well, he went a little funny in the head

it will feel all better

Thu, 10 Feb 2005 05:01:08 GMT

M is sick right now. I am going to go take care of her, but, before I do, I wanted to post these.

and this

and the winner is

Wed, 12 Jan 2005 23:11:03 GMT

Moving on, see you all on the other side. From now on, the late jazzspazz is now clitorisorusrex.

Confused? Please refer to the my last entry. Then, everyone congratulate inertiacrept.

Bye.

ok, name thieves galore

Tue, 11 Jan 2005 18:13:32 GMT

Apparently someone else has stolen the name jazzspaz I am jazzspazz. As you can see we are two very different people. I don't really like this name anyway, but this is annoying. So in order to avoid confusion I am either going to start a new journal or change my name on this one.
Any name suggestions?

huh??

Tue, 04 Jan 2005 16:35:26 GMT

I just recieved an e-mail from someone I don't know. I probably should not have opened it, but I did. Anyway, it came in the form of undeliverable mail being returned to me, but it was not from a mailer-daemon, it was from a regular e-mail address: mark_edwards525@yahoo.com
I don't know Mark Edwards.
Here was the message:

"to govern is always to choose among disadvantages.
when i came bcak to dubiln i was court-martialed in my absnece and snetenced to death in my absence, so i said tehy could shoot me in my absence.
the gerat menace to the lfie of an industry is industrial self-complacency.
there's one mroe trerifynig fact aobut old people: i'm going to be one soon.
laugh at your friends, and if your firends are sore; so much the better, you may laguh the more."

The spelling mistakes are generally easy to pass off as dyslexic. The error generated that sent this message back was supposedly this:

>>>> RCPT TO: thoreau1977@yahoo.com
<<<< 592 NO MX RECORD FOUND
592 Can't resolve MX domain entry

Now, I have no idea what that is all about, but the message is interesting. I wonder if anyone else has seen this or anything like it before. I would like to unravel this one. So, I am on a quest.

Mon, 03 Jan 2005 15:39:39 GMT

Today is Monday. Monday is what today is.
We go to work, slave away for a while, make some money, go home and waste our time, too tired and shagged out to focus on our passions.
So, last night, I made M promise me that this year... we will be insatiable.
That is a resolution.
So this morning, Monday, we woke up at 5:30 to drive in the rain, to slave away for eight+ hours, to wear ourselves down to the bone.
And in the next year, we are going to make it happen.
I am going to publish photos. M is going to write a book.
It is time. It is time to let nothing stop us, especially ourselves.
Happy new year. What do you resolve to do?

Imagine

Tue, 28 Dec 2004 15:59:54 GMT

jazzgod1 came over the other day and showed me and M THIS

We sat in silence for about 10 minutes after watching. I had no idea...

Note: you must have REALPLAYER and a fast connection.

HIGH
MED
LOW

if you need REALPLAYER go HERE

Watch and weap.

Chinga tu madre

Fri, 17 Dec 2004 16:30:36 GMT

Six AM rolled in with the giant thundering repetitive clap of rotating blades slicing through the air at 340+ bpm. Tossing and turning in the bed only exacerbated the problem. The pillow over the head did little to help as well. M and I were in for the long haul for this one.

Our bedroom window faces the back micro-alley of our buildings, so noises from the street and such do not normally reach the bedroom, blessed be, if you will. Sleeping is usually aided by this protective wall system. However, when the origin of a rapidly pulsing noise is 300 ft above the building, this micro-alley becomes a rather effective echo chamber, filtering the sound into its most basic components, amplifying it, then directing the sound at our window (much like a Bose Wave Radio) to create a cinematic surround-sound experience in our beloved boudoir.

45 minutes into this marvel of acoustic achievement, Mr. Alarm Clock chimes in to the cacophony. I hit him exclaiming "No thanks, Mr. Alarm Clock, Mr. Helicopter has done your job for you this morning. You may now take the weekend off, without bonus." I call 311; this particular situation and hardly constituted an emergency. The non-emergency operator had no information and then replaced my '3' with a '9' connecting me to emergency services.
After a long hold with the 911 center, I was informed that a fire was in progress a few blocks away. Yet, they did not have any of the helicopters dispatched for this event. I was then informed that it must be a news-copter.
Ohhhhhhh.

Well, this must have been one big fire, cause Mr. News-Copter-7 hung around for an hour and a half. At which point, now near 8am, I am assuming the all consuming holocaust of hell must have packed up and moved south for the winter.

Well, fuck you Mr. News-Copter-7. Fuck you very much.

"I make art!"

