I am not a big fan of funerals — never have been. The first I can recall attending, intellectually, was my father’s. I say intellectually because I don’t actually remember the event, I just know chronologically it was the first I had ever attended.

That bit of information fits nicely into the way my brain seems to have organized itself from the age of ten, not coincidentally the year my father died of a massive stroke. Oh, he didn’t die right away… he just lost his identity and capacity to really communicate, and then had a few more strokes and then lost his capacity to breathe unassisted. Funny things, strokes… they indiscriminately wipe out bits of information in your brain — memories, language, and even the autonomic functions like how to control certain muscle groups or even breathing. A person can have one stroke and die on the spot, or they can have a hundred of them and still be sharp and coherent, able to get around with some difficulty.

I say that my brain organized itself because I have very few readily available memories of my childhood, and the hardest to come by are the ones of my father. Somewhere down the line, I managed to shut down, and out most everything before the age of eighteen. Sure, I have a few that I can recall, but it’s only been after many years of searching, or stimulus by something that triggers a flashback.

The popular theory is that I punished myself for something, possibly caused by confused feelings of guilt swarming around my ten-year-old brain that somehow I was responsible for my dad "getting sick" and going away. I was sheltered from the whole ordeal by my family, thinking that seeing him in a near vegetive state would completely destroy my young fragile mind. Well, I guess that going from seeing him walking around to lying in a casket with no between stage to come to grips with the whole thing was so much better. Looking back, the best thing they could have told me was that he died on the spot, allowing me to start the grieving process rather than hold hope that I might get to see him again. Alive.

I can only guess that the guilt stems from the fact that I saw him trip and fall a few days before he had the stroke, and didn’t tell anyone — one of the few memories I don’t have to struggle to recall. Yes, it’s silly… why would I have told anyone about dad having a clumsy moment? It doesn’t make sense, but then again at that moment of emotional trauma, a ten-year-old’s brain isn’t thinking rationally. My mother reassured me at the time that it was unrelated, but I suppose it made no difference.

So, I went into shutdown mode for eight years. The once very diligent student with the high IQ started fumbling in class. I became surly and violent. In high school I hung out with a few unsavory folks because I thought they were the kind of people I deserved to be with.

To this very day, and as a direct result I believe, I have a horrible memory. My short term is nearly non-existent, and I must write everything down and have written or emailed reminders to keep me on track. I have spent the last fourteen years of my life getting a grip on that aggressive, angry and violent side of myself. Having overcorrected in the wrong direction for many years, I think I have swung the pendulum back, and am currently in a near-happy middle ground (not perfect, but good for me).

It took me eight years to get over the anger, and shed the unfounded guilt of my father’s death. It has taken me longer to catch up those years that escaped me. I will spend a lifetime regretting what I have lost, both as a result of nature — my father — and as a result of my own mind — memory and an education unhampered by mental roadblocks, amongst other things.

There are many things in my life that I do not regret as a result of the unconscious path I chose at that young age. I might never have met Lady, the one influence in my life, above all else, that gives me joy and true peace of mind. I might not have developed the budding artistic and creative portion of myself that sprouted at the age of seven. I might not have thrown myself headlong into computers and technology, never to look back.

The one thing that has stuck with me all these long years is my dislike of funerals. As obsessed as I am with special effects makeup, skulls, and horror flicks, you’d think they wouldn’t bother me. I find the funeral as we know it today a barbaric practice — and that’s a misnomer as I believe that the Vikings, considered barbaric by today’s society, handled death properly.

The practice of gathering friends and family together and parading them in front of the lifeless husk of a loved one who has died so they can say "goodbye" to the empty shell is ludicrous. If there is any way that the departed soul can hear your parting words and well-wishes for the next life, they’ll hear it equally as good if you were in a bar with a drink in your hand celebrating their life as they would if you were weeping, having thrown yourself across the casket in abject grief. Why subject people to that?

I have reached a point in my life where I refuse to go and view the body at funerals. I want my final memories to be of them in life, not of them lying in a box, having been flushed out like a fish with Tammy Fae thickness makeup on them to make them look more… well, alive. I’ll make my peace and wish them farewell on my terms.

