Megan called me six times from the concert. Her blackberry is not the finest sonic delivery device. The riffs have to be instantly distinguishable or it sounds like cats fighting in the alley. "Salvation." I could hear the gentle stoned poet clearly. The memory of that evening in San Francisco at that venerable Fine Arts enclave resonates. Clarance Greenwood revealed to me his authenticity. Another track. Another groovy psalm swaddled in infectious beat stuff. I wrote a column for Relix magazine titled, The Audacity of Cope about a daughter introducing her father to an artist that moves her. What else can a dad like me, lost in time and space, in chord and clang, ask for? I text her partner the year older than Meg insufferably gorgeous Sigma Ki sister Annabell from Boston the following response after she told me how amazing I was for arranging this magic evening. "Well, it it makes you and my daughter happy, it can't be that baaaaaaddddddd." A moment later, with my psychic eye in laser focus on the miracle, my crackberry rings again. And I can hear her, scratchy, distant but definitely her. "if it MAKES you happy..." But there's something else. Background singers. Real close to the phone. And that made me so fucking happy. Me and Facebook had an instant understanding. Minimal structure, simple in essence. I just throw the shit out there, walls, comments, notes, I don't know. I was at the Wolves/Clippers game today and that Kardashian girl from TV was there with her Entourage looking, uh, entourage. Now I took the Metro today which is rare from Hollywood to Staples and it was so enjoyable. Dean Cooper, man of metal and basketball genius, assistant head coach of the Wolves, hooks me up but no one can go so I go alone. And the first dude I see when I leave the box office is a black fellow with a Clippers hat and sightly damaged right eye. "You need a ticket, brother?" I did say brother. I know. It just came out. Felt right cause that is how I feel. So you can see why the No Drama Obama era has me more inspired than ever to lose the illusion. Meg's photos from D.C. yesterday were so random. Random is Meg's favorite word. That and 'awkward.' Friday night, I was on E! channel. I consulted and was interviewed for the 90 minute forward thinking documentary of rockers and their gals. Wearing the George Washington University hat, I'm getting piped into the Sorority house. "Annabell worships you! haahaa." I've directed Scott Ian and Pearl Aday to three or four different such programs for no other reason than they represent one of the healthiest, top to bottom groovy couples in the history of modern music. Least that's how I see it. I could be wrong. Probably not. I text Megan the following note: "She beat cancer and a dozen failed relationships; she's a true artist, a channel who sings her truth, our truth." A couple minutes later, I get this response. "I showed that to a random guy next to me and he put his hand over his heart." That's when I turned into a milkshake. Dean Cooper defines most of reality what is or is not METAL. When he introduced me to Wolves coach Kevin McHale, former Celtic forward and part of the greatest ten year rivalry hoops will ever know, Coop says, "Lonn's born and raised here he shouted against you on many occasions," and before the man never misses a Queensryche or Transiberian Orchestra tour could complete his intro, I interrupted while grabbing the coach's massive right hand. "You were part of the legendary decade and that was then. This is the No Drama Obama era. I'm a uniter!" That last line draws a massive grin. Coop orders a beer at my friend Chuck Colby's Marina Del Rey experiment, The Organic Panaficio, and says, "Now THAT was METAL." We're on the eve of the affirmation. Nightfalls, machines stall, we turn our senses, follow the breath and mediate on exactly where we right now as a civilization. Satan needs a second yellow pad. The list of grievances to humanity is long and complex. Which is the most celestial irony of all because the answer is so simple. "All the you need is love." Let them tease you, wish you to the cornfield. They're powerless. We're coming together. We have to. There is no choice. None. No judge will even hear the argument. Fear. Love. Two choices. Every moment. Fear is not metal. Love is metal. The way Dave Grohl writes about love and connection. That's metal. He took a lot of us, over a hundred, to dinner for his 40th birthday last weekend at the Medieval Times in Buena Park, a place my mom says has been there 'forever.' "That's where they joust while you're eating dinner." The audience gets downright arena loud and animated, waving flags and light savers. Jerry and Sean from AIC, Josh Homme, Fee Waybill, Juliet Lewis -- all the faces I saw at the New Year's Eve party. Dave gives back. He loves Jordhan, being a dad, playing rock with every last ounce of jizz left in his nutsack. Dave is metal. Did you see Keith Olbermann's Special Comment tonight, on the eve? His last cry of heinous 'foul' to the most unconscious administration in American History. We should prosecute those who tortured. Life is not 24 and there is no Jack Bauer. We must be more human than human as the brilliant Rob Zombie would say. Wars must end and never be fought again. No argument. Race, creed, color, nationality, religion, wealth -- NOTHING makes you any better than anyone else who is marching across this planet. "Be the change you want to see in the world." Pray for our new President. Protect him. You all can do it. We can do it. Yes we can. Because Barak Obama is metal.