Earlier today I learned that a friend of mine from high school died in an accident. We were friends in high school, but I can’t say that we have really talked since. Yet I still feel this clog in my chest.I have known other people from those days that have died, but I feel closer to her somehow. it’s unexplainable.
I don’t usually go to funerals, in fact I’ve only been to two.
The first one was my Great Grandfather (Cool Wayne), when I was a kid. A week before he died, I got a book from them in the mail, A Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne. I still haven’t been able to read it. Though maybe it’s time. I always had an inkling that it’s some secret meaning, even though it was probably my Great grandma, that picked it out and sent it.
I got the book, because my birthday was coming up, which means he died right around my birthday. I don’t remember much about the funeral, just that we were at their house for a while. A day or so later we out for a birthday lunch for me. The Oak Ridge Boys were playing at the Inn across the street, and when it came for the waitstaff to sing me happy birthday, a few of those guys joined it. I only bring this story up, because if you are ever around my family, and they say, “like the time the Oak Ridge Boys sang Jake happy birthday,” you will know what they are talking about.
The second funeral, which was a few years ago was my grandpa, technically my
step grandpa, but I feel dirty for even typing that. But my gramps, that dude was a storyteller. My favorite of his was this one: where he was out hunting with my grandma (who was pregnant with my stepdad at the time). Anyways they came up on this buck in the rolling hills of Colorado. He shot him, but the deer was still alive and began to run off. So my gramps (leaving his pregnant wife behind) goes and runs after it up and over this hill. As the deer is running down the hill, my gramps runs right up behind it grabs its head and slits its throat. Turns out a trucker saw this occur while he was driving by. He was so enamored by what he saw he pulled the trailer over to talk to my gramps, screaming, “Holy Sh*t that was the craziest thing I have ever seen, did you really just hunt that deer like that??”, to which my grandpa replied, “well yeah how do you do it?”
He was was a cool dude, way into cars, in fact thats where I bought my 1992 Cadillac Fleetwood, it was baby blue, with a white top, and a gold grill. At his funeral the hearse was a cadillac, which I think he would have liked.
Two funerals so far. Other people have died, that I’ve known, but I opted out of those for other reasons. Possibly because I don’t know how to act. I’m usually known as the funny one, so where do I fit in at a funeral? In fact any time someone loses someone, I say this one joke (that I actually stole from the film, A Lot Like Love):
"So there’s this kid and he’s digging a hole in the back yard and his neighbor pops over the fence, and says "hey what are you doing there?" and the kid says, "I’m digging this hole because my fish died."
The neighbor sizing up the hole says, “Why such a big hole, for such a little fish?”
To where the kid replies, “BECAUSE ITS IN YOUR STUPID CAT!!”
Thats why I don’t go to funerals. And why I won’t go to this one.
Lyndsey was a cool chick, she’s been through some battles in her life, but came out on top. Like a fucking boss.
She will be missed. RIP.
Pretty much every time I create an image, song, video, story, etc. I look at it and imagine it for every person I send it to (getting their perspective). I’m looking at my work a million different times. Well not a million because I don’t have that many friends.