Thu, 16 Dec 2004 16:56:04 GMT

"That's the way it was. They all were just, like, getting drunk: drinking Margaritas in those glasses. This was it, they were getting drunk at our office party. I was drinking pineapple juice, you know? Orange juice, water, Shirley Temples, you know what those are? Ginger ale and cherry syrup. You know I follow things..."
These were the first words The Babbler spoke today on 'El' platform. The poor woman in front of me just stood blank in response, almost tearing-up in the sheer, cold wind. The Babbler continued.
"I see what goes on, I was drinking ginger ale. I am glad, my friend, to be sick THAT way. Don't you think. I don't think they understand, you know? I make art! That's what I do. You get it, I know."
Her point made, she resumed stomping her foot to what she most likely perceived as being in (and was most assuredly out of) step with whatever music was playing on her vintage 1875 headphone assembly: an activity I failed to mention previously. The poor woman in front of me remained a stoic Easter Island head-statue. The Babbler walked off.
"A most interestingly random human encounter." I watched my words condense into a small and brief burst of cloud. The statue laughed; Medussa was gone, so I guess it was OK.

I sell. It's fun.

Tue, 14 Dec 2004 23:17:46 GMT

But selling to lawyers is like trying to fuck an ithyphallophobic.

This one is for springheel_jack

Tue, 14 Dec 2004 20:18:01 GMT

Ask me about self immoliation for fun and profit.

Chappy Chanukah

Mon, 13 Dec 2004 05:17:08 GMT

For all you Jews out there...

Lend me some sugar, I am your neighbor...

Turn your volume up, and watch this: Chanukah

Yeah, fo real.

Verve

Wed, 08 Dec 2004 00:35:47 GMT

I can barely hear the faint sound of the sirens through the double-pane windows. My office is built like a tomb; the cold brick walls are crumbling from the inside out and a dank draft slithers through the cracks. My view is distorted a little by pretty pellets of precipitation that have sprawled themselves on the window. It’s not like there is much to see right now anyway; the exterior is a gray limbo, water soaking into the road and bricks has dulled and darkened everything. It is eerily beautiful, like a graveyard in the fog.

It has been raining all morning, and is just starting to let up. Even though it is cold, the humidity clings to the air with its last faint hopes of reclaiming the summer. By the sheer fact that the rain is here, I know that it will be much colder soon. There’s no more room for dust in the air; the density is gone. The droplets have cleansed it and are now a kind of harbinger. Sea change.

Water is an ideal conductor of sound, much better than air. I wonder if the moisture in the air helped the howling sirens, which is most certainly an alarming sound, perking the ears to attention and, in this particular case, annoying the piss out of me. I am guessing that the design of the siren is to do exactly that. Today, they are going off for what I would think is an obvious reason. There is no impending tornado, no bomb attack, and no severe weather. Today, Pearl Harbor was attacked.

Now, I know it was a really, really, really long time ago, but still, I shouldn't have to explain to anyone who went through grade school what the significance of December 7th is. And that is precisely what I had to do this morning to an employee of the State. A government employee. A representative of the nation and the powers that be doesn't know that today was one of the darkest days in our history.

"Don't you think that it would be a national holiday or something?"
"I am not quite sure that this is one of those occasions that you celebrate."
"No, no, I mean some kind of rememberence or something, you know, like Veteran's day."
"Yeah, it is."
And then the sirens went off.

And the truth? Everyone knows what December 25th is. Everyone knows February 14th, and April 1st, and September 11th...
Yeah, that. I am truly disappointed in this country.
"In the wake of 9/11" (I hate using that phrase) it is as if this country has forgotten the deaths of thousands. Why should this surprise me at all? Actually I am not sure that it is 9/11 that has done this, but I believe that 9/11 has solidified it. This country has been slowly turning into a United States of Amnesia.

It is truly appalling to see something precious flushed down the drain. And in this particular case, it is most certainly ironic. The flow of information has never been more free in all of history, as it is truly accessible at the touch of a finger (or a keystroke, as the case may be); nonetheless, the average intelligence and educational level of the population seems (by all accounts and observations) to be getting lower by the minute.

I think it would be too easy to blame the system. Certainly, the system, in and of itself, cannot be blamed for anything. It is a system, one either chooses to follow and use it or not. The people who set up the system aren’t to blame either, as I am quite sure that it was set up with the best intentions and, likewise, for the purpose of the advancement of society to a more educated and wealthier state. Neither goal is being achieved but for a select few who wouldn’t have to worry about such trivial things as intelligence and prosperity anyway: all they have to do is inherit it.

I would also argue that the media is not to blame. The entertainment and news sectors produce a product that is consumed, en masse, and enjoyed in kind, the content of which is derived from the finest minds in psychological manipulation, possessed by individuals within the society, and most certainly products of it as well. It is there to entertain and educate, and indeed, it does both. It is media: perhaps the greatest symbol of what this country stands for at this stage in our development. Hurry up and change the flag.

