The Meaty Efreeti

Saturday, July 31, 2004

Thank God...the return of the laptop. Writing in the office sucks with rocks in. So I'm at Ft. View, doing my Saturday breakfast thing...and generally feeling happier than I have in a month. The first reason is, the clock is ticking down on one of the worst months of my life...and hope for new life and good things seems to spring from August for some reason. Doesn't make much sense since I'm turning 29 in there somewhere. But regardless, I just don't want to be in July anymore. The second is that I'm not hungover at all...despite drinking quite a bit last night. I think it was the Red Bull that did it. I forgot that was a hangover minimalist drink. And the third...well, the third I'm not going to talk about. However, come to think of it, the third may not know what a great time I had with her last night so... Ahem. I had a really, really good time talking to you last night... We should go out again, and preferably often. =] And now...now I'm back at home...laying on the couch and watching "Wonder Boys" for the umpteenth time...and I'm vaguely considering taking a cloudy Saturday afternoon nap or two. Ambition your name is "Jeremiah." I was supposed to go to the Galleria with Luis to do some shopping this afternoon, and possibly to catch up with friends, however it would appear that isn't going to happen. (He went to work or something and hasn't called me yet.) So I'll talk to you later. It's naptime. j.s.

Friday, July 30, 2004

Hi. Went out to The Gingerman with Luis last night, which turns out to be quite the cool place. I really dug their patio...despite the fact that the guy next to had a dog that refused to leave me alone... Little bugger actually bit me, on the ass, while I was sitting there having a Red Stripe... (I started talking to Luis and stopped scratching her head...thereby apparently not paying her the attention she required.) I still want a Boston Terrier though. Wish I were home enough to properly take care of one. Going for rides in the Jeep with Sammy was a good time...would be even cooler with my own dog... Sigh... So, I think I'm mending a little. I've (obviously), been completely broken-hearted all month. But I feel like, slowly, it's starting to heal over to a scar (albeit a nasty one), rather than the open wound I'm trudging around with now. Which is very good...but kind of sad in its own right. (Hard to explain.) Little John appears to be doing okay, for those who've asked. And every day he gets better and stronger. Thank you all for the good vibes and the prayers. So then, all the scary and nervewracking news of Wednesday may yet turn out to be simply good news...since the kid is a Leo. And honestly, there aren't nearly enough of us in the world. Ahem...and as long as Little John is quick to figure out his social strata in the pack when dealing with his grizzled old lion cousin...he and I shall get on famously. =] K, I'm going to take off. Have pseudo-dinner plans with 'Lissa and Sean the Plus One tonight and I've some things to finish up beforehand. Take care of each other, And thank you all for taking care of me. j.s.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

I'm asking for your help again. Right now, my little cousin is fighting for a life that he knows absolutely nothing about. His own. He was born this morning...4 months before he was due...and is in intensive care about 10 miles from where I sleep... The kid's been dealt rags of a hand before he even knew how the game was played. But he's still been scrappy enough to fight for something he doesn't know and can't comprehend. A lifetime of his mother's love, his father's pride, of his family's support and the world's wonders. The boy isn't 20 hours old, and I already have more respect for him than many men who've been stumbling around the planet for 50 years. So please, keep his parents, his grandparents, and Little John himself in your hearts and prayers tonight. And I'll thank you for all of us. j.s.

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

Hi there. I don't really have much to say, but I felt like writing something anyway. Went out to Sealy last night to have dinner with Russell's parents, which was in actuality a very good time. We laughed, told stories about ourselves and one another (and of course about Russell), I gave them some things I'd written about/for him, and we found collective strength by leaning on one another...like houses of cards. I've rearranged my office a bit...and it's much improved. I can actually see people coming now, rather than always having my back to them. And as many of you know, that's a huge relief for me...being unable to sit with my back to the door anywhere. And I'm not entirely sure why that is... I don't think it's a paranoia thing...although I certainly get nervous and fidgety when I have to sit somewhere without being able to see the door and I can't seem to pay attention to what people are saying because I'm fixated on looking for reflections in things so I can see behind me... Okay, maybe it is a paranoia thing. Oh yeah? And just what are some of the weirdo things that you do in your head that you don't tell people about? Right. Who's the fucked up one now? And don't answer that. So I went to the gym downstairs when I got home last night, walked on the treadmill at a ridiculous incline for 10 minutes, and then I had the strange urge to run. Now, I typically don't run unless I'm being chased, so to say it's strange that I'd want to run isn't giving it the gravity it's due. If a horde of sentient marshmallows rode to our planet on intergalactic stickbugs and demanded Abe Vigoda, 2000 gallons of ALMAS caviar and audience with the color pink...it might be as strange as me wanting to run. But not quite. Regardless, I turned the treadmill up to 7 and sprinted the rest of the way to finish out the mile. And I hereby state that you people that enjoy running must be utter masochists. Honestly, it felt like I'd inhaled a bowl of magma. Afterward, I staggered out of the workout room and to the water fountain, drank heavily in an effort to staunch the pulmonary melting, swore a few times, and then grabbed my towel and headed to bed. And I lay there for almost 45 minutes in wracking chest pain before finally blacking out. Now, some of you are undoubtedly pointing and nodding furtively at the cigarette habit that I so recenly kicked. It is possible, I suppose, that smoking a half-a-pack a day for 10 years might have had a debilitating effect on my respiratory system... Very plausible. Although if that is what I'll have to endure in order to fix said lung damage, I think I'd rather just name each of the tar colonies in my chest a sovereign state and charge them a eminent domain tax instead. j.s.