This may be interpreted as "not dealing with death well", but frankly, I think I’m dealing with it better this way, than lots of folks deal with it the other way. It’s my way, thankyouverymuch. Admittedly, in the case of Lady’s recently departed Aunt Wilma, I didn’t deal with her having the strokes as gracefully as I would have liked, but it hit a little close to home. Her funeral was another thing entirely.

Here’s what I want when my own time comes, and believe you me, I’m going to put this all in my will:

First, I want to be cremated — in the cheapest-ass cardboard casket to be found. Hell, put me in a Kenmore refrigerator box if you can. Toss in a few really good cigars so my ashes can mix with the best (hey, when you go, go in style). I do not believe in planting dead people in the ground, as nothing will grow except grass and weeds. No sense in taking up valuable real estate just so I can rot in it. Transport me home in a jumbo sized coffee can.

Second, cremate me as quickly as possible. That day if you can… long before anyone else has a chance to see me. I don’t want a buffet-like procession of my friends and family paraded by my dead body.

Third, I will have hopefully by this point in time created a mold from the Tiki statues that reside in my back yard. Mix my ashes with some good-grade concrete and pour me in. Let the concrete set-up, de-mold me, and stand me up in the garden, preferably in a place of honor.

Fourth, no funeral. No Wake. No somber gathering, damnit. I want there to be a festive, roaring party in my name. Treat it like a surprise party that the guest of honor hasn’t arrived to yet. I want everyone to show up wearing a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops — it’s gonna’ be a Luau! You are allowed to grieve for five minutes, and then you are thereby ordered to have a good time and get stinking drunk. Laugh, eat, and drink. Celebrate my life, don’t mourn my death as there is nothing that can be done about it, and I don’t want your memories sullied. Tell stories about me, make jokes at my expense. After the party, go home and fuck your brains out… dedicate a boffing to me. No sense in wasting a good buzz.

Fifth, about midway through the party I want everyone to go out the the garden and shout a toast to me and DeJockamo! Wake the fucking neighbors! Raise your glasses high, drink deeply, and pour a small measure of it onto my blocky, concrete head. Afterwards, go in and resume partying.

As the years go on, I imagine my little Tiki self will get handed from person to person, maybe even left to the young couple who buy the house in the years to come. That’s nice. I like that thought.

Sure, it all sounds a bit strange but it seems a fitting way to face the curtain with a bow. And think of the groovy story you’ll have to add you your catalogue of stories to tell about me. Now that’s a form of immortality I can deal with.

First and foremost let me just say this:

Fuck you Gonzo, you furry bastard!

… er, I mean:

Happy Birthday Gonzo, we love you!

Sorry, it’s a common typo — the keys are like, right next to each other.

So, another aging husk of a man is having a birthday today. Another brother fallen. His geriatric dick has shriveled, and his balls shoot nothing but dust. He’ll have to gum his cake into crumbly, moist bits. Oh, and his wife too.

Lisa, I wish you a wonderful birthday as well, and choose not to insult you along the way. Consider that your present, it’s the most generous and substantial offer I can make. I hope the honeymoon was filled with much "nuptualizing". I hope you guys nuptualed on every stick of furniture, in every room, everywhere you went.

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

As I predicted, the tide is slowly creeping out. The aggravations remain and there is still a lot of work to be done, but the melancholy is starting to ebb, subsiding to tolerable levels.

I really appreciate my friends. Lady and I have received more support, and from more sides than I can count. That has gone a long way towards lifting the wet, woolen blanket from my soul. Thank you all so very much, and I love you all more than you know.

A few other things contributed to my upliftment. First, my father-in-law’s homemade apple pie. Some folks like their pie warmed up, but I like mine icebox cold, straight from the fridge. Comfort food. Good stuff, that.

Next was the Stephen Lynch concert we went to last night at the House Of Blues. Glorious. It ranks up there in my all time top-5 concerts. Stephen is hilarious, and thrives in a live environment. He is nasty, vulgar, mean, disgusting and the funniest musician since our hero, Weird Al. If you haven’t heard any of his stuff, or have, but not the live performances you need to. Beg, borrow, steal, download or copy Superhero. One review sums it up nicely with "I saw Jesus while listening to this CD." You’ll laugh so hard, you’ll tear your sack. We listened to the new Lewis Black album on the way. Once again, I refer you to the whole beg, borrow, steal, download or copy advice.

