Any Port in a Storm

You should check out the website of my buddy John Harbour.  Click here.

How do you know him?
I used to date his cousin, Bar.
Bar Harbour?
Yes.  Short, I assume, for Barbara.
You, a pasty, overweight, 60-year old painter of what might be termed limited renown dated the the faptastic Israeli supermodel with a penchant for posing in lingerie?
Unfortunately no.  You're thinking of Bar Rafaeli.
Oh.  
But it was great.  She was a lovely girl from Maine.

Anyway, full of fun stuff.  Here's a sample of something that popped up on his blog right about the time I was ranting about the NYTimes neglecting to mention 9/11 on it's front page.

You were there?

No. Forty blocks north. 19th Street. I saw the first plane before it was a missile. Or, maybe, it was already a missile when I saw it.

You saw the towers come down, then.

Yes.

You still see them.

Yes. Almost every day.

And the plane.

Yes.

It hurts you.

As you wouldn’t believe.

How do you go on?

Because I’m still here.

And?

And he isn’t.

Fuck him.

Yes, fuck him.

The man's an enigma wrapped up in a riddle.  And the graphics are spectacular.