Worst. Week. Ever.

So John Prine is gone, killed by the bastard plague, and there are songs in my head now. I'm an Angel from Montgomery and a ruin of a man named Sam Stone, broken in the service of his country. I'm Jesus wandering through his Missing Years. I'm Donald, and also Lydia.

I've been to Lake Marie and Paradise and Mars and the Twin Cities. I've eaten pork chops and Beaujolais, lonely little hotdog buns and four Italian sausages, cookin' on the outdoor grill.

And, man, they was sssssizzlin'.

All of the above and more were in the music of John Prine, who wrote some of the most memorable ballads, and lyrics, of your time and mine. Bob Dylan thought he was a genius. Roger Ebert stumbled on him one night in a Chicago joint only because the popcorn was too salty in a nearby movie theater. A kid country-and-western artist named Kacey Musgraves wrote a song about him.

"Burn One with John Prine." Maybe you've heard it.

In any case, you already know my allegiance to the man -- soundtrack to our honeymoon, all that. And you know the bastard plague made the Blob all kinds of wrong in just 24 hours, because 24 hours ago I wrote that 2020 was being a gaping orifice.

I was wrong about that. Just this week is a gaping orifice.

First it took Bill Withers.

Then it took Mr. Tiger, Al Kaline.

Now John Prine.

That's a hell of an asshat week.

And here's a hell of an out for this post, because John Prine could sign off from this earthly realm a whole lot better than any of us could:

Oodles of light what a beautiful sight
Both of God's eyes are shining tonight
Rays and beams of incredible dreams
And I am a quiet man

Rest easy, quiet man.