It was cold in the desert. Tom sat on his car and rolled his last joint. The moon was silver in his black Takamine. The way he figured, he was within a mile of where they burned Gram Parsons, so he tried “In My Hour Of Darkness,” but somehow played “Streets Of Baltimore” instead.

Probably because of the Jack. The empty bottle sat on the hood next to the .45.

He rambled through “Little Wing” and “Me And Bobby McGee” The latter counted for Janis and Pigpen. The twofer wasn’t fair, but God’s truth, he hated the Dead.

He looked at his watch again. Ten minutes.

Technically, Gram wasn’t a 27 Club member. A bit of a dilemma, there: he could be 26 like Gram, or 27 like Kurt.

Tom started “Old Age” as an in-joke (or did Kristen Pfaff play on that? he couldn’t remember) but managed to segue sweetly into “Heart-Shaped Box.”

Time enough for “Crystal Ship” or “Hellhound On My Trail” before his birthday.

Fuck The Doors.

”...the wind is risin’, the leaves tremblin’ on the tree…”