away? Is it a real, tangible thing or is it that ethereal sense of a romance that lives on only in the mind, only in the faint traces of memory?

The lyric “The moon may be high, but I can’t see a thing in the sky” doesn’t just refer to the lack of stars—it speaks to the blindness that comes with all-consuming love, a blindness that makes the rest of the world seem irrelevant, even laughable. And yet, as the song unfurls, there’s something almost tragic in that blindness, too. It’s a deep, impossible yearning for the thing that was, the thing that should have been, but is lost forever in the fog of time. Or is it? The song becomes a meditation on what it means to love so completely that the world itself fades into the periphery. This is a love that feels pure, timeless, and hints at something entirely tragic at the same time.

And that’s the brilliance of listening to “I Only Have Eyes For You” 65 years later —it doesn't just feel like just a love song anymore,  it feels like an elegy about the death of romance, the unraveling of an ideal that no longer exists in the real world, and yet we still hunger for it, still wish for it like an old ghost that keeps coming back to haunt us. It’s the raw, aching wound of nostalgia that burns and throbs in your chest, a wound you want to pick at even though it can never heal. You can’t help but wish that romance was as simple as it was in that moment, when love wasn’t something to dissect or control, but something to lose yourself in, like a fever dream. It’s a moment that will never return—where love was both the question and the answer, the fire and the ashes. In a world where love is as manufactured as a brand, where “I love you” is reduced to a swipe right, The Flamingos remind us of a time when love wasn’t something you consumed, it was something you felt, even if it was a feeling so painful it could break your heart.

And in that ache, in that spectral longing, comes the song’s timeless power. There’s something about it that transcends its era, its genre, its place in musical history. It’s as if, in those few minutes, The Flamingos captured something that existed before time, something that will echo on long after we’re all dust. 

The beauty of “I Only Have Eyes For You” is that it never stops being relevant, never stops resonating with those who hear it. Because love, in its purest form, doesn’t obey the rules of time or place. It isn’t bound by the present moment or the latest trend. It’s eternal, it’s aching, it’s impossible—and it’s all contained in that gorgeous, haunting melody. That’s why it still lingers, why it still haunts us. This song, this love, is a ghost that will never fade. It’s the kind of thing you can’t fully comprehend, but you feel it deep in your bones, just like the faintest traces of an old lover’s perfume. It’s there, always, and it will never leave.

Gloria

From the very first chord, Patti Smith grabs you by the collar and throws you headfirst into the fire. She doesn’t ask for permission; she demands your attention. When she yells “Jesus died for somebody’s sins, but not mine”, she’s not just singing a line—she’s detonating the whole concept of what’s holy and pure, flipping it on its head with the sort of reckless freedom that only she could summon. This isn’t just a rejection of the institution of religion; it’s a rallying cry for the untamed, the misunderstood, and the people who refuse to fit into the neat little boxes that the world wants to stuff them into. She’s here to tell you that she is the authority now, she is the one in charge of her own fate, and she’s not going to apologize for it. “Gloria” is like Patti sticking her middle finger up at a society that wanted her to be silent, to be small, to be tame. Instead, she stands tall, loud, unapologetic, breathing fire;  daring you to try to catch the spark. 

But what makes this song so potent is how it morphs into something far bigger than a punk anthem. It’s not just a statement of defiance—it’s a primal scream, a battle cry from the depths of her soul. As Patti dives into that second part of the song, when she begins to channel the full-throttle electric chaos, it’s clear: she’s not just reclaiming Gloria; she’s becoming Gloria. This isn’t about some man’s possession of a name or some woman in a state of passive desire—this is a full-throttle, balls-to-the-wall rebirth of a concept. “Gloria” is given her own voice, and with it, she’s giving a voice to every woman, every outsider, every freak, and every renegade who’s ever felt boxed in. Patti Smith’s beautiful androgyny was at the heart of this transformation—she could slip between the lines of rock god and goddess, effortlessly blurring the boundaries between masculine swagger and a fiercely primal feminine energy. It was her ability to be both raw and untamed, yet undeniably woman, that gave this song its electric charge. She didn’t fit neatly into the binaries of the world; she broke them wide open, redefining what it means to be and be seen in the world. It’s the ultimate subversion: she takes the most conventional thing and turns it into a visceral, powerful, and unapologetically primal declaration. Her Gloria doesn’t just bend to the will of others—she takes the world on her own terms, and that’s what makes this song not just a classic, but a goddamn revolution.