Monday, July 26, 2004

Hi. Thank you for the kind words... I really appreciate them, as do I all of you. But I'm attempting to move on a little...so here we go. I had a horrid Friday night of "should've known better." One which I won't subject you all to here...suffice to say I would rather be sewn inside a burlap bag with chlamydial, Viagra-enhanced orangutans, on intravenous Banana Daiquiri drips...than ever be in the same room as a particular person again. "That guy sucks." tm The worst part is I knew better...but I went out anyway. Gah...moving on. I'm getting irritated just thinking about it. Saturday I did my usual breakfast, then hung out with Mom and D. for most of the afternoon and evening. Very low key. I did watch my beloved Sox brawl with the Yankees and loved every minute of it... Especially the part where Mueller hit a walk-off homerun in the 9th. And Sunday I did the Katy thing with Dad and watched the Sox/Yankees short series ender. Finished it out with another win, putting us...er...7 1/2 games behind the Yankees for first in the division. Wild card spot looks good though. You know, no matter what's happening in my life, I can always turn to that old standby to get me all riled up...and make me forget about my problems for a little while. Seeing those teams play is every bit a part of who I am as Fluffernutters w/ apple juice, Awful Awfuls w/ grilled white cheese sandwiches, and clamcakes w/ all the little clam bits obsessively picked out. Someone asked me a while ago whether I liked baseball more than football. And although I admit to adoring the spectacle and buzz and excitement around watching the NFL, and I do love the excuse to gather with friends on Sundays and lounge around...and fantasy baseball can't compare to The Chinstrapped Yard Gnomes... Football simply shrinks to insignificance next to the electricity I feel when watching a Boston/New York series. If you watched one with me, you'd feel it too. God bless the Boston Red Sox for that. My world needed a winning series over the Yankees... j.s.

Friday, July 23, 2004

Hello. I've come to a realization today... I am a walking shot of Novocaine. I go through each day with the same detached attitude, follow the same patterns of what was "normalcy" before all this happened, wearing a stoic countenance of indifference. And, with the exception of a fleeting moment last week, I can't seem to feel anything... It's as if I've hurt to the limits of what is humanly possible for me, and that's where I broke. Not hurting, not healing, not anything. Just comatose, and trudging through days without any interest in them at all. Although every so often, under the sheer weight of the heartbreak behind them, these floodgates of numbness that I'm using just to get by creak and shudder open a bit...and I'm blasted by the pain of what's happened...and all that I've lost is laid bare. My shoulders roll forward, my eyes shut, my whole body goes slack, and I dissolve into racking sobs when this happens. And I think I hate that more than not feeling anything. ... So, I guess I'm much more a wreck than I let on huh? I'm sure those of you I've hung out with are surprised by this as I've typically come off as pretty upbeat, healthy and adjusted. Yeah. So I'm not. I'm not dealing with it well... I'm not "dealing with it" at all. j.s.

Wednesday, July 21, 2004

Oh, and I forgot to mention for you Houston residents: I was at a CrimeStoppers press conference today for Russell... Details can be found Here and Here. There's a $5,000 reward for information leading to their arrest. If you do see anyone that looks like them, (especially if they're driving a blue/green Chevy compact car, or if one of them is wearing a towel around their neck), Call (713) 222-TIPS. So, please check your news tonight for updates, security camera pictures of them and their car, and, if nothing else, for yours truly looking undoubtedly disheveled and glazed... Thanks for your help. j.s.



