Get Ready

As we come to the end of another year, I wish to note that I continued into it with the *woo hoo* endless-drunken maritime social life from the year before, moved into an *ohhh boy* of too-good-to-be-trueness of love, and now prepare for a new year of *hmmm* to what will happen with the pending changes. 

Better be good, that's all I know.

Washed

Scrubbed so hard up was dark, down was light. It can be understood how it is seen as such, but can't be understood why it's ignored. Given the chance, the tide would flip and it would be done. No chance. Not here. You say tunnel. I say simplistic. Manicheanly speaking.

Ahem

You suck. Stupid piece of shit.

Open Day at the Hate Fest

Questionable reprobates with the audacity to assume, demand, take and disregard. Dip you in cement and toss you over into the mirk. 

Gram

Gram Parsons' grave, Garden of Memories, Metairie, LA

Originally uploaded by vaduzuvunt

On a recent trip home, the ole man and I went out of our way up Airline Highway to find the burial place of Gram Parsons.

In researching how to find it, I came across the Gram Parsons Project. In actually going out to find the spot, I found that, not only was the site very old and in desperate need of updating (the place marker at the time the website was last updated was merely a bronze vase holder), but also that the only real information that was helpful was 1. that Gram is buried in the Garden of Memories in Metairie, Louisiana, and B. that his burial marker is R-12 11-3. (No offense to the owner of the site.)

In following the directions from the site, which will now be redacted from conversation, we spent about 45 minutes wandering around the wrong area. So, I'm taking it upon myself to help any Gram fans out so they don't have to:

When you head into the cemetery, take your first right. The road's gunna fork, at which time you head to the right. After doing so, the road will make a nice sharp left. I'd say about 75 feet after the curve, stop. 

To your left, in the distance, you'll see a big white bas-relief of the Last Supper - start walking towards that. About halfway up the hill, past the 9th line of grave markers, you'll see a white bench. Just past, and between the tree to your right and that bench, is Gram. 

He has the largest grave marker (as you see above) in the area.

In my oh so wonderful OCDness, I took the liberty to also create the exact location (or within 5 feet of it) on google maps. Happy hunting, if ever you go out looking for Mr. Parsons.

rar

I was given the opportunity to present myself in an orderly, respectable fashion... but at the last minute decided against it, grew fangs and claws and ripped it to shreads. Once done, I shook it off and waited for the dust to settle, the realized I have one hell of an imagination. 

Now, if only I could grow a set of balls and actually do what I want so badly to do.

glug

It's amazing how many rich assholes there are in the world who would rather pack their stuff up and store it, never to touch again, than give it all to charity. Yeah, they're entitled to keep what's theirs... but boy, do people fucking suck.

To avoid repeat

I recently had surgery on my left knee. It sucked. I've told this story a few time, the majority with my boyfriend having to hear it again. It's a pitiful, but funny (I think), story that I just haev to put out there.

For anyone who ever has Meniscus repair and ACL replacement surgery - I'm sorry!

My story isn't about how it happened. I was stupid, that's how it happened. No, this story is what happened the day of the surgery. Yeah, I want to document my horror story and share it with all the world.

I was quite stressed the week before my surgery was to take place. Hell, I had been stressedduring the entire month between the accident and the surgery. But, with the surgery fast approaching, my body was making sure it reflected the stress I had inside. Its final bout of reflection - laryingitus. Two days before my surgery, my voice totally gave out on me. Swell. Ok, fine.

The day of my surgery, I had gotten my voice back, but my throat still had a Froggy scratch to it. I wasn't coughing, and didn't have a cold. I just sounded like the Lil Rascal. I had to go to [redacted] hospital for 6.30am to be prepped and documented for my 8.30am surgery. I did everything they told me to, answered all the questions, had a living will signed and witnessed (just in case) and was ready to go. It seemed like everything was flowing nicely.

They tossed me on the gurny and brought me to outside my o.r. door. I don't know about anyone else's opinion on this matter, but there's something very uncomfortable about laying there with only a dressing gown still untied in the back with a baby blue and a sterile cap on my head, while nurses and doctors and people in blue outfits walk up and down the corridor, giving *huh wonder what she's in for?* glances.

