For the last week I’ve been wondering what I’d be comfortable posting regarding my friend Ray Condo’s recent death. There’s really nothing comfortable about death. It makes me squirm and ache thinking about not seeing him again. I have some good memories of eating boiled eggs and toast at Regan’s old studio on Commercial Drive. I rmember the first time I met him when he and Line lived in the suite under my studio in ‘89. He wore a dark suit and cowboy hat, and I thought what a slick dude. I remember comenting on their stylish pad and talking about paint colours with Line. Coversations with Ray were always an odd combination of optimistic cynicism, magic and mystery and Elvis. Always Elvis. I have a lovely image of Ray in my kitchen, when he lived with me for a few months in 94 or 95. It’s of him sitting peacefully in the sun reading a book with his sax on the table. His chair tilted back and a cup of tea beside him. The last while I’ve remembered his guffawing laughter and twinkling devilish eyes. Ray was a gem. A true artist, tortured and possessed by demons that made him create. A man of honor, a man with integrity. I didn’t really know Ray as “Ray Condo” the musician. I did go to many of his performances, but that wasn’t really what drew me to him. I knew him as a friend. I really enjoyed his whit and bitter innocence. By chance I am the sad owner of his very first acoustic guitar. An early 60’s yamaha. I play it infrequently because I’ve gone to the otherside. The electronic sounds side. But when I play it I always remember Ray. - goodbye my friend.