Hi. So I had intended to go see "Catwoman" last night with L., since she'd located some "FREE pre-screening passes" in one of the papers or something. But, as fate would have it, countless throngs of other folk apparently had the same desire to see Halle Berry (oh-so-delectably dipped in vinyl), as I did. This supra-punctual horde, who barely had the collective cognitive capacity to stand without toppling over, stood in a single-file formation that rivaled bowling alley shoe rental queues in distinction and attractiveness. Their beady, sunken eyes transfixed on the dark portal ahead...sweaty... nervous...counting the number ahead of them in line to see how far back they were...counting again to make sure. The only need in their snowglobe little lives was to be among those who were admitted gratis into a film that would, most assuredly, warp reality with the sheer power of its suck. Stranger still, they were actually security wanding everyone who went through the door to watch the film. One would have to assume that such a cinematic tour-de-force as Catwoman would easily have the drawing power to be rife with militant, jihad-bent, terrorists...who want nothing more than to disrupt our daily regiment of self-flagellation through vacuous cinema. And no doubt the scenes of Halle taking a "bath" would incite any fringe Muslim into a frothing, bloodthirsty frenzy... driving them to open fire on American moviegoers, mid-Jujube. After all, the word Halle translates roughly into "Holy" in English, and "Nubile and Energetic Virgin Table for Six" in Arabic. But I digress. So, as you may have guessed, we did not make it in to Catwoman. Next door however, there was a 7:30 showing of I. Robot. And God help me...we went in. I blame the "Mauve Alert" terrorist vibe present in the Catwoman line for my err in judgement...but that misstep was realized quickly as soon as the 3 Robot Directives flashed up on the screen, and dissolved into bad CGI bubbles... I realized immediately that I'd made a horrible, horrible mistake. And yet, we sat through the entire film. I just kept expecting it to get better... And it never did. The only decent part of the entire film was the "freeway scene" with the two robot carrier thingies that sandwiched Will Smith, a.k.a. Detective Spooner, in... Good thinkin', good shooting, good CGI. That scene definitely wins the "Stream of Bat Piss" award...for it truly glowed like a golden ray of sunlight while all around it was dark and ugly. As the movie progressed, the cement mixer-sized tub used to house the metric ton of popcorn they sold me before the film, began to edge closer and closer to my chin...to collect any errant vomit I might suffer from the movies climax and denouement you see. I only dry heaved twice during the "Okay, now save me," scene... and can pridefully say that I made it through the film without actually regurgitating at all. I did however, laugh out loud during the "shake the robot's hand, pull the splinter from its paw, 'you're now my friend...'" scene, and believe I yelled something along the lines of "How sweet is that??? That little man and the robot are friends!!!" in a sing-song voice... (Bile-colored, sarcastic vitriol sprayed through my clenched teeth and ate holes in the bottom of the popcorn trough however.) Thankfully, some of the patrons were amused by my rantings, and disliked the film as much as I did upon our exit. Thank you folk. Your shining Zippo lighters of good taste have rekindled my faith once again. Here's to parking on the Casablanca level. clink j.s.

Monday, July 19, 2004

Weekend Recap! Take two! snap So, I didn't actually go play Scrabble Saturday night. I pretty much just hung out over at my Dad's place and watched a couple of movies...then caught up on my Internet browsing/blog reading and then drove home. And on Sunday...I completely debauched the sabbath. I was originally supposed to go to the dog track to gamble with Luis, so I headed out there at noon, picked him up, we decide we're hungry...so we head to Hooters for their tasty Buffalo Chicken Sandwich. Turns out it was "Family Fun Day" at Hooters...(just how exactly that works is as lost on me as it is on you.) Apparently it involved a fire truck with a fully...ahem...erect ladder, a "Dunk the Hooters Girl" booth, (with crowds of firemen gathered around for "safety,") a basketball goal, which no one was paying attention to, and a "dart toss at the balloons" game, which I can only assume were filled with silicone. Anyway, we eat, leave and head down to the dog track...which is summarily closed. No dog races for jo0. So, we go do the next best thing. We go to a beach bar. Seabrook Beach Club to be specific. We sat outside on the balcony above their pool, sweltering in the mid-July Texas sun, and drinking beer after beer in an attempt to cool off. It doesn't really work, but it does get us sauced enough to forget about the heat for a little while. Luis tries to convince me that getting in the pool would be a good idea... I explain that there is absolutely no way, save threat of death or reproductive organ removal, that I'm getting into a pool where people both purchase, and drink, beer all day. Not just "no," but "Fuck, no." We briefly think about leaving when they mention that there is going to be a bikini contest this afternoon and they are looking for one more judge... So...we decide we might be able to hang around just a little while longer... and I wander over to the D.J. booth to see about this whole "one more judge" thing. To which the guy asks: "Do you know any of the girls?" "Not that I'm aware of." "Have you talked to any of the girls in the contest?" "Nope." "Have you judged a bikini contest before?" "Nope, but I have a degree in fashion, have trained more than 100 people on how to become models and have produced 11 different fashion shows." *laughs* "You're our man. Wait for the announcement and then meet at the table up here." "You got it." So now I'm judging a bikini contest. They call for the judges about an hour later, and I go sit with my clipboard along the pool and watch scantily clad models bounce and flirt and wink and bend in strategic places in front of me, in an effort to garner my vote. It's all I can do not to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of it all, but I just smirk, with my pen hand over my mouth, and watch. Turns out it was a pretty easy one to call all things considered, and it worked out that those I gave the highest marks to won a $1,000 prize. The winner was definitely a professional bikini contester...staggeringly beautiful girl. Amazing shape. About as deep as her contact lenses though...head as vacant as a helium-filled trash bag. Sad really. Directly after the announcement of the winner, we decide we've had more than enough of the Seabrook Beach Club, and head back to Luis's place. I head home shortly after and crash around 10:30...exhausted. And there you have it, another finished weekend. My computer isn't back yet, (it's looking like another week-and-a-half), so I'm stuck writing up at the office still. Maybe I'll call and see if I can expedite the process a bit by mildly complaining. Talk to you soon. j.s.