Finally, my anesthesiologistssss came up. One was this very sweet girl with a bright neon colored flowers skull cap on. She introduced herself and the other guy, and then proceeded to get me set up for my IV. He walked off. She proceeded to find a vein in my right hand, but said they were all too small. She tried one, but right when she was starting to move the needle in, it rolled. This left a nice big bruise on my hand.

And wouldn't you know it, right at that exact moment the other anesthesioloist showed up. He was this giant stoiac Polish guy, who I honestly cannot say if he liked what he did. Maybe in some sadistic way, but he definitely wasn't there to better anyone. He grabs my arm like he would probably grab any woman's arm, and started looking around at my hand. In a heavy Polish accent he say *Yor veins in hand too smoll, must do IV in inner elbow,* and started slapping me there to draw out a vein. Not patting... slapping. Leaving a pattern of red welts. Nice.

During his bedside beating, he was asking me questions about what kind of anesthesia I wanted - general (tube down the throat) or regional (epidural in the spine). I mentioned that I've had spinal taps before, so the epidural is out. I also mentioned that I don't want this regional idea of theirs, since they were leading me to believe I'll only be *mostly asleep.*
No way *mostly asleep.* You're knocking my ass out!
Well, in voicing my opinion (which was not quite as blunt as the above) I had a little tickle to the already scratchy throat that caused a coughing fit. This did not stop the guy from still doing his poking business in my arm, but it did start his brash rudeness. Finally, he finished the poking, stood up, threw his hands up in the air like I'm some big inconvenience for his day (I'm the one having the frigging surgery!) and said he can't work with me and walked off scoffing at me under his breath.
After my coughing subsided, I asked for my doctor and told him and the others around me that there is no way in hell I was letting that man be in charge of any drugs going into my system. He comes walking up, to continue with moving me into the o.r. and getting me set up. I took one look at him and told him I don't want him anywhere near me and he can just leave.
The doctor went and talked to him, then brought me a new, NICE anesthesiologist who talked me down and convinced me to go with the regional. Twasn't hard... she was just nice and calm. The doc apologized for that piece of shit's behavior and tried to excuse it as some sort of cultural difference, to which I replied *he's in America now... adapt to other ways.*

Into the room... epidural... out.

Three hours later, I woke in recovery and immediately felt the pain comparative to a vice crushing my knee from the sides and from the top. I didn't even have a chance to be *where am I?* It all started with the pain. I didn't care where I was, I just wanted to know why I was hurting that bad and what they were gunna do to change that.
My doc comes around with two new male anesthesiologists and tell them to do a femoral block on me. A what? Basically anesthesia in a nerve at the top of the leg that runs all the way down and will kill any pain, any feeling in the leg for up to 10 hours. Hell yeah, hook me up!
So, these dinkuses set up a sonogram monitor, start looking around on my leg and find the nerve. One guy's holding the sonogram wand, while the other stabs me in the thigh...about 2 inches away from the frigging nerve. Argument ensues between these two dips over being too far, so he removes the needle and stabs me again... this time 1 inch away from the nerve. More arguing ensures. *Ummm, pardon me but are you a student or something.* He's not... no, he's a professional who's been doing this shit for a while. Yeah, good job man. Well, instead of removing and stabbing again, he starts wiggling the needle around, trying to get it deeper and closer to the nerve. WIGGLING NEEDLES ARE NOT FUN. Finally he gets the nerve, injects the meds, and they walk off grunting about my question and his incompetency.

Finally, about 30 minutes later, the pain's subsided and I actually feel okay. The nurse waits another 30 minutes before sending me to the next wing, where I can see my boyfriend, eat a little something and eventually be released.
When I get out there, something's starting to feel wrong. Ethan walks into my lil curtained area, says hi, and all of a sudden that same vice crushing pain is coming back... fast. We're talking with every heart beat the pain grows. I'm crying, Ethan's probably freaking out, and we can't find the nurse who's suppose to be assigned to me. Great. Finally, we find her, he explains I'm dying, she gets some help and sends me back into the recovery room.

