Dear Dead George Carlin

Dead Dead George,

I’m sad to cross you off the short list of my still-living-superstar heroes. I lost an irreplaceable gonzo journalist to the woes of old age, a couple sweet-faced movie stars to asinine drug overdoses and now, you, which completely attracts by use of an inexorable force.

I appreciate the trained eye for total bullshit, which is relatively everywhere at all times, and I remain an especially big fan of your spirited cheer .

Very sorry you’re gone,
Autumn May


Just dropping by.

Today I briefly considered starting my own De-Clutter business seeing as how picking up comes naturally to me. I solve impossible, ugly situations at work and I’m always starting a new project at home to create more space. One of my LJ friends just paid $1000.00 to get her apartment clean and organized and it’s like “shit, I can do that.

Right now I’m not going to do anything so long as this headache keeps up. I chased six bottles of Blue Moon with those Mike’s Hard Lemonade things and I think the lemonade fucked my system up with its acidic bullshit, bombing my stomach with citric poison.

Everything’s going well, here. Brad has been traveling on a lot of cool installs that involve running into race car drivers and getting into some pretty sweet vehicles. There was an event in IN for qualifying races and his big sis, employed with the sister company, went along and got to see Brad on the job, in charge of their crew. She’s really proud of him, as everyone is, and Brad eats that stuff up because it’s good to be important.

Gigi and Corby are doing well. Our pets walk all over us and we feed them and clean up their shit. I don’t mind because they’re adorable, and because Brad usually takes the initiative to plop down on the floor almost daily to entertain them with with fetch, tug-of,war, hide-the-toy and whatever the hell else. They’re cute together.

Our second year lease is up this fall and we will be moving! As much magic as I work here, Brad says it’s time to trade up. I keep asking if we can afford it and he keeps assuring me, “relax, kitten.”

Now to find a meal that goes well with hangover..

A Fresh One.

Hello, Roy. I wanted to write you a little note a few years ago and never really got around to it – mainly because I didn’t know which words explained why I went through 180 degrees of emotional turn-around regarding the force of Roy.

It is easy to categorize you as a long-time friend of my brother’s and not concentrate on any of the jokes or thoughts we might have shared, but every once in a while I trip on something. This year it was because I slipped an old Blink CD into my car (“What’s My Age Again” is a song that made me feel young before I was 23, then old thereafter when I play it and realize it’s still a motto) and could not separate the sound from the passion you had during their Enema era; you proclaimed  fanatical devotion like the best big-hearted listeners do.

In a snowball effect, one association leads to another and before I know it there is an uncomfortable reminder of Roy that I have learned to shake off and get over. It briefly feels like mourning before it ends in an angry, “Fuck that kid.”

I think it will help me to know that I sent you a letter and actually said some of the things that always kind of swirled around but were never expressed or even understood by me. Maybe I’m a broken record; maybe it’s not news to you. But here it is.

Christopher always had time before graduation. Time to figure things out, hatch a plan, get his shit together – and then suddenly those hopes were gone with the accident. Suddenly there wasn’t going to be any more school and it was the first real sign that there was trouble, that the picture wasn’t going to look exactly normal or work itself out traditionally.

Then there was the painful process of getting his brain back.  When he was coming around, so were the friends who took advantage of his parents’ lenient household for all those years when it was “still okay”. I used to steal money from a drawer in the kitchen that my parents cashed their checks and simply slid all of those 20’s into. I don’t know if you remember but there was a time when neither one of us were suspect to open that drawer. Eventually, I did it for my friends and Chris did it for you.

It didn’t matter because it was still innocent. We were still kids and we just wanted a little something.

Everything escalated to the worst imaginable scenario the moment Chris got some of his own money. There were no more rules.

For you, for Nikki, for Brandon, for Mitch, for *ANY* goddamn low life you introduced, to use my brother by bargaining with him in *ANY* way was unforgivable. You knew years ago that something was wrong if an invalid, hermit young adult was obsessed with murdering mass society and treated marijuana like it was heroin. You KNEW of his many personal problems and you acted as an enabler.

I never understood why. Chris got sick, Roy. Real fucking seriously sick and everyone just showed up to the stress unit and laughed like it was a silly little speed bump. He spent thousands and thousands of dollars on air rifles, shitty fireworks and game consoles that he ended up turning around and pawning off to the same people who suggested he buy all that shit. Mitch soaked it all up and the rest of you just shrugged, glad that at least it was fun while it lasted.

You did nothing. You did everything. And then the crew of you – who were all he had and ever knew – all disappeared. You teach him terrible lessons that he never learns because HE DOESN’T MOVE FREELY LIKE YOU DO; HE NEEDS HELP.

YOU’RE NOT HELPING HIM. You’re not helping him when you aid him in spending his money in any non-productive way. You’re not helping when you gather wood that will burn out quicker than his dreams. You’re not helping when you tell him over the phone that you’ll be over and then make him wait the entire day and never show up.

Roy could have helped. Couldn’t he have? Fuck, maybe I never knew that kid. I mean it was a long time ago and he was young. And now he’s going to be a dad? You, Roy?

Is that you? Who do I think I’m writing to? I must sound like such a jackass.

And just as my thoughts always go back to square one when it comes to the Disconnection Of You from my life… I have

no idea