Dr. Mr Bus Driver, 

Yesterday I went to see Andy Rourke respond to a few prosaic questions at Piano's.  We didn't hear much of his new music (is that what he does now?) nor did we get the goods on his life with Morrissey.  The Q&A was mediated by James Fuentes, a young gallerio who's in tune with art.  What his relationship is to music, no less to Andy Rourke,  remains a mystery.  With very few questions to answer, James  fulfilled the role of a clever dentist, arduously pulling the proverbial teeth to ease the dull pain of the stagnant conversation.  Andy, who was advertised on the flyer as "former bass player of the Smiths", lest you confuse him with some mickey rourke character, was a lovely cockneyed chap with a silly haircut and a sunny disposition.  The talk was not so much a testament to the bygone glory of a legendary band but rather a commentary on the reality of aging.  You grow up listening to this band that ceased to exist before you were old enough to even listen to music.  Then when you rub shoulders with one of its members, all you can think about is how Stephen Patrick Morrissey must have done something right, and how expensive drinks are at Piano's.

Oh well.  Glad I went.