Back in the room and with a new nurse. 10 hours! Ten hours! They said it would last ten hours! What the hell is wrong??? She calls my doc, who is in his next surgery, but gets permission to give me some crazy ass drug that makes one nauseous and sweat like a beast. *How bad is the pain?* 10! Ten minutes later *how bad is the pain now?* 10! Twenty minutes later... 10! An hour later... ok, 8.......
I was in the recovery room for at least two hours trying to get the pain to subside. During this time, I asked the anesthesiologist who was managing the sonogram thingie why it didn't last like he said it would... but he didn't have an answer for me. He did say that it's kind of good that it didn't last, because chances are ten hours from then I would be home and that pain would be just the same and I wouldn't have the drugs to bring the pain down as they do in the hospital. Oh well thanks, that's very reassuring.
I asked for my doctor. Still in surgery. (They weren't even intending to ask him to come to me when he was done.) I asked for my boyfriend. He's not allowed back there. I asked what my options were. I could stay over night. I want to consult with my boyfriend and doctor.

For the next hour, I had to continue to ask to see both of them, only to deaf ears of my nurse. I will be a lot less difficult if you would just please let me speak to them. Nothing. I will only become more difficult if you don't. Boyfriend is called.
Ethan comes back and we discuss. I explain to him that they aren't answering any of my questions, they're not telling my doctor that I want to see him when he's out of surgery and tell him what happened to me with the drug wearing off, the whole experience. He goes and speaks to the nurse, explaining that I'm scared and confused and in a lot of pain and would feel a lot better and be able to handle all of this if she would just have my doctor come to me when he's done. (Now mind you, other than crying over the unbearable pain, I was trying to not be difficult or annoying or ugly or mean. But with every idiotic comment that they made to my questions, which weren't even just sad answers to them but more like excuses or blow offs, yes - I was getting more impatient. *I don't know, but will try and find out* would have sufficed!) The nurse listened to him and sent word for the doc to come see me when he came back to recovery with his recent patient. Then she made my boyfriend leave again.
About an hour later, my doctor returns and answers all of my questions without batting an eye. By then the drugs they had been giving me thru the IV were lessening the pain to about a 4, which to my was tolerable. We discussed my options, and I decided I just wanted to be home. Even if they gave me a self inducing morphine, I really didn't want to be in the hands of these kind of people.
So, back out to the release section. Ethan came, as did crackers and apple juice... and this little 4'5" Philippine woman who had the energy of a hummingbird. She spoke fast, moved fast, acted fast, and was ready to get me up and moving and out. Now, remember, I just got pumped full of some drug that made me hot and sick feeling. I need calm. I need to feel relaxed. I need to pace myself.
Buzz buzz buzz, let's get you up. Buzz buzz buzz, let's make you walk. Buzz buzz buzz let's go to the restroom. Buzz buzz buzz, are you feeling nauseous? Yeah, that drug does that to people. Just don't throw up on me. Buzz buzz buzz, come on, walk to the restroom. Buzz buzz buzz, I'll come in with you and help you.
The restroom was maybe 4 x 5 feet, with a toilet and sink jutting out into the majority of it, and a giant waste basket that was about at my hip. I was trapped in this cell with this hummingbird woman. And she wouldn't shut up.
Buzz buzz buzz, I got you. Buzz buzz buzz, don't worry. Buzz buzz buzz, oh, you don't feel good? Well if you need to throw up, don't throw up on me. Buzz buzz buzz, here's the waste basket.
And, with all that energy, I was sooo nervous and antsy and sickened that... I threw up.
She wouldn't stop. What's more, because she was holding me and not giving me any leeway to position myself properly, I didn't have the best position or aim to lean into the waste basket. So, a little itty bitty drop of anesthesia (the only thing in my stomach at that point) hit her nurse green pants.
Buzz buzz buzz, ohhhhh see, I told you not to throw up on me, but you did anyway. Buzz buzz buzz, I knew this would happen. Buzz buzz buzz, ohhhh your boyfriend going to hear about this one. Ha ha ha! Buzz buzz buzz, it's ok, throw up all you want, just not on me anymore! Ha ha ha ha ha!
Please just get me out of here!!! I demanded myself to not be sick anymore, and begged for her to move so she could open the door, I could get out of there and away from her energy. Of course, once she opened the door, Ethan was there waiting for us, and she announced to the whole room Buzz buzz buzz, she puked on me! I told you see would! I didn't want her to and told her not to, but she did! Ha ha ha ha ha!
I looked at her and said *You made me sick.* She just laughed and kept buzzing about something while she closed my section's curtain so I could get dressed. I sat down in the lil lazyboy on rollers and just started crying. She had me so tensed up that I didn't even care about the pain my knee had... I just wanted to get away from her and that high energy and go home.

