Fuck You, Jon.

Fuck you, Jon. Fuck you, my little brother. Is this how you get me to write a song for you? You know I will.

But not yet. I'm still kind of numb. I can't even find Plotnik today, he's here I know, waiting for me to summon him up, but things are a little fuzzy. It's raining again.

I've got to finish a project by this afternoon and tomorrow we leave for Hawaii and I guess you're not in any hurry now, are you? So Fuck you, Jon. I didn't think you could break my heart like this after so many years, but I was wrong.

We saw a play last night called 'Happiness' that is one of the most unrelentingly depressing things I've ever seen. A fat, balding 54 year old with bad teeth whining about how he can't get any sex. I wanted to strangle him. But my mood isn't exactly Aces in the hole.

You know I loved you. You know Barb loved you. You know, right? Especially now?

Danny, your Godson, told me last night about when he was 14 and came to spend a week with you and Bonnie in New York, and the first thing you said to him was: "So, kid, you ever seen any porn?" Proving there is a God.

Bronnie says your house in Oregon seemed like the coolest spot on Earth. Luckily, kids don't see the mold under shiny rocks.

Uncle Bobby wrote me yesterday and said: "I'll remember Jon best back when we all owned the world." We did, too.

Aloha, you fool. You fat fuck. You fabulous friend. This one's gonna take me awhile.