Buckethead was working at a bar.  I was sitting there having a coke when the owner told bucket he had a phone call.  it was important.  bucket took the call and i watched his face.  it was bad. his dad was very ill.  he needed to choose between touring and playing for his fans and possibly missing his father’s death or not touring at all and staying by his father’s side.  he left.  i wanted to go after him and say something comforting or profound but there was nothing that could make this better.  i tried to swallow up all the helplessness, adding it to my own, to make it easier for him.