So there... my knee surgery. Sucked. My doctor and Ethan were the only two people there I could deal with and trusted. Everyone else... it was like they were just playing everything by ear and just doing by what the books told them, not by experience of dealing directly with people in a vulnerable position who are expecting you to watch out for them and make sure they are as comfortable as possible in a situation they really would prefer to not be in.

So... for your livelihood - never ever ever have to get ACL replacement surgery. It sucks.

Buzz buzz buzz, ar

Rules of Walking II: You v. The Cyclist

Picture_Oct08 210
Originally uploaded by Ignatzybanjo

Rules of Walking II: You v. The Cyclist

Cars cars cars!
People people people! 
Don't forget... 
Bikes bikes bikes! 

As your fair city is ever growing, our culture turning to better their own Carbon Footprint (or, at least, everyone should be!) and the price of gas pushing us to find more economical ways of getting around, we are seeing a growing number of bicyclists on the road. 
Now, come on people - they have to look out for potholes, cars, doors, and a whole slew of you's... so why not help them out and look out for them as well?

Pedestrian v. Bicyclists

Big argument: Who's the bigger dick? (Is, not has.) 

Though they do have less enforcement of the laws of the road than cars do, and some/many tend to break all the laws (although it should be said that even many cars tend to break ‘em as well, particularly NYC drivers), they're still obligated to stop when necessarily, pay attention to their actions and surroundings, and get to their destinations unscathed. Because of their close proximity with moving automobiles, they're already ahead in the attention factors of paying such mind. Pedestrians... not so much.

Now, I'm a walker and a biker. I live both worlds, so I can vouch for the annoyances both sides deal with. I've been the stupid pedestrian getting in the way, and I've been the bitch on the bike telling someone when they're being a stupid pedestrian getting in the way. I've even been the stupid pedestrian getting mad at the cyclist, and being the cyclist coming close to an accident. 
So, yeah... I can stone myself if I want.

I don't care what you're doing or who you are - everyone should be paying attention to everything around them and everything they do at all times. But, seeing as pedestrians are not obligated by any law on how to do what they do, I'll take it upon myself to lay down some ground rules.

So, with that, I bring you the second installment of Rules of Walking:

Rules of Walking II: You v. The Cyclist

1. LOOK!
It's as simple as that. Motorcycles aren't noticed by cars, and bicyclists aren't noticed by pedestrians. This is Rule #1 and really should be the only rule needed to be stated. 

But, since so many people need a bit more explanation and guidance, and since leaving it at that would make this commentary short and kinda dull, I'll give you a few more specific situations that you may wanna keep in mind the next time you're out and about:

2. CROSSWALK CREEPERS
There you are. At the crosswalk. Couple other people there to. Or not. All you know is you wanna get across that road as soon as you can, so you can keep on keepin' on. So, what do you do? You creep out further and further into the street, just waiting for that lil red hand to turn into the lil white guy. 
Whoa... look out! That car got pretty damn close, huh? 
*Brrring brrring, Move!* 
What's his problem?
You! Don't stand out in the crosswalks waiting for your chance to go. Make room for the cars AND the bikes. Whether there’s a bike path or not, bicyclists are sharing the road with the cars, but they’re trying to stay to the side so cars can pass them. If you’re jutting out, they have to get around you and still stay out of the cars’ way.

3. BICYCLE LANE LOLLYGAGGERS
Hanging outside your car waiting for someone, talking on your phone, or maybe just walking up the bike lane cuz the sidewalk's crowded. Listen, they're not there to give you a lil extra standing room or walking space. It's for Bikes. There are far more pedestrians that doddle in the bike lanes than you see bikes riding on the sidewalk. But, if I got every bicyclist to promise not to ride their bikes on your sidewalk, will you promise to not walk in the bike path?

4. DOOR PRIZE!
So, technically you may not necessarily be a pedestrian when it happens, but you're intentions are to move into or out of the act of pedestrianing. Whether you're a driver, a passenger, or hailing, getting in or out of a cab - doesn't make a bit of difference. You’d look out for oncoming cars… why not oncoming bikes too?