No. The blame for this shift in priority from smarts to farts is in the people. It is a simple matter of choice. The need and importance of education is beaten into almost every one of us from the earliest possible moment from almost every source. If not our parents, then our first teachers, and if not them, the TV, the radio; messages disseminate themselves through these channels and fire up those tired synapses into high-gear, well, for some.

This message is relayed under a static haze of advertisements, mirror checks, food preparation, candy coating, annoyance, abuse, tragedy, pornography, lies, and death. The brain is soaking up so much information, and learns early on that there is little if any value to most of it. The tragedy is, of course, that the opposite is true. Every little piece of information we get, no matter how trivial it seems, has some extrinsic if not intrinsic value. And to prove that, most of what we see, touch, taste, hear, and feel is absorbed and stored in the brain. So, then where are things going wrong? Why are we becoming the dumbest, fattest, ugliest, and most destructive nation in the world?

The plain and simple answer is: because we have chosen to do so. That is it. The population (or at least 51% of it) has chosen to elect officials who stymie the advancement of humanity. They have chosen to eat fattier foods in astronomical quantities. They have chosen to abandon their children to the babysitter in a box, to consume immeasurably beyond the level of necessity, to adopt a policy of fear in place of a policy of curiosity, to place blame in place of investigation, to cower in ignorance, to waste the precious few resources we have left, to destroy instead of create, to shoot first and ask questions later, to rely on belief instead of evidence, to favor a green piece of paper over the source material for it, to cling to permanence instead of accepting change. We have shut ourselves inside of our own trap.

In a consumer-based economy, the only value you have is how much you can consume. Your bank account and your credit determine your status. Need proof? How many welfare recipients are making the high level decisions that affect their lives, or ours for that matter? In theory, there is a perfectly logical reason for this. Those who can work the system successfully, must be reasonably intelligent and have some sense of responsibility. Therefore, it would only be reasonable to assume that they should be in a position of making decisions that would effect those are not as successful. The problem is that some, if not most of these people don’t have the civil responsibility to match, and therefore most of the policies that are endorsed and made by these people are rather self-serving, usually at the cost of the less fortunate.

The founding fathers had a great idea. They set up an economic and governmental system that worked, and was a great departure from the hierarchical and caste systems of the ancient world. All men were created equal. Some men, however, became greater than equal, and wanted to stay that way. The founding fathers may have had too much faith in humanity, or more to the point, humanity faced with absolute power. They knew this too, creating checks and balances and spreading out the power of the government. What happens when all of these people who are supposed to be governing each other, fall victim to the smaller, yet still great amount of power that they possess (or should I say possesses them)?

Rich get richer, poor get poorer. It is the oldest story and communism is certainly not the answer. Either is socialism. There is no answer, not an easy one. There is a great and fundamental change that needs to take place in the education and consciousness of this nation, starting at home. Trade in thermonuclear warheads for textbooks. Don't abandon faith, but have in humanity, not just God. Try to understand instead of destroy. We can start today. Or in four more years. The democrats aren’t the answer, either are the Republicans. The old system works, it just needs to be cleaned out. We can start locally. I say “we”, because, even if the government controls everything, WE still have the power to choose it.

I have so much more to say, but no time. I am deeply sorry for ending this post this way, perhaps I will amend it at a later date.

Shitty post about a show.

Wed, 17 Nov 2004 19:26:41 GMT

I was going to post this yesterday, but.... I was too concerned with Myanmar and Greenland.

So instead you get it now.

M had worked since 6:30 that morning, and was therefore quite tired by the time 7:30 had rolled around that evening. She and I were both rather hungry, so we stopped for food at a local diner. The place was just bordering on 'too small to be a greasy spoon' and 'too big to be a fast food joint'. The red laminate tables gleamed against the white porcelain tile walls and counters. Bar stools lined the counter, and an ass was in every seat. I didn't think this place was normally that busy. There was an event nearby this evening, and so the place was unusually busy.

Above the counter and kitchen (if you could call it that) hung posters of various musicals. Les Miserables, Hello Dolly, Little Shop of Horrors, Cabaret, Can Can, and our personal favorite, Titanic: the musical. I reeled as M commented how in ten years there would be 9/11: the musical. I would be so excited. Think of the whole line of shows, they could all have the same cast and producers, Earthquake: the musical, Chicago Fire: the musical, Fallujah: the musical. You know, a review style show, people dancing and singing, jubilant at their own eminent doom and destruction, flayed flesh flying around on stage(fake of course, they would use scrap meat from the yards), and at the end, all the characters, alive, dead and horrible mangled would get up in a kick line and send the audience into cheers as they recap the themes of the show in harmonic unison. Beautiful. They would be better than "Cats" and people would see them again and again, all would get Tony noms and the primary cast members would go on to have incredible careers in that daytime drama show about love and deceit.