Following that was the Chinese buffet I had for lunch. I loves me some Chinese food, and "all I can eat" steps it up a notch.

Lastly is the meal I’m very much looking forward to tonight. Michelle and Raul are making with the cooking so we can take a break. I can’t wait.

As for the other offers of help, they are appreciated but what remains to be done around the house at this point can only be accomplished by the people who know where things are going to go. A lot of putting away, organizing and such.

Have a spiffy day. Fuckers.

It’s coming, I can feel it. It’s as unavoidable as the transition from day to night. It’s washing over me gradually, like the tide coming in — advancing and retreating, rising a little more each time.

"It" is not exactly a depression, not exactly a hopelessness and not exactly a rage. It’s the bastard child of all of those, with a few other paramours squirming at the bottom of the orgiastic pile. For lack of a better description, let’s call it a melancholy, with just a piquant hint of anger.

What do I, Sir Stuff, DmentD, have to be melancholy about? I have a wonderful wife, whom I love dearly and value above all else in this, or any other world. I have a fantastic new house that is perfect for entertaining and just hanging out in. I have a horde of wonderful friends who respect and appreciate me, as I do them. I have a decent job. All-in-all not too bad, one would think.

But, I have only just recently — two months after taking possession of the house — been able to spend more than two nights in a row in my own bed, surrounded by my own belongings, in my new house. The nights spent there are typically only after getting home late, having no time to get any of the multitude of things done around the house that need doing… the partially completed and unstarted projects that are rapidly piling up and beginning to loom menacingly over me.

The wife that I love so much is stressed to the gills, not sleeping much and so steeped in her own juices at a certain group of folks (to be made clear soon enough) that she can hardly contain herself. I’m virtually powerless to do anything to console her or make the situation much better. Virtually.

The only times we have been able to stem the tide have been at the parties we’ve been able to hastily throw together "because we need to blow off some steam or we’re going to fucking explode."

The primary source of all our pain is my family. An unfortunate accident has triggered a necessity for my brothers and sister to pool our time resources to assist my mother who busted her leg. Accidents happen… it could have very well been any of us. Three fractures, a plate and several pins later and she was in need of a hell of a lot of assistance. No problem. We the family (including all in-law siblings) love mom, and would do anything to help.

… as long as it is convenient.

At least that is the unspoken opinion of the majority. Hell, I don’t even think it’s a conscious though, just a reflex. Shit rolls down hill, and I being the youngest and therefore lowest man on the totem pole, end up eyebrow deep in it.

In the beginning of this whole thing, someone needed to be on-site 24 hours a day as mom was unable to get out of bed without assistance, fix meals, get to the commode, etc. Nowadays, she can get around a bit, but still requires a whole heap of help… "tucking in" at night, making sure she has had dinner, taking care of any other little things that need doing. She no longer needs anyone to stay overnight.

My sister, a nurse BTW, got the short end of the stick last time something like this happened. At least that is her story, and she’s sticking to it. Her selective memory seems to omit all the help Lady and I gave her. Granted, she did the lion’s share, but she wasn’t entirely alone. The remainder of the family more or less left it to her to deal with.

This time around she is determined not to get shafted. In the process of making sure everyone was crystal clear that she wasn’t doing all the work, she managed to piss us all off. Starting out of the gate with a hostile attitude is not a great way to win friends and influence people. The long and short of it is this: she served the ball and walked away from the net. Along the path she managed to so severely piss Lady off that a friendship that bordered on being a close sister relationship is now laying in ruin. I’ve never, ever seen Lady so enraged in all the fourteen years we’ve been together.

My brothers are the greatest guys in the world. They’d give you the shirt off of their backs if you needed it. But in this circumstance they are asleep at the wheel.

One lives about thirty minutes away, and keeps milking the sob story about having to get up at 4:30am to go to work. Guess what jackass; I’m only an hour behind you. Take your violin and go play it for an audience that can give you a little sympathy.

