In the foreground, Jack. You'd never know it (you never do), but Jack is the author of seven or so unpublished books involving everything from a woman harboring the delusional belief that she is the tragic heroine of an unwritten Pat Conroy novel (and that she has a long-lost brother named "Chicken John") to a noir take on Weekend at Bernie's -- the actual script, enhanced with the likes of "Mr. Lomax pressed on the plunger and felt fire course through the burning fountainhead. Injecting. Just like he had injected so many with the seed of his mother." Jack was also one of the only lawyers in South Carolina to speak fluent Spanish when the big wave of Latin American migration hit the Southeast, professional qualifications that inevitably led to him seeing some very weird shit. Jack is without a doubt the most interesting man ever to attend a Bowery Ballroom rock show wearing khakis.
Behind Jack, you can just barely make out Moby. You'd never know it (you never do), but Moby can play the shit out of the guitar. Later last night, he jumped onstage during the farewell performance of Tragedy: An All Metal Tribute to the Bee Gees. The shit was played out of, on the guitar.
Jack wrote a song for his own band back in college with the lyrics "when I kissed her in the garden of the flaming rhododendron, we realized we were no longer humans, but salamanders of love". If Jack and Moby hooked up in a band, they would inject the whole world with their seed.