Saturday, July 17, 2004

Hi there. So let's try recappin' while still amidst the 'kend shall we? Last night, after spending ridiculous amounts of time trying to get each of these pages to translate from Dreamweaver/Fireworks/Flash into BloggerLand, Luis and I headed out to Benjy's for a G n' T or two. Well, not two. The place was bursting to the seams with poorly coiffed, badly-dressed, inanely-vociferous and staggeringly dull automatons, all of whom crowded around the bar as if it were the sole source of oxygen in the room. Was like a kaleidoscopic frat house. Just awful. And the service was even worse, we waited 20 minutes at a dirty table for a server, she returned 10 minutes later with a Tanqueray and tonic, and promptly disappeared until I flailed about like a madman, attempting to convey semaphores of "I need the check." Which, in turn, took another 15 minutes...and finally as we were leaving we found that they'd locked the front door, and thus made us go back upstairs and through a horrible smelling staircase that could've doubled as a "Se7en" set. Feeling slighted and irritated...and it being midnight and only one drink down...we went to Houston's best watering well, our den of drunkenness, our lair of lush, our hideaway of hooch, our bastion of burracho, yes, none other than The Belv. And, of course, there was none other than my favorite bartender (yes, still) working there...though she had been confined to the back room making drinks for the servers. A grand injustice to be sure. (It actually took a while to figure this out, since I didn't even know there was a "server only" bar...I boggled for almost an hour as to exactly why she'd leap out of the back room, grab a bottle of something, and rush back through the swinging door every 5 minutes.) After several courage and tonics, I ambled over to say hi. And once again, she seemed happy to see me. We chatted a bit, asked how one another was doing, and dipped into the hope that springs eternal from Fenway...which led me to the subject of seeing a game together once more. It was a natural progression, I swear. She clapped and said "Yeah!" but alas...apparently didn't have my number anymore. (Hmmph, there's been a lot of telephonic confusion 'round that place.) So she ran back, nabbed her phone, and programmed my number in. And then cheered...which was possibly one of the cutest things I've ever seen her do. (I know...I know...shut up.) So she got kinda busy slangin' drinks and I took off and said we'd catch up later. Which we did. But as the house lights came up and the bar was shutting down I was accosted by a little Asian Houston PD with a CHiP on his shoulder, (I EstradaPun!), who made it his pet project for the night to collar me (zang!) and get me out of The Belv. I was doing nothing but sipping my glass of water, quietly, at the end of the bar when he informs me... "Hey! It's time to go home." "You know it is." I smile, "I'm just finishing up this water then I'm out of here." (BTW, the glass was only half-full at this point.) "No. It's time for you to go now." "Yes. Yes it is. And as soon as I finish up this water..." I turn to look down at him, "I'll be leaving." I nod and turn away. "Maybe you didn't hear me. I said you're leaving." he mewled. "No. I heard you just fine," still smiling, "and...once again...I'm just going to finish up my water and will leave directly afterward. Thank you though. I'm on my way out." ---It's also important to point out that no one had left the bar yet, and most people were still nursing their last-call heroes at this point.--- "Either leave it here, or finish it on your way to the door PAL." I begin to become agitated. "I would..." I say, and put one hand in my pocket, "but then I'd have nowhere to put it when I finish...'pal'." My otherwise friendly smile sinks to a demeaning smirk. "I'm not gonna ask you again." he says, hitching on his utility belt and drawing himself up to full pygmy height. I finally divert my full attention away from my water, and stare at him unbelieving for a moment...look around the bar at no less than 80 people still drinking...and then look back at him. "They're all leaving too." "Heh. I don't doubt it. Okay here I go." I take one more sip of water and make like I'm turning about to leave. He turns with me. I instead spin 360 degrees, ending up back in front of my water. He doesn't even look back and goes on to harassing someone else. I finish my drink, and then wander over to talk to Jen. And may God help the world if I ever decided to become a criminal and these were the Fifean folk charged with finding me. You know, it could very well be familial, but I just don't have much in the way of fear where police are concerned. And that's the emotion this little man was mistakenly trying to play off of in me. Mind you, I have respect in abundance for the five-oh...but even that tends to vacuum quickly when I'm harassed. And guess what Supercop...I don't care what shade of civil-organ-grinder blue you're wearing...I'm still not your monkey. So I find Jen. We laugh for a minute at Supercop, who's now trying to protect The Belv, and serve the doorway, with a obviously shady and suspicious couple in their 50's...who're simply sitting in the corner and signing their credit card slip. Anyway, then came the good part... Which is the part when Jen promised that she'd call me this week. To which I obviously narrowed my eyes and made a disbelieving face. "No. I'll call you. I promise." she said, and winked. According to witnesses, I "strutted" out the door after this exchange. Ahem. I didn't notice anything. And no, I think I'll go ahead and exhale. But thank you for your cynicism. So Luis and I take off and head back to my place where we chat for a bit then crash. Today I got up, did my Saturday breakfast thing, and then drove out to Katy, where I'm sitting now writing this. I was supposed to have gone to a mass-aquarian-vertebrate-incineration with L., but never got the requisite call from her, so I assume she made other plans. And tonight it would appear that I'm heading over to 'Lissa's to play a few doubtlessly action-packed rounds of Scrabble. Yes, I am the God of Glamour. I am, however, considering using the occasion as a springboard for a niche case-study detailing the consumption of Red Stripes, and the subsequent debilitating effects thereof, on our human ability to coherently spell (legitimate) words imprinted upon little wooden tiles. See you there. j.s.