The other works erratic schedules, and honestly, there’s nothing to be done about that. He does have several days a week available to him, just not at predictable times and he does try to get out to the house when he can. He has a "proximity" theory about the relationship between geographical distance from my mother, and time spent helping. I’ll let you take a guess as to who lives closer.

The problem arose from everyone having one excuse or another not to come, or if they do come, to stay. Staying at night became the biggest problem everyone seemed to have. We had at the time of the accident just started moving out of my mom’s house, having moved back in for a year in preparation to buy a house of our own. My sister copped the attitude that we shouldn’t be in such a hurry to move our stuff into the new house — that way we could be live-in babysitters and let everyone off the hook. She simply couldn’t understand that we would actually like to live in our new house.

My brothers bellyached about going and/or staying during the week. Either getting up early or erratic schedule got in the way. The weekends were ever so more convenient. Well no shit, huh? I guess they are.

Lady and I, being who we are, were not about to abandon my mother — even at the expense of being taken advantage of by the rest of my family. Remember the bottom of the hill, and how shit rolls down it? Yup. There we were, standing and looking up the slope at the inevitable mudslide of crap coming down at us. They had won. My sister and brothers got what they wanted… to do as little as possible. We took the weekdays (and Sunday evenings), and they got to split up the other two days amongst themselves. What a chore… and we heard moaning about that.

To complicate this whole thing, my mother actually was making excuses for them. "Oh, your sister works hard and has a (sixteen year old) kid to look after", "Oh, your brother has to get up early". Tough. Shit. They should do their share. We’re sacrificing, so should they. We work just as hard AND we had a house we hadn’t spent more than one night in. Boo-the-fuck-hoo about their shit. So, we get penalized for not having a kid to take care of, and for living close — great, that’s infinately fair.

So, here’s where this little tale ends:

Lady and I are depressed because we have a wonderful house that doesn’t feel like home because we haven’t been able to really live in it. Nor have we had the time to finish putting all our things away — most of it remains in boxes.

We are bitter and pissed off at my family because they abandoned us. Volunteering means doing something willingly, not because you can’t foist it off on someone else — and that’s what they’ve done to us.

We are tired because the "oomph" has been taken out of us. There aren’t enough hours in the day to do everything we need to do with the additional workload piled on.

It’s tainting everything we do. The stink of it is on everything we touch. The only shining hopes we have are the times we make to spend with our friends. Those, right now, are the best times.

As the tide comes in, so too does it go out. The melancholy will recede, and this too shall pass. Right now, though, I feel like I’m drowning, and poor Lady has gone under the ice for a third time. I can only hope she makes it without going homicidal.

On Friday November 14, 2003 we will have a gathering at our house to celebrate Sir Stuff’s Birthday.  I apologize that the party will be held at our house, as it appears that many people have told me how much they hate to come here (what with the lack of entertainment, comfort and fun).  However, as it is Stuff’s birthday, just suck it up, and make a show for him.

If Krazyman must work on Friday evening we will make an attempt to bring the party to him for a little while so that he will not be excluded, because we LOVE him.  I’m talking love in a purely physical, animalistic sort of way, and not that bullshit altruistic pansy love and fluffy bunny crap.

Anyhoo.  I plan to make some chili cheese dip.  We have plenty of soft drinks, some beer, and some alcohol.  If there is anything special that you want please bring it as we is po’.  I understand that a rum cake is being made by Melissa (the 190-proof Cherry Fairy), and we will probably all pass out just from having a slice of the yummy goodness. 

This is not a surprise party, I repeat, not a surprise party, so please comment, e-mail or call Stuff to let him know if you’ll be able to attend. 

Hope to see you all there, and maybe we can get a coast-to-coast cam going so our family in Cali can join in on some of the festivities.

Looks like Saturday, November 22 is going to be the winner.  It’s far enough away that the weekend workers can schedule off, and it also conveniently doesn’t fall on the weekend after my birthday.

Lady and I generally like to get to the Festival at the opening, and depart at the closing, but this isn’t necessarily the hard and fast rule.  Everyone is welcome to whatever schedule they like; I just wanted to let you know what our plan is.  If anyone wants to caravan, say so, and we’ll hash out the details.

