...dusty.
Many nights this past year I`ve wanted something light to read as I drowsed away the last vestiges of the day in my recliner. Said recliner was my day time hangout spot in addition to being my bed for all of 2016; I`d would on occasion read one or two of my older blog posts. Sometimes I`d find and do some missed edits or bad grammar. More than once I realized I didn`t remember writing a particular post and was often 3/4 the way through before my memory kicked in. I`d like to think it was because of all the drugs the docs had me swallowing and not my memory. I happened across the post that follows here as it appeared to align with events of the week. This just passed Sunday ended up being a day to think about old friends; those that are still here and those that have since taken their step.
Since the 2017 PBR, the most dangerous and longest 8 seconds in sports, came barging through the gate on to my TV screen a few weeks ago. From the first event many of the riders have worn a patch for one of the young cowboys, he was 25 and died right before the season started. A dangerous sport that supplies real danger both inside and out the arena, i.e. at work or home.
I reposted what follows here because it just seemed to fit the day Sunday. If any of you have read the rants and riffs that trickle from my fingertips you know that I`m not above doing this if the mood strikes me; I confess to being a rule breaker from way back.
I hope for all of you; your day of 86,400 seconds has been put to good use so each second was filled with lots of good stuff like friends, love and peanut butter.
Especially peanut butter.
Robin Williams suicide has continued to be big news all week with the accompanying grief, sorrow, tributes and insensitivity all combining into a giant WTF. The tributes have been fun to watch, some sparking laughs, others sniffles revisiting one of the world’s great talents. Those are the type of things we all need to do when someone that touches are lives moves on, to keep track of the good. Of course there are always the insensitive clods that have a burning desire to show their corrupt personalities in public. I’d send these knuckleheads a pallet of asshats, though I refuse to pay the postage. Can you still send stuff COD? When you consider the source why are any of us surprised? I won’t waste digital real estate by using names, anyone that hasn’t been under a rock the past week knows of who I speak.
Many nights this past year I`ve wanted something light to read as I drowsed away the last vestiges of the day in my recliner. Said recliner was my day time hangout spot in addition to being my bed for all of 2016; I`d would on occasion read one or two of my older blog posts. Sometimes I`d find and do some missed edits or bad grammar. More than once I realized I didn`t remember writing a particular post and was often 3/4 the way through before my memory kicked in. I`d like to think it was because of all the drugs the docs had me swallowing and not my memory. I happened across the post that follows here as it appeared to align with events of the week. This just passed Sunday ended up being a day to think about old friends; those that are still here and those that have since taken their step.
Since the 2017 PBR, the most dangerous and longest 8 seconds in sports, came barging through the gate on to my TV screen a few weeks ago. From the first event many of the riders have worn a patch for one of the young cowboys, he was 25 and died right before the season started. A dangerous sport that supplies real danger both inside and out the arena, i.e. at work or home.
I reposted what follows here because it just seemed to fit the day Sunday. If any of you have read the rants and riffs that trickle from my fingertips you know that I`m not above doing this if the mood strikes me; I confess to being a rule breaker from way back.
I hope for all of you; your day of 86,400 seconds has been put to good use so each second was filled with lots of good stuff like friends, love and peanut butter.
Especially peanut butter.
Robin Williams suicide has continued to be big news all week with the accompanying grief, sorrow, tributes and insensitivity all combining into a giant WTF. The tributes have been fun to watch, some sparking laughs, others sniffles revisiting one of the world’s great talents. Those are the type of things we all need to do when someone that touches are lives moves on, to keep track of the good. Of course there are always the insensitive clods that have a burning desire to show their corrupt personalities in public. I’d send these knuckleheads a pallet of asshats, though I refuse to pay the postage. Can you still send stuff COD? When you consider the source why are any of us surprised? I won’t waste digital real estate by using names, anyone that hasn’t been under a rock the past week knows of who I speak.
