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On March 8, 2008, my percussionist, friend and chosen family, Jerob Newton passed away. In a very short time, Jerob had become my rhythm section, my collaborator, my sounding board, my biggest fan, and a cane for my sometimes lame sense of self-confidence.

So, as some of you may have noticed, I've been on something of a layoff for the last 15 months. It's been too long. I'd like to say I was soul searching, writing new material, or otherwise under some state of cocoon from which I've emerged an improved and transformed artist. I'd like to say that. . . but making shit up has never really been my strong suit.

The reality of it is that I've spent the year with my head in the proverbial sand, doing anything and everything to avoid any chance of a realization that Jerob is actually gone. I couldn't face writing new material, performing again, or even picking up a guitar, except maybe to run scales to occupy my hands at times when I was out of cigarettes. So, as you might now be concluding. . . I avoided even logging in to my Myspace page. Because I knew what it would mean--I'd have to update my page to include a mention of my great loss.

Those of you who knew Jerob--Hell, those of you who were briefly acquainted with him--must surely know that his young death is low blow to a world that needs big brothers like him more than ever. And something I could never adequately express in words.

My worst crime is this. There is nothing Jerob would have been more horrified by than the thought that his death would somehow discourage a person from engaging in their artistic expression or creative impulse. On that note, let me just say: I'm sorry, Jerob, but you are just that sorely missed.