We’ve got a little over two weeks to get things together and make firm plans (*cough* like costumes *cough*).  Keep in touch, kiddies.

Okey-dokey, Halloween is behind us, and I’m sad to see it go.

But…

The next event is on the horizon.  The Louisiana Renaissance Festival is running throughout the month of November.  This is their fourth year, and Lady and I haven’t missed a year yet.  We’re planning on attending either the weekend of November 15th or the weekend of November 22nd and would like to go with an entire village of rude, crude and unkempt folks… namely you guys.

Who is interested in attending and which weekend?  What suggestions for coordinating this fiasco do y’all have?  Once I get an idea as to which weekend, and the "why and wherefore", I’ll post more concrete info.  Also, don’t forget costuming.  It’d be interesting to see if we can get everyone in one.

Shout out to get counted in.

Home base, the cock has come to roost… I repeat, the cock has come to roost!

The ADSL install is done, complete, finished. I’m almost on top of the switch, so my speeds are excellent.

The installer was an older, knowledgeable guy who was impressed that I did everything for him short of installing the filter in the telephone interface. He was even nice enough to list this as a repair rather than an install, so I shouldn’t get charged a penny for it. If it shows up on my bill, I’m to — and I’m quoting here — "Call and give them a hard time about it… I did hardly anything. Threaten to cancel your service. Make a fuss, they’ll drop the charges." How the fuck cool was this guy? Telling me how to scam the company he works for.

So, watch out. I’m wired in my new house, and looking to do some damage.

Oh, and 448 pieces of mail retrieved from my server later, and a whopping 6 of them were not spam.  And only over the course of four and a half days.  Impressive.

Boiled shrimp, chicken alfredo, blueberry wine, cigars, arcade gaming, The Nightmare Before Christmas and a dangerous conglomeration of fatigue toxins and Pounders’ methane. This is a meager example of the cross-section of what our guests delighted in at the get-together on Saturday.

Our house, while not completely organized and straightened up from the (continuing) move, is still in good enough shape to actually do some entertaining. All I can say is this… we warned everyone that once we got a house of our own and all our shit out of storage, that we would be a force to be reckoned with. By all accounts everyone had a good time. We have a metric ass-ton of stuff to keep everyone entertained — a comfy smoking area, arcade games, computers, televisions, quiet areas to go and talk as well as large communal areas to congregate and hang-out. Guess what folks… this was just a warm-up for the actual Halloween party on Friday.

I’d like to thank everyone who came and helped/hung out, no matter how long they stayed. A great big "gracias!" goes out to everyone who chipped in some food and drink, most notably to my in-laws who came through with a massive amount of shrimp to boil. They’ve both done so much to help us with the house — financially and physically — that I don’t think I can ever thank them enough… and then they keep surprising us with treats like this.

We had some very noteworthy absences, namely Krazy, GonzO, Heather, Jen and Will. Krazy was likely chewing on the bar at work in mute frustration that he couldn’t attend. GonzO and Heather refused to come, leaning heavily on their "We live thousands of miles away" excuse. Again. But, I understand they did a hefty amount of partying of their own. Jen managed to damn near twist her foot off, and Will had to be on hand to "tend" to her, so, I guess I’ll accept that as an excuse. This time. We drank a toast to you all, as undeserving as you were of it.

It’s official, I’m without internet at home for a very little while — which is good, I guess, seeing as my computers and the associated paraphernalia are sitting in piles on the floor of the den. I should be back on the air come Thursday evening… provided the ADSL installer isn’t a total incompetent jizz-rope. The chances are pretty good that he will be, judging from my past history, both personally and professionally, with communication installers. *sigh*

Pumpkin Carving Party. Thursday. 7:00pm. Be there.

We have ten pumpkins to mutilate, and they’re on a first-come-first-serve basis. In the event that we have more pumpkins than willing participants, then we will shackle you to the ironwork on the patio and force you to slave over another. Mwa-ha-ha! *ahem* We have plenty of patterns and tools. Bring yo’sef and anything special you might require. No chainsaws, please. Oh, and somebody tell Sancho, as I have lost his cell number and he apparently doesn’t read blogs too often.