Friday, July 16, 2004

Finally...done. Sorta. The Archives are still kinda goofy and there's the Picture Pages to deal with still...but it looks a bit better I think. And if you don't like it...tough. I've been working on it for the past 7 hours. It ain't changin' this time. j.s.



Gah, my comments are gone...



My God I'm so tired of trying to get this to work...please let it work this time so I can go home.



And as a personal aside, I'm am really, really missing my laptop now. I don't write nearly as well sitting here in the office after-hours as I do when I'm sipping a cup of coffee outside somewhere. But they've only just received it back at Alienware yesterday, so it'll be another 10 days or so before they even start it on its way back to me. Sigh. j.s.



Okay...I'd like to talk about cigarettes for a moment if I might. (I was told last night it would take some time to get my "sea legs" back on this, the Good Ship Ranty-pop, so once again please bear with me.) So, our government...on both the state and federal level...in a "health-conscious" move to stop Americans from smoking, have fined tobacco companies to the tune of over 400 million dollars in the past 4 years. (This doesn't include the $411 billion they're still receiving from the 1988 settlement.) Add to this the yearly tax income the government receives from tobacco excise taxes. For example, In 2001, Americans paid $8,643,695 in taxes on tobacco purchases. (This ranking 3rd on our "selective taxes" list. Below gasoline, which raked in $31 million and just beneath our public utilities tax, which paid out about $9 million.) This roughly comes out to $1.44 on each pack sold at $4.00. Now, 10% of this money has gone to television/radio/billboard/print ads that inform folks with "concern" about the potential bodily harm of smoking. Thusly supposedly replacing the advertising revenue generated by companies through cigarette advertisements. All sounds good right? What in the hell does all this have to do with anything? I've finally snapped and am lashing out wildly in any direction? I'll tell you, just in case you hadn't thought things out this way before. Why in the name of God and everything holy, would our kindly, concerned government want us to stop using the 3rd highest ranking income-generator in sales taxes? Right. You're clever if you thought it out this way before, but hopefully I'm saying something to those who might not have considered that our government actually wants you to smoke. They rape the tobacco companies for billions of "reparation" dollars, AND still get paid nearly $9 million a year on the sale of cigarettes domestically. Pretty good deal any way you look at it. And though there have been many claims about how much cigarettes cost the healthcare industry every year (they're all different depending on which website you go to), I haven't been able to trace any of the reparation funds actually into anything resembling hospital funding. Instead it seems they're using it to fund Medicare in general...which is a twisted, broken, system. On that you'll just have to trust me, I deal with it every day. It is a huge reason why the cost of healthcare in this country is spiraling out of control, since they "adjust" nearly 2/3 of every bill they're supposed to pay. So doctors in turn have to raise costs across the board by 2/3. Rinse, repeat. But I digress. Now, in my own recovering addict's perspective, sure they've blocked cigarette companies from placing their ads on our media, but they've replaced them with their own ads which actually SHOW people smoking. (Those of you old enough to remember cigarette ads will remember that they very rarely showed people in the act of smoking...the stick was always held unlit and jauntily off to the side as the models leapt about with nigh explosive excitement and huge, open-mouthed, aggressive monkey grins. Ahh, alive with pleasure they were...) Not to mention the now required messages from tobacco companies themselves that discuss the perils of smoking. All told, that seems to be to be a lot more discussion of smoking on the media than just with the tobacco companies' ads as before. The kicker is, smokers don't care what the message is supposed to be, because we don't actually hear it anyway. You see kids, you've just shown me people smoking. So naturally I'm going to leave your commericial thinking about smoking. Whether the information was intended to be for good or ill...now you've got me thinking about it at least. And after nearly every anti-smoking commercial I saw? Yeah, I went out and had a cigarette...because it had made me think about smoking. Make sense now? Couple this with the fact that, for me and I'm assuming for most people who are trying to quit smoking, every day is a fight to not smoke. At least at first. Hence these commercials don't help...quite the opposite. They get me thinking about cigarettes where I, quite blissfully, may not have been thinking about them before. So these commercials don't work on smokers then. But hey, maybe just the $4.00 price of a pack of smokes isn't enough to deter our children from smoking...these commercials must be for them! No, no, and no. Now am I saying that we shouldn't spend tax dollars on the education of kids about smoking? Not at all. But the ludicrous amounts of spending on "anti-smoking" ads, that pump daily to kids during their cartoons isn't the right avenue. Plus all the guys who are trying to get the anthropomorphic things to smoke always look infinitely cooler than those goofy drawings of the things that refuse them. A simple "Smoking is fucking dumb." ad campaign would work equally well, if not better. That'll get 'em talking to their parents about it anyway...=] I'd stand behind the use of the rest of that money to go toward the hospitals that actually take care of these cancer patients themselves. Read as: NOT to a corrupted medical system that denies more health claims than it pays. And as for me, I'll never pick up another cigarette again. No matter how hard they try. j.s.