So we finished our food and walked over to this event. Walking into the venue we both felt great that for the first time in a while, we were not the oldest people at the show, as the opposite had been the prevailing trend at the last few concerts we had attended. This helped alleviate some of the stress of the day and of being in such a large crowd. It was sold out. The place was going to be at capacity. This isn't a hot prospect. The lavish decor and overall mood of the place set a different tone, all stone and tile, rich in color and design. More classic than modern, and warm. Deep, dark greens accenting cream with a hint of red. The main stairway opened up to the ballroom upstairs. And approaching the bar upstairs, we both were amazed at the view in front of us.

We were a little late. It was close to 8:30, but the place was already packed. A virtual sea of nearly 4000 people had gathered on the main floor. We stood at the bar in the back, ordering drinks and tried to sift our way around. Focused in the center on the opposite end of the building was the stage. The roof arched overhead like an airplane hanger. It was entirely massive and comfortable at once. We were on the main floor. 15' pillars flowed into arches that lined a threshold from the main hall to the main floor. Around the edges were various staircases and bars set up.

M and I walked around the side of the floor to another bar. Once there, we strafed sideways through one of the arches, nearly tripping on the one step down onto the floor. We were at that instant, in the sea. Looking around provided an incredible view of the lush recreation of a medieval court. The mock stonework and towers lined the upper deck, supported by the pillars and archways. Right there, standing in the middle of this, looking around at this magnificent interior architecture, the lights dimmed out. The crowd screamed in anticipation. The lights on stage blasted on, pointed almost directly at the audience. It was blinding, the guitars and bass and drums blasted a wonderful cacophony into our ears. The entire crowd, bouncing and staring into the purple, white and green hues.

The music penetrated my ribcage, a debaser of my biology, I could feel my organs rearranging themselves. It was damn near ritualistic, the throbbing crowd, fixated on the blinding lights and the creators of this sound. The clash of near metal licks and poetic verse. I wasn't drunk, but more incensed at the whole affair.

The room was gigantic, packed with warm fresh bodies. A plethora of young minds, warped by a wave of mutilation projected at them by the array of speakers. Overwhelming, pulsating, random and gorgeous. The dizzying array of noise, heat and light made me ask myself, "Where is my mind?"

By the end, the bright white lights flashed and beat the crowd into a near epileptic throb. We had made our way up to the second level and looked out over the crowd, in flashes, disappearing into the white.

At the end of it all the Pixies left the stage, having thoroughly rocked the shit out of us. M and I, as satisfied as a couple of sex addicts leaving an orgy, walked home. It was time to pass the fuck out. I don't know if anything I could write could do it justice. But I had to give you just a sense of what it was like. I don't think I did that good of a job.

A CALL TO ARMS

Tue, 16 Nov 2004 21:56:41 GMT

HELP CANADA FREE GREENLAND FROM THE IMPERIALIST TYRANNY OF DENMARK !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THIS IS A CALL TO ARMS

Tue, 16 Nov 2004 21:35:02 GMT

FREE MYANMAR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

myopia

Mon, 15 Nov 2004 19:00:23 GMT

Can someone help this guy,
He is staring at his screen again,
Focus on the little details,
the numbers and letters.

He can't see very far,
His eyes trained on the pattern
he thinks it all makes sense
but doesn't feel any better.

He's been lost in the words,
drifting around in the meaning
the clutter in his brain,
all the things he knows.

So can you help this guy,
because he seems a little lost
looking at his feet move
instead of where he goes.

Look out
here he comes
losing his balance
he cant even see the horizon
let him
feel around
finding something
something to put his eyes on.

Look at this guy,
sitting in front of the tv
watching hour after hour
to find his salvation

He's become nearsighted
he can't even see the wall
trying to keep his finger
on the pulse of the nation.

This guy is stuck
eating twinkies and soda
stay inside all day
all for his protection

So can you help this guy?
he's been inside for years
he would go somewhere
but forgot which direction.

So, look out.
I say to him.
You can see all around
But don't know where you are.
Hey there,
I say to him,
You want to go somewhere
start reaching for the stars.

Well, I did it.

Mon, 15 Nov 2004 17:38:50 GMT

I just bought GTA San Andreas.

The problem is, I won't have the time to play it till about February....2007.

Ruben part IV

Thu, 11 Nov 2004 22:09:30 GMT

Here is a link to all of the previous RUBEN entries through Ruben Part III.

For those of you who are still paying attention to this...
here is Ruben part IV.

We had stored the ashes and some small bits of bone (still encased in celophane from the cigarette pack) in a small stone pot jar M bought me. The jar currently resides on the shelf of a wall unit, cleverly obscured by various curios. No one would ever know what is inside, except all of you. Shit. The cat's out of the bag. It is a nice recepticle and holds the remains rather well. I don't mind this being its permanent use. Not that it isnt a nice jar, it very much is. A green soapstone deal, with a round orange and brown spot stylishly blemishing one side (if you can consider something round having sides) lending the artice some interesting promenance. This however is not the point of this entry.