Halloween approacheth-eth. Eth… eth. Hmm, a bit tricky on the tongue there. Doesn’t ring right.

Halloween’s a-coming, and we still have a dire need to decorate for the up-and-coming party — owing to the fact that we’re still moving the last of our shit into the new house, and I took on a handful of last-minute projects that are crashing to a completion.

Lady and I have invited a number of folks to come over this Saturday evening (October 25th) to lend a hand decorating, and this is the official invite to everyone we have/have not asked to come. We’re looking to have folks over at about 7:00pm or 8:00pm. Just let me know via comment or phone call. And yes Pounders, you and your dike-y short hair can come and play on Pac-Man and the Nintendo PlayChoice… Raul too if he likes — hell, everyone is welcome to play. I just need to vacuum the dust off of them.

** ADDENDUM START **

First, the official title of this little gathering is the "Holy Shit, We’ve Been Too Busy To Decorate" party. There, happy now Mensa?

Second, if those of you who are coming to decorate can afford to bring a bag of chips, pack of drinks (soft-drinks or beer) or something to add to the communal sip/snack pile, we would greatly appreciate it. We have some chips, drinks and beer, but I’d like to be sure everyone has enough to keep them satisfied. Thank you. Message ends.

** ADDENDUM END **

We can also make this our official annual Nightmare Before Christmas screening as well, which will be followed up by as many horror/horrible movies as we have in our movie collection (Bad Taste anyone?). Snap, chances are we might still be there when you get off — call and see.

A great big "Holy shit! This is pretty damned cool — thank you guys so very much!" goes out to Steve and Harold for the Halloween/housewarming present they care-packaged to us from sunny, sunny California. I guess their overwhelming guilt at not being able to attend our Halloween party — again — grabbed hold of them. It’s a fantastically gi-normous haunted house with groovy flashing lights and a spooky witch that spins around the tower. Once again, thanks a heap guys, and we’ll be calling y’all tonight to thank you in a non-virtual manner. I bet everyone can guess what our party centerpiece is going to be this year.

Side note: Saturday or Sunday we transport our computers to the new house and will be without internet communications until Thursday, October 30th. While Lady and I can certainly keep up with all our daily nonsense from work, it will definitely only be from work. Expect us to be a little scarce in the digital realm until Thursday.

Well, the worst of the move is over.  Saturday we got every scrap out of storage.  There wasn’t so much as a mouse turd left to take out of there.  We then went and loaded up some of the most $diety-awful heavy shit from my mother’s house — namely Pac, a hexagonal picnic table, a crawfish table, a table saw, an antique dental chair and two monster televisions.  We then proceeded to haul all that shit into the new house.  Fun.  And permanent disfigurement.

Sunday, I loaded up the rest of the crap from the garage, the side yard (including the BBQ pit) and the attic.  Once again, fun was had by all.  And lifelong emotional scarring.  That was a free bonus.

I would like to send a hugeamongus "thank you, thank you, in the name of all that is good and holy, thank you" out to my fellow members of the Goon Squad™: Krazy, Pounders, Raul, Snap and Mensa.  Without their raw muscle, I would have never moved our monumental amount of seemingly concrete-weighted crap into the new house.  Krazy even went without sleep for 120 hours, and he still showed up to help — bright eyed and full of lethal hallucinations.

You know, I’m looking forward to a morning when I can wake up and get out of bed without having to roll and thump off of the mattress because my back feels like my vertebrae have fused, and my liver is trying to escape by chewing it’s way through my spine.  A morning without stiffness and pain.  What a novel fucking idea.  Call Ripley, he ain’t gonna believe that, and he might make it an exhibit in one of his cheesy museums.

Now comes the part of moving where you spend an eternity trying to find a place to unpack all your shit to.  Some spots are obvious — "Well Martha, quite frankly I think the sofa would look better if it weren’t mounted to the side of the fridge. — but, inevitably you have shit in boxes that you forgot you owned, and now you need the perfect nook to stick it in.  This is our own little game of hide-and-go-seek.

So, until we’re completely moved in, expect more of this sort of nonsense from me.  The house and the move are all-consuming activities.  Until I have a weekend to lay around in my pajamas watching DVDs, it ain’t done.