If you don't take the time to make sure all areas are clear (including down the block) before opening the door, you're liable to get hurt just as you're liable to hurt a passing cyclist... not to mention wreck the door of an automobile, miss your yoga class or clubbing night cuz you have to deal with a police report and/or ambulance.

5. YAPPERS
Pat your head and rub your belly. Faster. Faster! Now do that while stating the Pledge of Allegiance and jumping up and down on one leg. 
Not so easy, now, is it? 
Be it by text, cell or with whom you are walking with - if you're yapping away, two to one you ain't paying half the attention you should to what you’re doing, and you can't keep it all straight to avoid a bad situation. Make your movement down the block your #1 priority and all else secondary.

6. DIDN'T YOUR MA TELL YOU TO ALWAYS LOOK BOTH WAYS?
Yeah, they're not suppose to be biking the wrong way up the road, but you aren't suppose to be crossing against the signal or in the middle of the street. So, you're both wrong. But, for the mere fact that you just never know - concern yourself with both directions, even on one way streets. Cars go in reverse... wouldn't wanna step out in front of them because you didn't listen to your Mama.

7. JAY WALKING ACTUALLY IS ILLEGAL, PEOPLE
Hell yeah, I do it. But, I ain't telling anyone to do as I say, not as I do. Wait.. actually, I am. But, I should also follow this rule. And I actually try to. The difference between me and others... I actually and making the effort to pay attention to all the rules I've given you thus far! Look... just make sure you're safe and sound before stepping out in the middle of the street – at a cross walk against a Don’t Walk sign or in the middle of the street. Just cuz there are no cars coming, doesn't mean you're in the clear.

8. STROLLER AGGRESSION 
I don't know who's worse, Mamas, Daddys or Nannies. God forbid it's the nanny. I suspect it would probably be the Mama. But, whatever. The point is - would you put your baby between you and an oncoming vehicle? Would you jut your stroller out far enough so it could get smacked by a car? Hell - when in the position of posing a threat to a passing cyclist and your baby, you're on a corner most of the time, anyway! Cars could easily take a tight turn and SMACK! Ooops. Stay all the way up on the sidewalk with your strollers, people. At least for the sake of your baby, if no one else.

 

9. Last but not least… LOOK!!!        

Yes, it’s a repeat of the first rule, but I cannot stress it enough – LOOK OUT FOR EVERYTHING PEOPLE!!! You’re the danger, not the cyclists or the cars – YOU! Pay the fuck attention and avoid imposing on others because you’re too self-absorbed to know that there’s a big world around you and you’re lucky to be in it. If I had my way, I would be the police, judge, jury and executioner of anyone who breaks these rules. But… I’m not. So, all I can do is look, and stress to you that you should do the same.

Wanton

There are these people I know... lots of them, actually... that I normally share one common bind - drinking. Lots and lots of drinking. As of late, however, I have not been so inclined, nor so physically able to do so in the joyous of ceremonies that we together normally subscribe, which is any old damn time and reason to do it. This makes me sad and feel dissected from the life I know so well. At the same time, however, at least I got rid of the belly that was slowly beering out in all directions. Not purdy.

So, what am I to do? Not a damn thing. For you see, with this unplanned lack of drunkenness, also comes an unplanned disinterest. I want to want to drink. I want to want to be around drunks. I want to want to go to the watering holes. I want to want to wake up hung over and wondering *oh dear christ... did I make a total ass out of myself last night?*

But I don't want. What I do want, other than the wants I want to want, is to have the option to do what I want, instead of what I am able to do, which isn't what I want to do.

Popless

I have this absolutely horrible annoying lack of satisfaction that I simply cannot obtain. There's literally nothing I can physically do to change this. If I did... oh the pain it would bring in ever other regard.
To be a bit more specific, so that I can get a bit of sympathy from whoever bothers to read this, and for historical reference of my own life for myself -

Damn it I need to pop my left knee!!! I can feel the deep seeded need to do so, but my muscles are so tight, my knee is aching so much and, quite frankly, I don't have the guts to do it out of pure fear of what it will do to me.

So, I have to just leave it like this and hope it accidentally does it, itself, and it turns out to not be that bad on the rest of me.

Sigh... this sucks.

MBV Soon

So lovely a show it was. So lovely a song it always is.