This is...
G called us and said that he was throwing a party. We were to pick up a keg, for which he was to pay us back. Being the classic beer snobs that we are, M and I picked up something nicer (and a bit more expensive) than Icehouse or Bud. I would say that for the one beer I had, it was worth it. Unfortunately, no one drank enough. The party wasn't quite full enough to warrant it. I should have bought a pony.

Instead of drinking, I lavished in some K and some Pot. The weed went over well and the K, well, it just made me a little dizzy and a bit stuffed up. Nonetheless, a good time. Some surprises made us a little upset.
One- The two girls who are to be wed soon, well, they just sat there chatting about what they were going to do for their weddings and the enormous rocks they were sporting (and still are), the Vera Wang dress they "needed". Alright, this was not so surprising, but more just annoying.
Two- I have always felt like I am outside of the group a little, and I am. That night, the default allergy attack from the K, made me feel even more so. I tried to keep a good mood, despite the discomfort. This was also not that surprising, but again, a bit annoying.
Three- The bulk remains of Ruben's ashes sat, stoic, on a chair out on the deck. I hadn't noticed, till someone took the bottle of Jack resting on the recepticle and had one for Ruben. Then we all had one for Ruben. You know, one last time. OK. But surprise, what the fuck was he doing there. It was a bit of a smack in the face. Nothing we were expecting at all.
Four- apparently, as we found out later, G had sex with someone that night. (This is not at all surprising) but Ruben's ashes were under his bed as he did this. He even made a smug comment about it in the middle of the act. The response was even worse, "I've done that before." All the 'reverence' he had for his best friend, I think just flew out the window.

That is it, in a nutshell. Shit. I just shake my head when I think about it. G called me the other day, and wanted to get together. I don't know, if I am in the mood for him anymore. Not like I was that simpatico with Ruben. Lord knows I was fuming mad at him for years, as a lot of people had been. But shit, there is respect for the dead, especially if the dead is one of your best friends...
One more on this Ruben kick and then we are done, I promise.

Woke up , didn't choke up, saw my Ak, it was broke up...

Thu, 04 Nov 2004 16:59:45 GMT

Call that line...

M left at 6. I woke up at 7. I left at 8:30.
Sometimes, I love taking my time in the morning.

I went through about 3 coats, until I found one appropriate for the rather dreary weather. The rain prevented me from using any sort of leather garment, aside from shoes, and it wasn't cold enough to justify a heavy jacket. The old oversized trenchcoat from my goth days won the match and was accompanied by the cutest PINK umbrella. My machismo was in full swing this morning, let me tell you. Nothing could stand out more against a black trench coat on a drabby day. I was a honking siren of gay...
I probably can't do that in Louisiana, or Georgia, or Texas?

I think I want to quit smoking. I have had one today. Maybe that can be my last. Mmmmmaybe not. But close.

Enough about me.

Ruben part III

Wed, 03 Nov 2004 22:21:24 GMT

Here is Ruben Part I

Here is Ruben Part II

And here is

Ruben meant a lot to us, in different ways I guess. And despite the awkward nature of the encounters we were having with our old friends, M and I didn't want to miss anything. That being said, the timing for dedicating his ashes couldn't have been more perfect: the night before we left for Alabama. This night stamped some perspective into our minds about the whole affair.

G, along with a few of us, decided to commit Ruben's ashes at The Tree. It seemed a particularly appropriate spot. Aside from the blatant cliche of the symbolism involved in spreading someone's ashes at a tree, it held a certain sentimentality. This was a place we all used to go to get trashed. It was a prime spot, right off the path in a forest preserve, next to a man made lake. The tree is old and large, shading a small patch of grass banking the lake. It is about 20 yards from the main walking path in the preserve and unless you know where it is, you’d probably never find it. Perfect for a bunch of drunk teenagers to hide from the cops. I had only been there a couple of times, but the place is somewhat hard to forget. Quite a pretty spot, looking out over the lake you can see, in the distance, the orange glow of the vapor lamps of Lake Cook Road, the high tension wires, and the pulsing red warning lights of the cell towers. A great picture of the modern suburban sprawl of Chicagoland.

We only went there at night, which along with other various factors, made this particular trip just as illegal as our previous ones. We had a cause though. And like intrepid crusaders, we ventured one by one across the road, leaving our cars waiting like noble steeds at a synagogue parking lot. G waited at the entrance to the park with a flashlight, waving us across the road after cars cleared from view. It felt ever so sneaky. The whole group followed G down the path till we reached a spot where we clumsily crossed through the dense woods and brush till we reached our grail for the night, the clearing, the tree, the spot.

