I see a bad moon rising,

I see trouble on the way.

I see earthquakes and lightnin,
I see bad times today.
Dont go around tonight, its bound to take your life
Theres a bad moon on the rise.
No one could belt out that number like you could, Alex. In fact, there were a lot of
things that no one could do like you could.
No one could take the piss like you could, mate, though manys the fool that
tried.
No one could write like you could. Actually, thats not true. I did see some good
stuff penned by you but it was mighty little; good writers need portfolios that
stretch beyond a few paragraphs. Perhaps if you had taken the job of sub-editor
at Gomantak Times way back in 87 like I did, you might have set those ghosts
to rest and perhaps, I wouldnt be writing this.
But who knows.
One often meets his destiny on the road he takes to avoid it. Kung fu panda
wisdom for those who venture out when theres a bad moon on the rise.
No one could jive like you could, either. Actually, was it jive or rock n roll, or just
something you came up with on the spur of the moment? Ill never know, but I
know you liked those moves because you stuck with them for a while. You even
remembered to use them when you danced with my wife at my wedding in
England. Never mind you drank yourself silly and passed out a couple of hours
later. I am still touched you came all the way to Bridgnorth from London.
I am touched by many other things, mate. That the next time we met again in
London you actually remembered to bring me the Strictly Come Dancing DVD
from the Sunday Times. I havent seen it yet, and perhaps I never will. But thanks
anyway.
Touched that back in em crazy days of wild livin in Goa, you went all out for me
when I got picked on by a local bully and diplomatically (though not in the
politest of terms) told them to apologise. They sure did.
Touched that we became friends in Xaviers, somewhere in the late eighties. That
made all the difference. It gave me a whole new perspective on Zen & the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance. Who can forget your modified Rajdoot and the Sooraj
Diesel. My Yezdi Roadking. Your little restaurant called Squeeze in Baga. Good
times rolled with those bikes, and they rolled long after those bikes stop rolling.

Ah, em crazy days of living in Goa! Remember how you, Neil, Ryan and I danced
all night at Mellos in Calangute. A bottle of Port wine kept all of us company,
interrupted briefly by a pretty white thing that took you home.
Sing song at my place in Nerul, with Brian, Ryan, Neil and Gavin. You singing Me
and Bobby McGee and Gavin doing Road to Hell. Janis Joplin slept better that
night. Chris Rea didnt mind.
Spoke to Neil and Violet today off the great times we had. Well, Alex, you lived
rough but in many ways you were an inspiration in Goa. I think England took the
shine off you, but I dont really know. I hope your mates in Clapham and Balham
disagree. I just dont know how to explain to them the flash of lightning energy
that was you, bad moon be damned. Your sense of humour remained intact, but
elsewhere, there was wear and tear.
Our conversations in England and more recently, in Spain, were never that long,
never that meaty; we didnt seem to have much to say to each other. You were
always in a hurry to get somewhere. I just wanted to know you were okay, even
though I knew you werent.
Neil told me today that just before you left for England way back then, wed sat
outside Clube Gaspar Dias in Panjim and downed a couple of beers. I dont
remember that, but I do remember many other things, mate. Things that true
living is made up of; that I am not going to forget in a hurry.
Live free, Alex. Dunno about freedom being just another word for nothing left to
lose. But live free. We had a good ride, Ill catch up with you someday on the
other side. Hang on to that bottle of Port. And the yellow submarine.
Adios, amigo.