I’ve had my own experience of being close to someone that did
take themselves out and I’m sure more than one of you out there have as well. To say the
least this was an experience I do not wish to repeat, even the asshats mentioned even they had a Mom. I had a running buddy during those days when
disco was on life support, the Champ was a shadow of his former self and the
Steel Curtain was turning to rust. If those references are outside the scope of your American history ask someone you know who was around at that time, someone over 40 years old. My good friend was quite a character. Mikey was a sawed-off collection of wire and grit that
didn’t know when to quit, whether it was working or playing. I swear he had
calluses not only on his hands but his insides too. Lunch was often a
bologna sandwich – just 2 pieces of bologna between 2 slices of white bread, no condiments included - just bologna and bread. This was frequently washed down with an ice tea glass half full of peppermint schnapps. If you looked past his leathery face and
gapped toothed grin you found a real heart of gold. He was truly one of those
guys that would give you the shirt off his back , he would actually take his off and give it to you. He was always willing to lend
a hand. That’s why I hired and later fired
him 3 times over a decade of our paths crossing. Our paths would head in opposite
directions for a while. Then providence would throw us together again and I`d I hire him because he would work until you
made him stop and would be the one individual that had already proven much more than once that he was the most dependable individual I had in the crew. Eventually I would have to let him go, though I would hate doing it when he would go off the rails. I hated to mostly because he was a close friend, always my most dependable member of that decade of Gregg and the 3rd because he had forgotten more about a particular subject than I would ever now about it. The day I knew he had stopped being dependable, as junkies are prone to do was always a sad day for me. The day of THE talk always took a few days for me to overcome the sadness for doing what I knew needed doing
I hadn’t seen him for a few months after the last time I had to turn him loose when he called me to borrow a step ladder. He was painting the new place he was settling into with his girlfriend and her daughter. We spent a couple of hours sitting in front of his fireplace telling war stories and laughing our asses off. It was the happiest I’d ever seen him. I told him when I left I‘d come get the ladder when I needed it. Several months went by and I hadn’t heard from him , which wasn’t unusual, so I went out to his place to get my ladder back. When his girlfriend answered the door she seemed a bit out of sorts, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for her – she was often well lubricated with booze. I told her I came to get my ladder and asked where Mikey was. She looked kind of stunned. “You didn’t know? Michael OD’d last month, a couple of months ago he found out he had AIDS. “ My legs turned to jelly and I was glad the house had a 2nd floor. We sat and talked for a bit about what the hell happened. I was dumbstruck at first, then I realized knowing my stoner brother like I did I knew he wouldn’t say anything to anyone about what was going on inside him. His brother had died of AIDS a few years before and he told me more than once he wouldn’t go through the same shit he watched happen to his brother. I stumbled around in disbelief for a while trying to get my mind around what happened. I attempted to stay in touch with his girlfriend after, but she disappeared into the nethers not long after and I don’t know what happened to her. Initially I was angry at him for not saying anything to me, then I realized that was selfish on my part. Coming to that place for anyone is extremely difficult and personal. Judging him for his choice because I didn`t agree it would the carbon copy of pegging that first stone then trying to hide my hand in my pocket. Events like those of this past week bring that all back, with the entire collection of nagging whys and what ifs, along with the feeling I wasn’t paying attention to the signs. I asked his lady friend if she knew a particular glass or coffee mug he used most and if so could I have it. She rattled and bumped around in their kitchen for awhile and returned with a coffee cup. I used it for coffee every day for a couple years until it shattered into 8,000 pieces, give or take a few, compliments a ceramic tile kitchen floor. The man I knew definitely fit the idea that family is often folks you or I don’t’ share the same bloodline with. I still miss him.
I hadn’t seen him for a few months after the last time I had to turn him loose when he called me to borrow a step ladder. He was painting the new place he was settling into with his girlfriend and her daughter. We spent a couple of hours sitting in front of his fireplace telling war stories and laughing our asses off. It was the happiest I’d ever seen him. I told him when I left I‘d come get the ladder when I needed it. Several months went by and I hadn’t heard from him , which wasn’t unusual, so I went out to his place to get my ladder back. When his girlfriend answered the door she seemed a bit out of sorts, which wasn’t out of the ordinary for her – she was often well lubricated with booze. I told her I came to get my ladder and asked where Mikey was. She looked kind of stunned. “You didn’t know? Michael OD’d last month, a couple of months ago he found out he had AIDS. “ My legs turned to jelly and I was glad the house had a 2nd floor. We sat and talked for a bit about what the hell happened. I was dumbstruck at first, then I realized knowing my stoner brother like I did I knew he wouldn’t say anything to anyone about what was going on inside him. His brother had died of AIDS a few years before and he told me more than once he wouldn’t go through the same shit he watched happen to his brother. I stumbled around in disbelief for a while trying to get my mind around what happened. I attempted to stay in touch with his girlfriend after, but she disappeared into the nethers not long after and I don’t know what happened to her. Initially I was angry at him for not saying anything to me, then I realized that was selfish on my part. Coming to that place for anyone is extremely difficult and personal. Judging him for his choice because I didn`t agree it would the carbon copy of pegging that first stone then trying to hide my hand in my pocket. Events like those of this past week bring that all back, with the entire collection of nagging whys and what ifs, along with the feeling I wasn’t paying attention to the signs. I asked his lady friend if she knew a particular glass or coffee mug he used most and if so could I have it. She rattled and bumped around in their kitchen for awhile and returned with a coffee cup. I used it for coffee every day for a couple years until it shattered into 8,000 pieces, give or take a few, compliments a ceramic tile kitchen floor. The man I knew definitely fit the idea that family is often folks you or I don’t’ share the same bloodline with. I still miss him.
Today, and the days to come, are about the aftermath for the Robin`s family and friends left and
their attempt to move forward after an event such as suicide. Eventually the
hubbub will slow down and those still on this plane will be left to carry on with all
the questions that are tagging along unspoken while they deal with the events of right
now. Little by little,less visitors will arrive at the door carrying coffee cakes
and casseroles until you’re left with your their thoughts
about what has occurred. It takes effort to focus on the good of what was
shared prior, when the rawness of someone you love being ripped from your life
and going forward for a time is akin to auto pilot. You know what you need to
do and you do it, though you do it with a heavy heart. After a while you string
enough of those types of days together and realize Life goes on because that’s
what Life does, being ever mindful of
how precious it is.
2012 - Though hard to see it the hat has a propeller on it.
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