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Hello from the cavernous bowels of stomachy discontent. So I leave work yesterday to go meet N., her boyfriend and [Return of The Girl From the Party] at BW3's to watch the All Star Game. I'm on my way there when they call and say that BW3's is packed and there's no vacant table in sight. So we head over to Sam's Pub, and watched the game there. Good times, several "smitchers" of beer, then N. and her boyfriend decide to head home. So R.G.F.P. and I sit about, cover some pretty deep topics of conversation regarding our personal histories, watching the saddest "human stripdancer's pole," (long story) and otherwise having a good time. Until the DJ started the Name that Tune game...and played "Minimum Wage" by They Might Be Giants. I love that song. So I walk up to the booth and name his tune. The fact that I know that song apparently excites our (now off duty) waitress, and she says she's going to buy me a shot. I smile and say "sure," but start to backpedal...considering the possibility of the ensuing galactic hangover the next day. She eventually found me though, Jagermeister in hand, and I had no escape but to shoot the damn thing. Which toppled me into drunk status. And has subseqently manifested in a horrid stomachache today. Later, Robert, an old friend, showed up. Turns out that we both apparently know him, and we caught up with him and how he's doin'. Anyway, [The Girl From the Party] and I had a good time, and finally got to hang out with one another in a sober state...for a time anyway...which was good. Unfortunately in my addled frame of mind, it would appear that I gave her this here website address. There's rumor that she's prowling around my archives currently, and while that's horribly embarrasing to consider, I suppose I can't protest much. I did give her the address after all. I only hope I didn't say anything too vicious in my pride-wounded state...I honestly can't remember. My apologies if I did. Okay, I'm about to head out of here to Soundwaves with D. so as to pick up some CDs, so I'll talk a bit more later. j.s.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Hi. Still slowly improving...thank you all for your calls and well-wishings. I may not sound like it but I really do appreciate it. Not a whole lot is going on really. Went out to Star Pizza with 'Lissa and Sean last night, which was good. We're all just trying to put things back together. I've also noticed lately a strange desire to do things I've never done or haven't done in a long time. Case in point: I've contacted the Houston Polo Club about taking riding lessons there and am supposed to set up an appointment today. I've looked into the cost of a cello and lessons therewith. And I have also emailed the Bayou City Fencing Academy about returning to lessons there. (I've taken several fencing courses in the past both in school in Utah and at the Academy.) I'm still in the market (as it were), for a boat as well...so if any of you know of someone selling a relatively inexpensive sailboat with a belowdecks suitable for sleeping, please let me know. The riding lessons are to come first I believe, since a few are all that are required. I'm not planning on making this a serious hobby, I just feel a strange need to at least know how to ride a horse. Don't ask, I don't know. And I'd like to rant about THIS but just don't have it in me right now. So just imagine me saying a lot of angry, caustic things about it k? Thanks. j.s.

Sunday, July 11, 2004

Good evening, A few of you had begun to worry it seems...so I thought I'd drop in to let you know that I am okay. Today, again, is a little better than yesterday...incrementally and cumulatively better than each day before. I am hanging in there...and thank you for your concern. I'm just very tired of thinking and talking about him every day, so if I seem brusque or curt with any of you that's why. I still hurt, but it isn't a hurt that will heal by talking about it. Time is the only salve...a salve that seems to be going by in strange, blurry lumps. Enough though. I did go see King Arthur, and despite Keira Knightly being in it, it was as abysmal as I'd envisioned it to be. Awful. Just awful. I would give a more in-depth review of it, however I don't remember much about seeing it...I was (and stil am) a bit fuzzy. I do clearly recall overwhelming and revolting regret for spending $8.50 on that clump of gonorrheic horseshit as I left however. You may take that as you see fit. I'm still out in Katy, taking care of Sammy the Sorta-Dog for about the next hour or so before I head back home. Things are as quiet out here as they ever were...deafeningly silent... And I'm still sans smokies for those who are interested. Today would mark day 6...I think... Still having cravings here and there...especially today, since I'm kinda bored and still wearing the patch I had on yesterday. (Forgot to bring a fresh one out here with me.) But I still won't smoke. I'm done with it. I think that's just about everything. Luis, K. and I went to Sam's Boat on Friday night, which was much less horrifying than usual. The boozysluts were uncharacteristically cute and clean cut for some reason. Was definitely a damper on people-watching there however. Saturday morning I went to Ft. View by myself for breakfast, then came out here to Katy, where I've been ever since...with the exception of a trip to Starbucks with L. last night and a lunch/bookstore run with D. today. And there you have it. My weekend of just trying to be normal again. I'll talk to you all soon. j.s.

