… Well, THAT was pretty real.
Spent a week or so going all the fuck over Maine, bouncing back and forth from Portland to my Gramps’ house deep in Central Maine to the rehabilitation center in Augusta to chill with the guy. Looked like a Goddamn concentration camp motherfucker, and it really got to me, as six months ago, the man was in better shape than I was. Glad I got the opportunity to talk with him, though.
Headed to Denver after that to chill with my family up there. Checked out some class art and classier record stores and was undoubtedly having a good time. Then like two days later, I got the call at three in the morning that my Gramps, who was on track to coming home no problem, just up and fuckin’ dies outta nowhere. The docs still aren’t sure what the hell happened, but I know exactly what it was. Guy worked, smoked, and drank every day of his life for seventy years, and that’s all that was keepin’ him kickin’. You take away his drive and his toxins, I told everyone, and he’s gonna drop. Boom. I called it.
I was pretty bummed, angry, and dreading the damage control to come… so my cuz Joey decides to take me to a heavy metal show and the ensuing afterparty. Best decision ever. Blew off some steam, made some seriously good friends in the Denver area, and chatted up some talented musicians (one of which was the very, very androgynous frontwoman of Dark Castle named Stevie who talked Ministry with me and mentioned the High Confessions… referred to Chris as “the original singer of Ministry.” I got a huge kick outta that).
So I immediately flew back to Maine for the wake and the funeral. Gave me a good sense of closure. Ma handled it pretty well, and I can only hope that the sight of Gramps’ body shellshocked the hell outta my sister into straightening up her act. (Pretty educational experience, too: found out the guy’s a Free Mason. God DAMN.)
After that, I flew back to Colorado for a few more days of partying, barhopping, and various other revelings with the family (my aunt is one demented woman, trying to hook me up with chicks at biker bars…), and it’s back to the desert. I just got back last night, and I can safely say that I’ve never been so happy to be in 120 degree weather in my life.
So yeah. This trip fuckin’ killed me. My back hurts so bad. My legs are on fire. My sleep schedule’s irrevocably fucked. My liver… man, let’s not go there. But the brain’s a little more at peace, and that’s really what’s important, yeah?
Good times, kids. Good times.
(Thanks for the well-wishes. Much appreciated, and in retrospect, probably much-needed.)
[:)]