On death and dying

On death and dying-I used to replace your pages in my library. That seems like a million years ago.


Some people have a gift with words, they know just what to say in any given situation. They can write beautiful touching memorials on your facebook wall, lovely things remembering you and how you danced, your joy, that you're missed but now around us. I can't write crap like that. For some, I'm sure it helps; for me, rambling on this blog about how much I miss you, it wouldn't.

You were someone with a wholely unique voice, and you had a way with words that put me in awe. I'm so happy that I knew you. It's weird to be so happy and devasted simultaneously.

Wish I had the magic of your words or I knew what to say, wish I wasn't writing this on my phone, but suppose it's fitting considering I found out about your passing via facebook. Mostly wishing I wasn't trying to write something about you not being in the world.

I don't have the words, all I can say is you impacted how I look at things and view the world, and you did it by just being you. That's fucking amazing. Especially since we never lived in the same town and didn't know too much about the other except that you were instantly my friend, and one I knew I had for life.
Although I feel cheated of adventures I knew we wouldve had, I'm so glad we had the ones we did. Roadtripping in the melting heat to Tom Waits, running in monsoon style rain in LA (god that was barely a month ago) and all the other things we shouldn't have had, yet did.
Thanks for being a kindred spirit and making me see silverfish whenever I see cattle.

I miss you geoff and I'm thrilled that your words live on, http://geoffjohnsonlives.webs.com/

bastards of young

i was listening to pandora radio, the replacements station, and matchbox twenty came on and i almost threw my phone at the ground. so pissed, i had gone like 8 years not hearing that band. it was also just pointed out to me that when i just told that pointless anecdote to my friend, that i said matchbooks twenty. oh fuck i hate that dick that sings in the band, what the fucks that fucks name? rob thomas? fuck.

that said, reading "killing yourself to live" and just read about chuck klosterman's visit to the apartment bob stinson was found dead in.

i want to go on a road trip. instead i will be flying to reno for one day only, to see the lovely cassie on her 25th bday. she's the one that turned me on to the replacements to begin with.

see a theme here?

to quote repoman, "its like when you're thinking about plate of shrimp, and someone says plate or shrimp or plate of shrimp"

pants on fire

liars in reno by troy, who has at least two doppelgangers running about los angeles.

sisterworld?

saw angus at coachella, became wide eyed and giddy, then promptly sprinted away.
such is life.

heart of glass

so glass keeps breaking in my hands, and i'm unsure as to what it means (as if it means anything?)
like it's some great foreshadowing to something, as if foreshadowing exists in real life. i think it only does in retrospect, seen in the eyes of one that lived it and can make all the connections that didn't exist before, but that only exist after the fact.
is that what makes those connections powerful?
am i rambling? have i been drinking wine?
yes, yes, and yes....

maybe listening to this heats is getting to me, maybe its gluing together the fragments of my childhood garfield glass, and then having to glue together the fragments of my childhood piggy bank that are getting to me. (not from huffing glue, i'm not from sun valley. can one even huff elmers?)

both i accidentally smashed this year, destroying things ive had since before i can remember. i cant throw the shards away, even though both are actually broken beyond repair. they'll never be intact again.

as if it means anything; searching for meaning in a world without one. le sigh.

in summation, it be rad if everytime i picked up a glass, i didn't half expect it to break in my hand.

update: and a fucking glass broke again in my hand today at work, thats two this week. either i have the pointless super power of breaking glass! or we shouldn't stack the glasses.
also now preparing for the mocking from boss friends, as i was shouting "aw fuck!! i just drunkenly blogged about breaking glass!!!!" and they were like, you have a BLOG?!?!?!?!?! and rolled around on the ground dying of laughter. oh joy.

drug penguin

i love annie hall

All we ever wanted was everything

Sigh.

Love life, always messy and hilarious and heartbreaking and good, all at once.

That and days spent by river throwing found 9mm bullets into it til one explodes, skinny dipping in pools, attending banksy's exit through the gift shop premiere, seeing liars and nights out in pouring rain with long lost friends, means that lifes fucking good.

As mr brainwash would tag/rip off/ hire someone to tag "life is beautiful"

updated my flickr with some things, see?

first date, last date

You took me on a date, driving, weaving in and out of the rush hour traffic. We had forgotten the time; though listening to music while we tried to decide where to go made it bareable.
I was enjoying the ride too much to really notice anyway. It'd been awhile that I was able to talk music, and you'd written a fucking script about mixtapes, instantly making you The Man of My Dreams.

You played me the song you were obsessed with, blasting "a sky for shoeing horses under." I took it as a good indicator that you were passionate about music; had songs to be lost in, covered and washed away in.

But at ice cream, I realized that mutual love in music does not make a relationship. All those things you said about not talking to your family, and numerous references and poorly veiled anger towards your ex couldn't be washed away by even the greatest of songs.

But damn, that was a perfect moment for a second, listening to your song as loud as possible, the blur of passing cars, feeling that anything was possible.