And let’s talk about Patti herself—let’s talk about the goddess who made this possible. Patti Smith wasn’t just a musician—she was (and still is) a raw, unfiltered force of nature that could tear down the walls of art, literature, and rock ‘n roll all at once. The beauty of Patti wasn’t just in her voice, her words, or her lyrics—it was in her embodiment of the truth. She was fearless in a way that no one else was at the time. You couldn’t cage her. You couldn’t tame her. She wasn’t just a muse; she was a creator, a shaman, a prophet of the ugly, beautiful, messy truth of being alive. And Gloria? That song wasn’t a trend or a gimmick; it was a raw, unvarnished testament to everything Patti was about. She wasn’t just singing the words—she was becoming the fire. Her voice wasn’t some polished instrument of perfection; it was a razor blade dipped in moonlight, sharp and dangerous and full of unbridled passion. Patti wasn’t just a voice in the crowd; she was the one who made the crowd wake up.

So yeah, “Gloria” is a punk anthem, a rock 'n roll explosion, and a literary triumph all wrapped into one. But most importantly, it’s Patti Smith doing what she does best: dragging the world kicking and screaming into the chaos of real freedom, real rebellion, and real truth. The song is a testament to what it means to be alive, to be unapologetic, and to own every inch of yourself, no matter who tries to stop you. You feel it in your bones. You breathe it in your lungs. Gloria is not just a name—it’s a revolution, and Patti Smith is the one leading it, headfirst into the fire. 

The question is --- Are you courageous enough to dance in the flames?

This Ain't No Picnic

There’s a rage that lurks in the corners of life, a simmering frustration with the small, cruel absurdities of existence. It’s the kind of anger that comes from knowing you’re never gonna get what you deserve, but you’ve got no choice but to keep hustling anyway. “This Ain’t No Picnic,” from Minutemen, gets it, feels it, embodies it. In less than two minutes, it rips through the pretense and gets down to what’s real: life is a grind, and if you’re lucky, you might get a few moments of freedom between the mess. But even that’s just a flicker in the darkness, isn’t it?

This is punk rock in its purest form: raw, urgent, econo: a fist shoved into the face of convention. Minutemen didn’t have time for the bullshit. They didn’t need to explain why it hurt. These young Pedro boys just felt it, and they made it into something we could all hear, all relate to, even if we couldn’t quite name it yet. It was something deep, forged in our bellies with fire. It wasn’t a glorification of struggle—it was a demand to see it, to recognize it, and to live it without pretending that the mess was anything less than what it was.

And in the center of all that chaos, there’s the sound of Mike Watt’s thunderstick bass—thud, slap, boom—like the pulse of the universe itself, thumping its heavy, unforgiving rhythm through your chest. Watt doesn’t just play the bass; he becomes the bass, carving out every moment of tension and release, holding the song together like some kind of seething lifeline. And although Watt is an extraordinary bassist, by any standard, there’s nothing smooth or polished about it. It’s a raw, brutal, physical force—imperfect, maybe, but undeniably vital. The foundation of all that urgency, all that ache—it’s coming from that low-end rumble that rattles your bones and makes your teeth vibrate.

Then, on top of that, you’ve got George Hurley’s drums, a furious, soulful chaos that never settles. Each hit is like an explosion, every crash an exclamation of rage or relief, or maybe both. Hurley’s not trying to make it sound pretty—he’s dragging the rhythm through the dirt, pulling it back up, and hitting you over the head with it again. He’s the heartbeat that never quits, driving everything forward even as it threatens to fall apart. The drums are everything. The urgency, the madness, the push—it’s all in there. Hurley doesn’t keep time, he smashes it into something new.

And then, at the front of it all, is the late, great D. Boon, his guitar a frantic, clangy strum that sounds like it’s barely held together, punctuated by frantic lead runs that twist your soul into some kind of psychic frenzy. His voice, cracked and raw, carries a sense of urgency so deep you can almost taste it, like it’s choking him from the inside out. It’s not about perfection; it’s about the feeling—the immediate, overwhelming sense that this is the only way to survive, to get through.

The genius of Minutemen was that they weren’t about playing it safe, about neat lines and clean sounds. They were about urgency, about need. These three Pedro punks didn’t just play their instruments—they unleashed a raw, barely-contained power. The rhythm wasn’t just something you followed—it was something you became. Watt’s thumping bass, Hurley’s explosive drums, and Boon’s strummy, clanging guitar were more than just music. They were an expression of living on the edge of sanity, trying to break free without ever quite making it. They were the sound of fury, but also the sound of freedom, a freedom that can only exist when you stop pretending everything’s okay and start admitting that it never will be. But somehow, that’s the only thing that makes you feel alive.

“This Ain’t No Picnic” isn’t just a song. It’s a life raft thrown into a sea of sameness, like much of the rest of the groundbreaking album it came from – 1984’s “Double Nickels on the Dime.” It’s the sound of voices cracking under pressure, of knowing that everything’s fucked and trying to make sense of the chaos anyway. There’s no sugarcoating here—just a blunt, unflinching look at what it takes to survive when you’re not looking for easy answers. The frustration isn’t romanticized. It’s just there, churning, pulling at the edges of everything.