Friday, July 09, 2004

Thursday, September 13, 2001 I'LL BE HERE IF YOU NEED ME Everyone who knows me knows that I'm like an open book. They also know that I hate weapons and violence in general. Yesterday (day two of this tragedy) the American people and government was throwing the word war around like a rag doll. This brought about feelings in me that I had never thought possible. I have been scared in my life and have risen to challenges on numerous occasions when my courage has been tested. But this time I felt fear from the tops of my toes to the hairs on the end of my eyebrows at the thought that it was even a remote possibility I (key word here) could be sent to war. We're talking about putting a gun in my hand and being told to take other human lives war. I hate war. I hate guns. I hate being away from home. I hate violence, and above all I hated the fact that Americans have already perished and there could be more to follow. I called my local community college thinking I can enroll in college! And that would keep me away from it. I could go to Mexico or Canada and dodge the draft (if one was ever implemented). I went home that night and cried. Cried like I have never cried before. Not for the loss of American lives. Not for the families. Not for the men and women who could be sent off to war. But for myself. Saddened by the thought that I may have to do this. I had never feared like this before and probably never will again. I decided to take a ride. Driving in my shiny 1997 Chevrolet truck, listening to my music and looking over this city and nation I live in, I had what alcoholics refer to as "a moment of clarity." This was the most selfish thing I have ever done. Thinking about only myself in this time of crisis. This is my revelation. This country, this land, our land has given me more than I can ever hope for. This truck I was riding in. The music I was listening to. Every goddamn thing around me was protected. Protected by weapons. Protected by even the idea of freedom. The job I have is allowed to run the way it does because of capitalism. The things I say are protected by this idea of freedom. The colleges I attended and my friends still attend. The person who signs my paycheck is allowed to run her company the way she sees fit and the sky is the limit because of the liberties that are so unselfishly given to her and us. We breathe air that even smells of freedom and liberty. This country allowed bands like Guns and Roses, Tool, David Bowie, Hooverphonic, Santana, Nine Inch Nails, Elivs Presley, P. Diddy, DMX, Ja Rule, John Tesh, James Mc Murtry, Marilyn Manson (or whoever your favorite band might be) to make the music they want and not be silenced or imprisoned for their views. Let's not forget freedom of speech and the most wonderful idea and policy alive on this planet. We can say whatever we want, whenever we want. Speak your minds, have an opinion, shout in the streets, like this government, dislike it, love you, hate you, preach God, preach Satan, whether we agree or not we have the freedom to say such things. All these things I have, you have, we have, are gifts from this country. We have the opportunity to make what we want of these gifts, and I am so eternally grateful I was born to the family I was and in the country I live. Let me remind you this is Russell you're reading. The man who is a lover not a fighter. Takes things for granted. Hates war. Hates weapons. BUT once again hates the loss of our brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers, friends, and countrymen even more. And I am here to say that with all this into consideration, if this nation of ours decides to go to war and I would like to think the people in my life feel the same... America, I'll be here if you need me. Russell Reagan. America's 12th Man.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

And he slowly...shakily...steps back up to the keyboard... Hi. I haven't felt much like writing. I still don't. But I thought I'd drop everyone a line and let you know that I'm still here...and I'm muddling through. Every day gets a little easier I guess, though I'm still not sure what day it is. I think it's Thursday. For some reason there is a very big part of me doesn't want it to get easier. That doesn't want to feel better. That doesn't want to go jovially about my day as if nothing happened. I've spent some time with this part of me, and I'm still not sure of its motives. It isn't a respect of loss thing, because God knows Russell would want me to go on being kooky and weird and not be this silent, drudging zombie that I've been for the past week. So it's in me somewhere. Maybe it's the more I mourn, the closer the time he was around seems. And if I start to feel better it will mean that he's really gone. (His absence is something I've yet to come to terms with.) That's a guess. I really don't know. Everyone around seems to be taking comfort from "hearing" him, and in him saying that he's "okay" and "don't worry" and "this is so cool." I haven't heard anything...with the one exception of when D. and I were driving up to his apartment to get some of his effects that we wanted to keep. I heard him scream. An angry, hurting scream, inside my head. Most of you know me, and you know that I'm pretty grounded and secular. I don't ever say things like that. I heard it though. Believe me or don't believe me. I don't care. At his apartment I picked up the bandana that I'd given him for Christmas, because he'd mentioned a couple of weeks ago how much it meant to him... I'm the "Alpha Pirate" you see, and he'd avoided buying a black bandana for that very reason. (Somehow it was okay for him to wear one if I gave it to him.) And I picked up his journal. He'd said if anything were to happen to him he wanted someone to find his journals and burn them. I simply couldn't bring myself to burn it though. His poetry was beautiful and I thought the world had been robbed of enough with the loss of him. But I thought leaving it with him an adequate substitute, so I placed it in his coffin at his side. And I picked up his Red Sox cap. We were supposed to go to Fenway in August to see the Sox play. We'd been planning it since May. You'll never guess what I'll be wearing on my head when I go... And lastly, I picked up his Nicoderm patches. He'd quit smoking on Monday. I think today marks day three of sans smokies for me. I quit forever after I left his funeral. And I made a pit stop by Shaw's tattoo sometime this past week for a pirate flag to be put on my ankle. It's a replica of Emmanuel Wynne's flag, without the hourglass, which was the first documented Jolly Roger to ever be flown. (Alpha Pirate, remember?) Also, my laptop crashed today and instead of the normal Windows screen it instead projects what can only be described as Magic Rocks across the LCD. I had to send it back to Alienware for a new screen. Won't have it back for 2 weeks, so posting will be slim anyway. And now I'm off with D. to go see King Arthur, which promises to be absolutely abysmal but will hopefully take my mind off of things for a bit. I'll talk to you. j.s.