This night, none of us drank. I don't know if anyone said anything to stymie that kind of activity, but none of us brought any alcohol to this event. Ruben, after all, did drown while drunk, and we were, after all, next to a body of water with his ashes. Someone did bring a joint, but I'll get to that later. So it was getting late and the 20 odd some of us formed a circle with the base of the tree taking a spot in the group. After some brief chatter, we started our ceremony.

One by one, each of us said 'goodbye' to Ruben, passing the urn around the circle. Each of us shook some of the ashes out on to the ground around the tree. The mood was most definitely somber. All of us felt, again, that all of this was so surreal. This wasn’t happening, not really. Most everyone was crying. And as I got the urn, it became horribly real. I walked slowly to the tree and watched as his ashes dispersed into the ground. I felt so distant and connected at the same time, sorry, but with thoughts of fertilization and life cycles, carbon reaction, etc. Very momentary. I walked back and handed the urn to M. She stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do, then followed suit.

It was strangely ritualistic and so random. It meant something to us, but what it was, I am not sure anyone knew. Was there any permanence to what we were doing? Was there any permanence at all? Surely, keeping his ashes in the urn would have been more permanent. I don’t think that was the point. There was talk about having a metal plaque made up, but was quickly shot down. I truly felt that the idea was opposite to that, something about change, growth and life, not death. Maybe I was the only one who picked up on that. I don’t know.

After 20 some people dumped ashes out of this container, there was a lot more left. Things got a little more interesting. G asked if anyone wanted some of Ruben. Watching people clamor for an alternate receptacle was quite amusing. I managed to get myself the cellophane from a pack of cigarettes. Some people took scarves and empty cigarette packs up there. The process was cupping your hands over the opening and then turning the urn over to release some of the ashes into your hands. What you did with it from there was your own responsibility.

As I poured the ashes into the cellophane, I noticed larger chunks falling. Bone. There came reality crashing in again with the force of a hurricane. Then I noticed the ash on my hands. I sat there and stared at them for a minute, not quite knowing what to do, then briskly rubbed them together to shake off the dust, then on my pants to remove the rest. I felt disgusted by it all. It was charred, so it was in fact sterile. But, something about it was dirty, infesting. I didn’t really want to touch it.

During this whole ‘ceremony’ there was some struggle for power over the ashes and leadership of the group. Iat (whose name is another story altogether) kept butting in with cheesy mock compassionate talk. G tried to keep control of the group. Jen tried to keep control of the ashes. Ruben’s ex girlfriend was almost completely slighted when it came to all of this. I thought that was the worst of it. The whole thing stunk. Once again I come to this conclusion about things. We were all there to give our respects and it almost seemed like that is the one thing every single one of us lacked, respect.

The circle had been well broken up at this point, and to be perfectly honest, I was glad. I was obviously sorry and broken up about this, but not that much. I had more of a pensive respect for the situation and for the presence of Ruben’s friends at this time. People none of us had talked to for the longest time showed up for this thing. Dave, who nearly disappeared off the face of the earth returned and had his usual cold stare, between break downs. Lewis, who none of us really wanted to see, showed up. He hadn’t changed one bit. The last time I saw him he was talking (rambling) slowly and hadn’t showered in days. This was only different in that he could speak. He was a bum. Once, he was intelligent and now he was done. This was a sad case of potential gone down the drain.

Lewis spoke to me and wanted to get back in touch. I wasn’t sure what good that would have done at this point. I wasn’t sure I wanted to speak to him again. Not that it would hurt any, but I just had no interest. He was the sort of Ken Keasey wannabe that I really didn’t need in my life. The time and place for that was gone. I told him that his contact with me would be mostly limited to beratement and disapproval. His response was that he may have needed that. Nuts, just as I thought. Completely nuts.

So, this was the end. Chris pulled out a joint, I had a few puffs, and then most of us left. Short goodbyes all around, I think we just wanted to get this done and over with. I was half expecting a line of cops just outside the woods, but the coast was clear. All in all we had only been there about two hours. Things were eerily calm. We got back to the car and went home. We still had to pack.

The drive home was quiet. Neither one of us talked all that much other than the occasional “I’m glad that’s over.” I had a slight case of sniffles too. Rubbing my nose was a bad idea. For the next forty minutes I had such nausea. The smell of death permeated my nostrils. I guess I hadn’t wiped all the ash from my hands. It clung there like ivy on brick. Dense and full, it forced me into dry heaves for a minute. I thought of death camps and that smell piping out of smoke stacks. The sense of smell is a funny thing. Particles of whatever goes into your nose are absorbed by tissues connected to your brain. (This makes a funny joke about everyone being a shit head) In this instance the sense of smell was not so funny. It was revolting. I had just absorbed small particles of Ruben’s charred flesh and bone. It was one of the most revolting experiences of my life, both on a physical and psychological level. The weird part was that I got over it.

