Is that photo of Greg and his brothers below what one might  call a poem (?)...what the hell is that?....
What ever it is, it is undoubtedly nectar of the purist degree.
One of my fondest memories of Greg is when we were all crammed together in a cab in NYC. The driver had decided to hold us captive with an endless monologue about his miserable life as he drove. In our charitable, drunken and misguided empathy we allowed and even baited this flood of wimpering wretchedness.
Not Greg.
I remember  he remained silent, squeezed ridiculously and indignantly against the window like a pressed ham.
For several blocks  we tried to cheer the man up but in the corner of my eye, Cabana's frown grew deeper and darker... until, just as the driver's self pity reached a surreal pitch, like a blinding ray of light the frown burst open in a scathing bolt of  true and rare clarity.
"SHUT THE FUCK UP AND DRIVE!!"
The cab went dead silent and stayed that way.
Not only had he single handedly rescued that driver from the bitterest morass of self but also from the the pack of deluded jackals  (the rest of us) who were unwittingly licking at the carrion of his pathetic state as passing entertainment.
Greg may not know this, but that moment has become a diamond in my secret reserve.

Bring on the grapes and creosote!