Fork

Poke poke, tickle.
Would prefer a beer.
Trip and fall.
Damn it.
Pick back up.
Hobble around.
Laugh at myself.
And at you.
Fall apart.
Dose up.
Wonder where I am.
Give a go.
Quit fast.
Take a nap.
Want my bike.
And a cookie.
Maybe a cup of soup.
Close my eyes.
Hear a song.
Sing aloud.
Head rearing to commence.
I stop.
Home, to go.
Night, to fall.
Sleep, wake, sleep.
Wake for real.

Do it all over again.

Listless

I made a list of all the things that I didn't want but have and hope to get rid of soon.




You were not on it.


.

Toby

Tobias "Toby" Allen



So... I use to know this guy. We were roommates, briefly, down in New Orleans in this giant haunted (heh) house on St. Charles Ave. He was quite the odd fellow, with modest pride. Toby.
I met him on the front porch of a mutual friend over on Constantinople St. He was staying with the chick, who's name I now forget, but not Toby. If I recall correctly, he had just moved back to New Orleans from Seattle. (He liked to go back and forth between the two cities.)
He looked like a filthy surfer dude from California (Northern, not Southern) - chin length stringy beach blonde hair, blue eyes, perpetual tan. He had a wicked smile, but with no actual evil intent. He wouldn't even kill a roach. He did, however, have a passion for the evil. Mainly - serial killers. He collected their art. Wrote about them. Befriended them. He even created a board game - Let's Play - http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/visualart/348657_deadlygame25.html !!!

He and I clicked over the common focus we shared on the West Memphis Three (WM3.org). He was "friends" (prison type pen pals), with Damien Echols. Eventually, he would make introductions between Damien and myself, which was much appreciated and correspondence between us, for a time, commenced.
I always had the morbid interest in serial killers... Toby was just someone who took it many more steps further than I. He collected their art. He corresponded with them. He took calls from them, visited them, pursued them. His top three conquests - Charles Manson, Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer. He was planning to go up to try and see if he could get a visit with Dahmer, but... well, we all know how that story ended soon after his incarceration.
Anyso, he and I took refuge in this old house on St Charles Ave. It use to be a gentleman's quarters for traveling salesmen types to there were a few residents. Anne Rice made a big stink about us because apparently she grew up across the street from it, and it inspired her to write some stupid Memnoch vampire book, and she didn't want a bunch of neredowells inhabiting what she considered a sacred landmark.

Here's the house:



It wasn't this nice and polished up when we lived there. It was 1000$ a month for the whole thing. It was mainly kept within the same concept as it was first used, but chicks were living there as well. During the few months I lived there (yes, only a few - I couldn't handle that life style for very long), there was a new face almost every week that lived there.

John Wayne Gacy and Richard Ramirez (the Night Stalker) use to call him collect. He said Gacy always had this creepy way of bellowing out his name when the recorded prompted him *Inmate, state your name,* like it pissed him off that he had to do as told or something. Ramirez has a thing for Asian girls, and Toby took it upon himself to lead him to think I was Asian. I think that was even creeper.
Ramirez use to draw cartoon characters on his letters to Toby. Once he told me he would send me a drawing... I (fortunately?) never got it.

Anyso, to get to the point of this part of my tale, Toby had this painting that scared the bajebus out of me. He and I shared a bedroom (no... we were always Just Friends), and this face would stare at me as I slept - the background and the eyes glowing in the dark at me:


Elvis by John Wayne Gacy

I'm not 100% positive this is the exact painting... but I am 97.3% positive it is. I remember the background to be a more orangy color... but the computer image could play trick with my eyes or what have you.


Ok... so, I believe it was around summer of 1998 that Toby picked up and moved back West to Seattle. We lost touch, which isn't all that surprising. It's been 10 years.
However, when I was on my travels in 2000, I did hunt a bit for him... and have done so on and off (mostly off) over the years.

In 2000, a documentary came out called The Collectors came out about Toby and his friend/partner Rick Stanton (whom I believe I met once when he came down from Baton Rouge to hang out with Toby), and their art collecting and exhibition. (I've not been able to get my hands on this documentary, but would love to.)
This was the last I ever saw of anything pertaining to Toby.

Years passed... every once in a while, I would try and find him thru Myspace or google searches or whatnot. But, never could get anywhere. All I would come across was the Collectors sites.