As we made it back into the city, we passed a horrible accident. Glass from the windshield was scattered across the pavement and sparkled like stardust, reflecting the headlights of passing cars. The blood trickling through the glass was an all too familiar reminder of how fragile life was. Gag me, I know, but in the mind state I was in, that is what came to mind. I was shaken, sore, and tired of all this. Too much seriousness all at once.

When we got home, I washed my hands and then packed for Alabama. We were set to leave the next morning. We made it out of the house in the early afternoon. We just didn’t really have the energy to wake up and go.

There is more to the story, but in much shorter installments.

Time to learn to love the war

Wed, 03 Nov 2004 21:27:02 GMT

Cause that is all were going to have for the next four years.

I thought... the good thing about having Bush for only 4 more years, is that we'll have Bush for ONLY 4 more years. But then I thought... they have clearly undermined the constitution in so many ways already, that hey, why not lift that two term thing? Why not declare martial law? We are sooooooo fucked.

The best possible Kerry campaign ad...

Fri, 29 Oct 2004 14:45:51 GMT

And it's f#$@ing hysterical.

Daily Show

well

Thu, 21 Oct 2004 16:15:28 GMT

Been out of touch for a while.

Here is the goings on.

M and I just returned from a wonderful trip to New Orleans for the Voodoo Music Festival. Wonderful time. The best parts were not at the concert, and I will tell all later.

M and I have successfully moved most of our things into our new place in Andersonville. Yummy apartment now that we have rid the place of roaches and water leaks. I say most, because there were a lot of things we threw out, and a few that wouldn't fit. So we had a couch sitting on the front lawn for about a week. Comfortable one too.

Work is weird. We have finished shooting the film. We are between a couple of projects right now.

More later.

moving, moving, moving

Mon, 04 Oct 2004 16:46:12 GMT

As M and I are getting settled into the new apartment, posts may be a little sporatic.

But, in the new place, we have net access, so you may see...

coming soon...

the return of gashlycrumb

Ruben Part II

Thu, 23 Sep 2004 16:10:31 GMT

In case you need a refresher, here is a link to Ruben Part I and I certainly hope you read it if you haven't already.

Now for Ruben Part II

Over the next few days the communication among the 'old crowd' was scattered at best and usually consisted of missed calls and voicemails. The problem was there were no plans. Well, there were plans, but nothing had been set yet. None of the arrangements had been made. They hadn't done an autopsy. Everything was up in the air. We did know, however that whatever 'arrangements' that were to be made, were to be made by us, his new family, his friends. He had no living family, or rather, none to speak of that he would have wanted involved. It was up to us, both in arranging and financing.

We still didn't know anything, so the scattered voicemails were usually in the tone of "have you heard anything? Call me back." And nothing. It was Friday before we heard that the wake, or service, or funeral or whatever you want to call it, was going to be at the top of this condo building in the middle of Lincoln Park. It was nice. It was quite nice. There was this penthouse meeting room suite and rooftop. It was damn nice. It was also the last place you'd ever expect to see Ruben. But, nonetheless, there we were. And wait a minute... there he was.

Ruben had been cremated the day before. His ashes rested in a green marble square urn. There had been jokes earlier referencing "The Big Lebowski" and toying with the idea of a coffee can as his 'preferred receptacle' and the most modestly priced as well. We were his friends, but hey, we're cheap bastards. Cremation is expensive. From what I heard, the funeral home didn't want to charge us. G's family picked up the tab and then donations streamed in with the guests as they arrived at this rooftop death party. That's what it was. It was a death party. It wasn't a wake: there was no body. It certainly wasn't a service, because we're all too jaded to have a solid religious experience between the lot of us. And it certainly wasn't a funeral. I mean, shit, there were people bawling and all, but mostly it was people drinking again. Getting hammered in memory of Ruben.

Alright, I am exaggerating a little. It was pretty somber. But the food was good and so were the drinks. It was all out. And the guest of honor was sitting cold. The previous day, he was subjected to five or so hours of 2000 degree flames searing his flesh and boiling off the roughly 90% of him that was water. What was left was a pile of bones and ashes weighing about six or seven pounds. There was Ruben. I heard some people ask, "Could he really fit in there?" The 'receptacle' was only about the size of a breadbox (not the shape though). Could we be this cold about it? Next to his urn were flowers my boss sent. There were other bouquets strewn about the room, but my boss's ended up on the table with him. He never met my boss. My boss however, does things mafia style. A friend of a friend dies, you send a nicer bouquet than anyone else, and make sure they know its from you. Even if you’ve never met the guy.

Again, I have to say that all of this was quite surreal. None of us believed it at that moment. It made for a very weird dynamic. But no matter how much we were removed from the situation, there he was, sitting there silent. (not like him at all) I half expected the urn to jump up from the table and take a swig of Jack. Was he there? Did he see what was going on? Did he notice the semi-posh, ad-hoc cocktail party going on in his ‘honor’. I truly think it was there for our comfort more than his. This was not his scene, but it was, cause the only people there knew him, loved him, cared about him, hated him, laughed at him and were important to him.

