New Word - Columbarium

Sounds like a type of enema, and perhaps in a sense, it's the ultimate enema. I don't even know what that means - I'm already rambling.

Went to Satellite's memorial service today at the Columbarium of San Francisco - a place I'd never heard of before today.

I kept thinking about Mary Richards at the funeral for the clown, how she couldn't stop laughing. I fully expected to be sitting there laughing my ass off.

The place was so cold, truly like a morgue, but thankfully they had hot coffee there. I was fortunate to sit next to Mir, who had the foresight to pack kleenex and joined me in making funny comments only we could hear.

If you have to go to a memorial service/funeral, you'll want her with you. She, like me, is comfortable making inappropriate remarks in such situations.

I wore a leather jacket he used to think was cool, made from thick, pebbled leather - but it makes that leathery creaky noise, so during the service I had to remain very still. I drank my coffee by bending my head down into my cup rather than lift my hand & creak while someone was speaking. It must have looked like I didn't have full use of my upper limbs.

It was a good service and felt good to share stories and remember how hilarious he was. He would be pleased that most of those stories were of a very inappropriate nature.

G'Bye Satellites

Yesterday a friend called with very sad news. His friend is gone, by his own doing.

A horrible thing for him and the entire family - worse yet for the two little girls who will grow up without their dad.

We all used to work together some years ago. He was one of the smartest, funniest people I'd met. While talking about vacuum cleaners in a meeting one day he said "I want a vacuum so strong it'll suck the stink right off the dog," and I spewed coffee all over the computer keyboard.

Then there was the time when a strange, hilarious website called JustATip.com came out - a website that allowed you to anonymously provide numerous "tips" to friends and loved ones from recommending they prune their personal area to dealing with their bad breath or to stop swearing so much, and much more - there were many helpful tips to choose from.

One day, soon after a new art director started, I received a JustaTip that told me I should stop talking like a drunken sailor - it was becoming offensive and negatively affecting others.

I must have stared at my monitor for 20 minutes replaying the conversation I'd just had with the new art director, certain I'd kept it clean - I always did that at first. But there must have been something I'd said and now couldn't remember - jesus fucking christ what had I said???

And then he started laughing. He'd been watching the growing panic on my face and couldn't take it anymore. Bastard. I was two seconds away from running back to the art director to apologize.

He also used to tell a story about a retarded (his word, not mine) kid he went to grammar school with who did a report on satellites, except the kid yelled when he talked, so everything he said was hollered at full volume. It still makes me laugh every time I think of it.

Sadly, I didn't get to work with him as much as I'd have liked. He was much smarter than most and there seemed to be nothing he couldn't figure out.

And now. It's just tragic and senseless.

On one hand I think Coward - he took the easy way out. On the other hand, I can't begin to imagine how it feels to decide that's the only option left, let alone follow through to the ultimate end.

When I read about Spalding Gray stepping off the Staten Island ferry into the cold dark waters of the East River, I was angry. That asshole. He and his amazing gift was gone forever, and the most horrible thing I couldn't understand was how he could do that to his own kids, especially after he had to live with the aftermath of his own mother's suicide.

And now, two more kids are left fatherless. If your own kids can't give you that one last safety line to help you stick around, then there really must be nothing (in your own mind) left to live for. Really?

There's much more to it than this, I know. It's all just too incomprehensible. If shit's getting really impossible to manage, start cleaning house, in a hurry. Clean house, circle the wagons, and find the courage to make a path out of it. Easy for me to say, right?

But if you can't do it for yourself, do it for the people you'll leave behind, the people who will have to clean up your mess and deal with the shit you couldn't find a way to deal with. Think of someone else, and maybe that's the key to start fixing your shit.

I am Jack's wasted life. I am Jack's colon. I am Jack's broken heart.
And time moves on.

p.s. 02/20/08 - I've since learned that Mr. Satellites had a long, long struggle with mental illness and was likely bi-polar, but misdiagnosed, which explains a helluva lot. It's tragic to think that had he only been properly treated, he may have enjoyed a very long, happy life.