And sure, it’s a short burst of energy, like a match struck in the dark. But in those seconds, it burns bright, and in that burning, it lights up everything. It’s the reminder that the world isn’t here to hand you anything—there’s no easy ride, no comfort at the end of the tunnel. But in the midst of it all, in the suffocating chaos and the bitter noise, there’s a truth that punk rock gets: survival, real survival, isn’t about winning. It’s about showing up. It’s about saying, “This is who I am. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

This ain’t no picnic. But maybe that’s the point. It’s not supposed to be easy. But it’s ours. All of it. It belongs to us. Punk rock changed our lives.

Be Thankful For What You Gott

There are songs that find their way into your soul before you even understand what they’re saying. "Be Thankful For What You Got" by William DeVaughn is one of those songs, the kind that anchors you in a moment, a time, and a place—before you’ve fully figured out who you are. I first heard it as a child, growing up in a city that was split between what felt like palatial estates and dilapidated apartment buildings. My elementary school was a strange and confusing world—full of children who wore things I couldn’t pronounce and lived in the kind of houses I couldn’t fathom. But DeVaughn’s voice? His voice felt like it belonged to me. That calm, gentle wisdom mixed with an unshakable truth: the real wealth lies not in things, but in how you choose to live with what you have.

It’s funny, because this song—this simple, elegant anthem—spoke to me like an older cousin, one who’d seen the world and knew better than to make a fuss about what was out of reach. There’s a softness in DeVaughn’s delivery, a quiet reverence that doesn't scream for attention but demands it in the way a trusted friend does. His voice doesn’t just fill the room; it fills the heart, slow and steady, like the dawn creeping over a landscape you hadn’t quite noticed was beautiful before.

And then the music itself. It’s a velvet rope that pulls you gently but insistently into the groove, a rhythm section that feels like breathing in sync with the universe. There’s a warmth in the organ, a smoothness in the guitar fills, and a shuffling beat that makes you feel like you’re floating just above the ground. The sound of "Be Thankful For What You Got" is as comforting as it is empowering—like the sound of joy when it hasn’t been corrupted by the weight of want. It’s funky, yes, but it’s more than that—it’s grounded, rich in soul, and rich in the kind of love that doesn’t make a show of itself. It is the show.

Maria Popova once wrote that “gratitude is the antidote to the tyranny of what we don’t have,” and that could be the thesis of this song, too. DeVaughn’s lyrics speak to that deep, almost spiritual understanding that we spend too much of our lives looking beyond what’s in front of us, chasing after things we’ll never truly own. He doesn’t admonish us for wanting more, but instead invites us to recognize the wealth we already possess, the things we can so easily overlook—the small victories, the steady love, the song of the birds in the trees, the steady beat of your own heart. If you pause long enough, you realize that the things that truly matter are not only the things you can touch, but the things that touch you.

And yet, it’s not about resignation or passivity. DeVaughn’s song doesn’t tell you to settle. It doesn’t tell you to stop striving. Instead, it reminds you to dance while you’re doing it. It invites you to put on your dancin’ shoes, funk it up, and rejoice in the fact that you’re alive enough to feel the groove. What’s on the outside is fleeting; what’s inside, and what you choose to do with it, that stuff is eternal.

So, as the year winds down, and the holiday season sweeps through with its mix of joy and reflection, take a moment with this song. Whether you're walking through wealth or through struggle, put on your dancing shoes. Turn up the volume. Let the lyrics hit you where you live, let the bass thump in your chest, and let the message sink in: If you have love and music, you are the richest person in the world.

Kick Out The Jams, Motherf*cker!!!

There is a moment captured here, in this riotous live performance of "Kick Out the Jams," in Detroit in 1970, where you can feel the universe shift. It’s that split second when Wayne Kramer’s guitar rips through the thick, sweaty air, an opening salvo that begs—no, demands—that the world sit up and listen. The MC5 weren’t just a band; they were a live wire, an electric storm just waiting for someone to touch it. Kramer, that manic shaman of the six-string, grabs the lightning bolt, unleashing it on a crowd too wild and frenzied to even comprehend the sheer force of what was happening. It’s primal. It’s overwhelming. And it’s still dangerous, decades later.

There’s a reason "Kick Out the Jams" is considered one of the most iconic rock songs ever recorded. Not because it’s slick or polished, but because it’s an anthem of pure fury and fire. The MC5’s sonic assault is so raw, so audacious, that it nearly dares you to even try to keep your body still. Their music is a war cry, a battle with the forces of mediocrity, the sonic equivalent of a Molotov cocktail thrown right in the face of convention. The MC5 aren’t merely performing—they are unleashing.