Next to his remains was a poster board on an easel. There were scattered photos of him, mostly with friends, mostly while drinking. Some old, some new. Some had been bent to remove other people from sight. M brought some to add to the collection. I wasn’t in a single one of them. Again, I felt further away from him than most people there did. I felt a loss, but a subtle one. I felt pain, but more of a dull throb than a piercing jab. I was more focused on being there. Funny. I usually try to just be there, right there, and when I don’t need to for any reason, it comes so easily.

Like most things of this nature, people got up and spoke. Old friends and their families regaled us with stories of Ruben and having to give him a place to stay, or his drinking, or his temper. Ruben was the type of guy who, after you talk yourself out of getting arrested, he would walk up and talk himself and everyone around him into getting arrested. Funny. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, and at the same time they were all laughing. The old crowd, we would sit at Denny’s for hours and hours every night, smoking, drinking coffee till we shook from caffeine overdose, talking about bullshit, the same bullshit night after night after night. Ruben spent some of those nights living at Denny’s. He had no where else to go. I never took him in. My parents wouldn’t have it.

In the middle of all of this, we had stationary and wrote a last note to Ruben. Some people sat there and stared at the blank page, then started to cry, tears moistening the paper. Some wrote with an intense fury for pages. Some sat for an hour writing bit by bit, choking back more tears. I simply thanked him for being. I was glad to have known him. Sounds like pure cheese, and it was. But it was genuine cheese. M wrote for two pages back and front, then forgot everything she wrote. Where did those notes go? He had already been cremated.

We still had no idea what happened to him. No one knew anything other than the autopsy revealed that he died of drowning. He had no signs of struggle. He may have had his clothes on when he went in, but he was so waterlogged that they could have ripped right off of him. He still had his necklace on. God, G had to go identify the body. He would have been barely recognizable. Have you ever seen what happens to a body when it is in the water for more than 3 days? It can swell to over twice its normal size. The skin stretches and the body balloons. Sometimes the eyes bulge out of their sockets. The face becomes indecipherable. It’s beyond disgusting. And G had to go look at this. It was not only a grotesque site, but this was his best friend. This was the final image of seeing Ruben. Like that.

People started leaving. We cleaned up and left the place. A bunch of us went to a bar and grille down the street to grab some more de-sensitizing tonic. I ordered a burger. A day of emotional stoicism takes its toll on the stomach. As we did a round of shots in dear old Ruben’s honor, Jose came up to me, or did I go up to him. It’s hard to remember. Ruben. That fucker. –this is what comes out of the drunk man’s head, not just in words, but in gesture and effusive emotional detail. He continued on “He fucking thought the world of you, Man. Ruben loved you, dude. He looked up to you so much.” I felt stunned. I nearly hated Ruben most of the time. And he nearly idolized me. “Why?”
Shit, did that actually come out of my mouth?
“He knew you were doin sssomething, man. He respected you. Fuck, he tttalked about you all the ffffucking time, man. He ffucking loved you man.”
The tears were streaming out of him. He was so sincere. That was it. I was done for. I broke. My eyes filled with the water of Mary and I wept in the arms of Jose. It only took a minute to register that my feelings were immaterial. Rubens had reached me posthumously and intensely. My comfort level dropped to nothing. I was bare and open. Oddly, it felt good in a way. There was no fear attached to it.

We had a couple beers and left. M was still in a state of shock about this whole thing. And as we left, she started to deflate. I did too in a way. Were we so evil for not feeling so sad at the moment? I don’t know. It was definitely a strain on us. I wanted to scream and at the same time, I could not be budged. This was like a family reunion. The whole thing stunk. I hate to say that. Seeing all these people reminded me sometimes of why I don’t see all these people all the time anymore, well most of them. There are a few that M and I still try to maintain contact with.

You have a group of friends. They are constantly bringing you down, holding you back. Annoying the living piss out of you. And for a day, you manage to not only be the most agreeable person to them, but compassionate and caring too. Is that weird? Is it wrong to have been so dispassionate about their lives for the past four years? I walked away from that day like it was a bad trip. Admittedly, I had a good time. That is the most fucked up. I felt so distant to everyone that after a few minutes of being in the mingle, I didn’t give a fuck. I felt like I was so outside the group, as I had been for years, and I didn’t care. I laughed, I cried a little. It was better than ‘Cats’. Total boring drama. I will not torture you with the trivial lives of the sheltered and apathetic. I am done with this little piece and it is time for me to make my peace and leave.

There is much more that happened. Much shock horror. The vile and disgusting, the bold and beautiful. The boring and unheard of. This trial of our spirits was not over. For later in the week we were to dedicate his ashes. More on that, the tree, ashes, and old ghosts coming out of nowhere and asking for beratement.