Sunday, July 04, 2004

What am I supposed to say? It's a rarity that I'm at a loss for words...however I just can't seem to voice how I feel about this without either sounding cliched or overly dramatic. But I'm writing anyway. Because I have to. I'm sorry if you think it's banal or if you don't like it. So. Should I write about how badly I miss him? He was one of my original Jer Disciples, and unfailingly looked at me with awe and reverence. (With the exception of our musical tastes, on which we hardly ever agreed and smile-argued often about.) He wanted to be me so badly when he was younger...and he did everything I did, from copying my haircut to stealing my clothes, just like a little brother might. All of which I indulged gladly, already having one younger brother who had done the same. And much like him, I was exceedingly proud of the man that Russell had become. We saw each other nearly every day...and I typically spoke to him on the phone on those rare days when I didn't see him. I don't know how to live the life that I know without him in it. He was my touchstone, my confidant, my biggest booster, and my best friend. He cannot, and will never, be replaced. And that leaves an aching void, silhouetted around where he used to be. Or, instead should I write about what an amazing and unique person he was? Because he was both. Astounding me with his energy and enthusiasm, and inspiring me with his (many) social outrages and his strength of conviction. As all of us who knew him know, it was nearly impossible to retain a bad mood around Russell. Inevitably he'd quote Maynard, make a face, drop something, trip, or sometimes just flatulate, and completely ruin your somber mood and make you laugh despite yourself. His gift of comedy helped me through some very difficult times in my life, and I hope that I thanked him for it. I honestly can't remember. I just always thought I'd have the time to. Regardless, he undoubtedly knows how much he meant to me now. People always seem to heap blessings and compliments on the deceased, Russell earned each and every one of his. And what about how angry I am at those who took him from all of us? The gutless and ignorant evil of those two bastards who stole so much from us, with just the squeezing of their repulsive index finger. We all know thin and spindly Russell was. He was hardly a threat for one man, and absolutely none for two. It is a statement of the pathetic existence of these two cowardly animals that they felt the need to shoot someone who posed no real threat to them. And it's here that my desire for retribution has finally outweighed my compassion for another human being, because these things proved themselves to be less than human on the morning of July the first. And the life they took far outweighed the goodness and value of both of theirs combined. That injustice cannot remain, not in this life and not in the one after. Or perhaps I should recant stories about he and I... Like when we were all in Park City, Utah, and decided it was a brilliant idea to go sledding down the runs on Park City Mountain Resort at 2 o'clock in the morning, after drinking Jack Daniel's all night. We hiked up that hill over and over again, getting braver and going faster with each trip down. Until finally, with absolutely no concern for life and limb, we were running behind one another and pushing, NASCAR-style, for added speed...thus rocketing down the hill in Clark W. Griswoldian fashion. Unfortunately, even this proved less than thrilling after 30 minutes or so, so we...ahem...commandeered ("commandeer"...nautical term), a snowmobile trailer from two guys and rode that down the hill instead. Much to the irritation of the snowmobile drivers upon their return. Slurred explanations about it becoming dislodged and moving down the hill on its own ensued. I don't think they bought it. Or the numerous stories about our D&D campaigns, and how he was always the one to suspend reality first, which in turn infused the whole group with excitement about playing. His characters were always different, always fun, and always him in some way. Kain's sentient black cloak that would slap his legs and rattle coins on his belt for a rimshot. His bard, after sparking a torch in a pitch black room to see what was around, and coming face to face with the grinning maw of a huge black dragon, quickly blew the torch back out. (We've laughed for years about that one.) Vassdra, the water cleric, who once summoned 500 gallons of water but forgot a vessel to put the water in, so it simply crashed down from directly above him, soaking the entire group. Most of you might find this horribly geeky and lame, but I don't care. It was a part of our lives that we shared together, and some of our best times were spent gathered around a coffee table at someones house, rattling dice (Bonebats!), calculating "To Hits," and rolling Saving Throws. Unfortunately it just wouldn't be the same without him playing with us, so I will never play D&D again. And then there were his quirks and idiosyncracies. The fact that he unerringly tripped, at least once every day, when he was walking down the hallway at work. His ability to go from 0 to moral outrage in 2 seconds flat. His amazing sleeping position capabilities. His facial expressions, and I don't have to say any more about that one. The Dallas Cowboys. Samuel L. Jackson. Pirates. Maurice the Mushroom. His fantasy football teams. Brilliant but very private poetry. QuakeCons. The Crow facepaint. Bill Cosby impersonations. Gai-Jin. Butt Paste. And that's just naming a few...I could go on and on. I guess I've said a lot for someone who started this not knowing what he was going to say, but still nothing has come close to the way I really feel. I just miss him. He was my best friend, and now he's gone. And nothing in any of our lives will ever be the same again. My life, forever changed because of the person he was, is much dimmer now that he isn't in it. And the best I can do to maybe ease the pain for some of you is to tell you what has helped me, I only hope that it does the same. And it's this. I know that, someday, I'm going to get to see him again. When my time here is up, I know he'll be there...waiting for me with a huge grin, and he'll be wondering what took me so long. And we'll hug one another, laugh and tell stories about the funny things, the cool things, and the dumb things that we've seen and done while we couldn't directly be a part of one anothers' lives, and within minutes we'll walk off ranting and arguing about how even in the afterlife The Man is still somehow keeping us down. I hope that helps a little. It's the best I can do. j.s. July 4, 2004

Thursday, July 01, 2004



I have nothing to say. I miss him so much already... I can't do this. j.s.

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