RIP: Alice In Chains’ Layne Staley
The season’s first thunderstorm swept through Manhattan last night, churning up an orangish-brown sky, and unleashing waves of rain and wind on the city’s scurrying inhabitants. I sat in my window sill and watched it blow in from New Jersey, then rush away through midtown. It was beautiful.
I awoke at 7:36 to the phone ringing. I knew it was work, and knew that news was breaking somewhere. Ends up Alice In Chains singer Layne Staley had been found dead in his home (see “Alice In Chains Singer Layne Staley Presumed Dead”). I walked to work, and dealt.
Just Wednesday night, I was telling someone about my day job, and explaining the concept of the death watch. George Harrison was on death watch, Johnny cash for a while, and Layne Staley has been for years. Now this. Too bad. If grunge didn’t die with Kurt Cobain, it’s dead now.
So it’s drizzling outside, 20 degrees cooler than yesterday. We’re waiting on a positive ID from the Seattle medical examiner, then my weekend can start in earnest.
Nothing much planned: dinner with family, maybe a movie. I’m not supposed to run or ride because of this new hole in my mouth, and the potential that a blood clot will travel through my head and cause an aneurysm, so I’m laying low, taking it easy.