Wayne Kramer’s guitar, like a Promethean spark, is the very catalyst that ignites punk rock long before its time. What he does with a few blistering chords is nothing short of revolutionary. He’s the architect of chaos, laying the foundation for a cultural shift that would define rebellion in rock. His strings scream, bend, and twist like a soul caught between worlds, a soul that would never be content to stay in the same place, and neither would we.

And then there’s the audience—the pure embodiment of sweat-soaked wonder and frantic energy. Two-thirds of the crowd is with them, practically breathing the electricity in the room, a single organism that pulses along with the band. They are no longer spectators; they are part of the music. But then there’s the other third, lost and confused, almost as if the sonic force unleashed is beyond their comprehension. They’re caught in a maelstrom they don’t fully understand, unsure of what they’re witnessing, but still unwilling to look away. In those minutes, the MC5 transform the audience into more than just witnesses; they’re co-conspirators, even if some of them haven’t quite figured out what the revolution sounds like yet.

The MC5 have been imitated countless times, but never duplicated. That magic, that madness, can’t be replicated. They were a moment in time, a force of nature, and the echoes of their power still rumble through the veins of rock ‘n’ roll, reverberating through the speakers with the same frenetic energy. It’s not nostalgia, it’s far more. And even years after Wayne kicked the mortal coil to rock the worlds beyond—“Kick Out The Jams” is a force that still cuts deep here on the Earthly plane.

So here’s the invitation: sink into it. Let it wash over you. Let that primal energy of "Kick Out the Jams" take you somewhere frantic and transcendent. Feel the rush. Don’t just hear the music—live it. There’s no distance between you and that sound.

And if you happen to make art—whether it’s with a guitar, a paintbrush, a camera, a pen or your own beautiful hands—let this song be a catalyst. If you’ve ever thought, “I can’t do this,” “I can’t create that,” or “I can’t go that far,” let this be the fire that burns away those doubts. This is the sound of Prometheus kicking the door down, lighting the fuse, and saying, “Go, make something explode.” He’s talking to you and he’s passing the torch. You know what you should do about it? Kick out the jams, motherfucker!

I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry

He sipped the whiskey slowly, watching the amber liquid swirl in his glass like it was the last thing he could hold onto with his damned shaky hands. The jukebox had been full of the good stuff - that old-timey twangy heartache medicine, all night long. After finishing an old Waylon tearjerker, it churned out Hank Williams’ “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry,” a song that seemed to crawl into the marrow of his bones. It was a ditty that had been playing in the back of his mind for years, since she died. Diane’s birthday. He could feel her presence in the thick smoke clinging to the bar lights, her ghostly visage swirling behind the glass and seeming to encircle the neon cactus-graffiti light. She used to love that song, back when they were young and invincible, back before the world had worn them down like an old pair of work boots.

It was there, loaded and ready to bear in his truck, just waiting for him to make up his stubborn old mind. The doctors had given him a bad diagnosis—something about a heart too tired to keep beating the way it should. He thought about the days when he could still dance with her, when her laughter filled all their favorite barrooms. She could light up the darkest places. It was effortless. Now, the only thing left was the hollow ache in his chest and the constant thrum of mortality tapping at his temples. 

He glanced at the young woman across the bar, her laughter reminding him of Diane in her youth, wild and untamed, almost uproarious, before the years pressed them down like stones in an ancient riverbed.

The young man beside her was shy, his hands hovering awkwardly around her waist as she swayed to the music. It caught his attention. His voice, rough as sandpaper, leaned over the bar and said, “Hey, kid. Don’t you hold back with her. Love her all the way. You don’t get this chance twice.” He didn’t know why he said it, but goddamn it if it didn't feel like the only thing worth saying. Tomorrow is never promised, not for anyone. 

The young man blinked, unsure, and nodded, his fingers twitching; but the woman smiled at him like she knew. She knew.

The whiskey burned a little more on the way down, but still felt just enough like an old familiar friend. He paid Rick, the bartender, left him a decent tip, and shuffled his way out to the truck.

The sky hung heavy, like it had something to tell him. He opened the door to the back, looked at the shotgun he'd been staring at for weeks, then slid it back into its case. As he closed the latch, he looked up into the clear night sky and whispered to the space around him, “Not tonight, Diane. But goddamn, I miss you. It doesn't get any easier, darlin'.” 

The world seemed quieter somehow, as if even the wind was listening. Or maybe it was just the whiskey. 

The silence of a falling star

Lights up a purple sky

And as I wonder where you are

I'm so lonesome I could cry..