This morning, for no real reason, I decided to do a google search for Tobias Allen. The third link read:

Should the Mariners Be Charged with Manslaughter? | Slog | The ...
Sep 12, 2007 ... According to the Seattle Times, police identified the body as Tobias Allen, whose death authorities will attribute to suicide. ...
http://slog.thestranger.com/2007/09/should_the_mariners_be_charged_with_mans

In the above link was a link to the following page containing the following:

Last Days -

FRIDAY, AUGUST 31 [2007] The week continues with an exceedingly well-documented Seattle suicide, first noted around 11:00 p.m. last night, when 911 dispatchers received a call about a body seen floating in Lake Washington. According to the Seattle Times, police identified the body as Tobias Allen, whose death authorities will attribute to suicide. According to his MySpace profile, Allen was a 39-year-old single Libra with a penchant for the Mariners, existential drama, and exclamation points. "Most days it feels/seems that most people are mindless fucking sheep," wrote Allen in his MySpace blog on June 15 [sic throughout]. "I'm talking about the people that actually waste presious oxygine talking about Paris Hell-ton. Who gives a fuck? Vapid little bitch... look, now I'm doing it! Thank the powers that be that the aurora bridge is only minutes away. I may need it soon!" By August 4, things were looking up: "Just when I was ready to give up on another summer.... my sweet sweet M's start kicking ass! I'm about to grin, or cry, or something. This has been one of THEE LAMEST summers of my life, to date. I was really going nuts. Then the mighty M's start kickin some ass! I guess, if they can do it, so can I! I have to see the end of the season! Maybe I will turn 40...." He didn't. RIP Tobias Allen, whom interested parties can see in the 2000 documentary Collectors, chronicling the nation's premier serial-killer enthusiasts. (In addition to Mariners and MySpace, Allen appreciated art made by serial killers. Go figure.)





So... wow. Dead. Gone.

I don't find it all that far fetched of Toby to commit suicide. I find it somewhat hard to believe that he would do it over a baseball team, tho. Not going to expound much on who he was, personally and privately. He was a wonderful person with a great heart. But... he, like many, had his own issues, that are not my business to tell others.
All I know is that it kinda sucks having this confirmation that he ain't around anymore. Though it wasn't a big mission, the fact that I've attempted to find him over the years, despite my failure every time, kept him going in my life, even if I hadn't seen him in a decade.
And, at least three times since his death, he was still alive as far as one person was concerned. Now that I found him (sort of), I could say *Ok, done.* But, it just leads me to wonder what kind of send off he was given by his friends.

Hmmm... maybe I should contact his old buddy Rick?

Anyso... there you go. Toby Allen. Sorry.

all none

You scare me. I don't like you one bit. You do what you want, but leave nothing to show for it... and I have a bad memory, so that doesn't help me in fond ways.
So, what am I suppose to do? What option do you give me? None... that I know of. I just have to bide time, focus on need over want, do without, hope and wish, and wait and see.

The knee

A brilliant evolutionary feat. We have the ability to do so may amazing things with these two lil knobs. Jump, skip, walk, run, moonwalk, dance, kick ass and dozens of sports that call for the side-to-side movement.
So, with all these abilities, we need to be protective and appreciative of these two lil guys.
So, word to the wise - when you're styling up on the a bar, then jumping up and over barstools with the intention to land properly on your two conversed feet, assuming everything else will fall into proper place with you... think again, and climb down properly and walk to your destination.
Otherwise, Mr. ACL and Mr. Meniscus won't be too happy with you, as is the case with yours truly, and you'll have to see Mr. Doctor about getting surgery on the ligament duo, as is again the case with yours truly come October 15.

Yay me. Thanks to all who have given your well wishes, booze, rides, laughs, fun pokings and just all around friendship and concern. Once I'm up and running (not bouncing, jumping or twisting, mind you), I shall make it up to all of you with a big pot of gumbo.

The worst about it

The Silence
The Smell
The Missing Posters

Love love love

Grinderman
Man in the Moon
from
Dig, Lazarus Dig!

Yeah ummm no

Why is it the ones who's asses we Don't want to see are typically the ones we do see?



Fasion Week - Brooklyn Style
Originally uploaded by vaduzuvunt