Dealing in the Aftermath

I received a comment last night on my blog entries regarding my friend who recently died. The poster asked me to please remove his name from the site. In anger and a state of impulse, I used Steve's full name as a title of an entry, yet later removed it of my own volition. Nevertheless, google was turning up my site as a top result when his name was entered, and the original post with my friend's full name was showing up when you select the "cached" option. This poster was concerned about his students performing web searches and coming across my site.

I temporarily pulled my site til I figured out what I wanted to do. I kinda didn't care - it is what it is, right? That is, life and death. We all gotta figure it out some time. I never violated Steve's trust as a friend, even after his death, but am I violating it by writing my own thoughts about him and the details of the suicide? I tend to think not.

Steve was writing a 'book' on his own suicide that he'd been working on for a long time. The last time he wrote in it was in June, I believe. His birthday was in June. A couple days after his birthday he told me that he was planning on doing 'it' then - on his birthday. He wanted his suicide note published, so his "inner circle" as he called us - that is, his self-made family, has decided to publish it online. It's what he wanted, and it has a lot more details about him and his life than my three blog entries.

As far the request to remove Steve's name from my site (which I had already done long before this request was made) and the search engine cache, I wrote him the following letter:

Dear Friend,

I am sorry for your loss, too. I temporarily removed my webpage after your request to think about what I wanted to do. My webpage is now back up, although it looks like since I took it down, you don't find it on google anymore. Nonetheless, I had a very close relationship with Steve, and I strongly feel that he wouldn't care about the comments I made on my site, and I talked to his other closest friend, and he very much agreed. The bottom line is, it is the truth, and we were Steve's family.

We (what he liked to call his "inner circle" - his self-made family) have also made the decision to publish Steve's suicide note. He made it very clear that he wanted it out there for public consumption, so we are going to honor his wishes. My blog does not reveal anything that he doesn't already reveal himself. If his students come across it, so be it. It's what he wanted.

To answer your question about the cause, please take comfort in knowing that this is simply what he wanted. He had no fear of death or suicide, and he simply was not content in this life. Death and suicide were something he had wanted and thought about for many, many years. He was a dynamic, charismatic person, so it can be difficult to understand why he would take his own life. As much as he was these things, he was also very unhappy and struggled with life daily. To be honest, this was inevitable. I loved him a great deal as he loved me back, and I am sad and angry at him that he is gone, but he didn't want to be here. He just had a very different outlook on life than most of us.

I hope this helps shed some light on 'why'.

Take care,
the lady love

Acting Out

I came back home today for the first time since Sunday when I was here for only about 30 minutes - just long enough to find out if it was for real. I pulled up to my gate, and Steve's car was right there at the very front - the first thing you see when you pull in. I guess the property manager moved it there. It's the best place for it I suppose until things are figured out. It was just a jolt to my system - it had originally been moved to the parking deck next door out of sight.

As I got out of my car, I noticed a handwritten note secured under the windshield wiper on his car. I walked over and read it:

"If I or any of your neighbors parked beside you, we would block you in. Please park correctly. Others would like to park near the gate as well. Next time myself or your neighbors have agreed that we will block you in. About five of us have discussed this. Thanks for understanding." ~Alphabet Lofts

The note was signed as the name of the loft building and not by the name of the writer, which bugged the shit out of me.

I don't know if I'm being irrational, but it sent rage through me. I wrote a reply note and pinned both my note and the original note to the bulletin board in the lobby next to the mailboxes. My notes reads:

"To whomever wrote this note above and stuck it to the windshield of the Lexus parked right inside the gate:
The owner of the Lexus died on Saturday night and cannot move it. Feel free to block it in. And the next time you want to leave a note like this for a neighbor, at least have the balls to sign your own name. Thanks for understanding. ~The Lady Love, #13"

I think I know the jerk that wrote the note. She's this manipulative jerk that has pulled some other stunts around the building. I specifically know of her blackmailing another neighbor - yeah, I'm serious. Point is, if you're going to leave a nasty note like this, at least have the balls to identify yourself.

In my opinion, a more appropriate note would have been along the lines of, "Hi neighbor ~ the way your car is parked prevents other folks from being able to park around you without blocking you in. We were hoping you could park at an angle - it's the most efficient use of space for our lot. Thanks, and feel free to come talk to me about it. ~The Lady Love, #13"

I guess I'm just sensitive right now because of the personal tragedy that I'm privy to and that this 'anonymous' note (yet under the guise of "Alphabet Lofts") was written to my dead friend.

~ the lady love

I knew that Fuck would kill himself. I just didn't expect it to be Saturday night. Things had been going really well for him. On Friday night, we laughed and talked and played games and talked about him hitting his stride. I had told him before that I thought he was bipolar and perhaps even schizophrenic. He said he had considered that before.

He was a genius. A biologist with his PhD. A college professor. He was dark and negative. Paranoid. Handsome. Hilarious. Fun. Dangerous. Depressing. Exhausting. Kind. Generous. A very good friend. Dramatic. Charismatic. Creative. An artist. A pain in the ass.

I just finished looking through his 40-page suicide letter, which he began years ago. There was nothing really new there. Apparently, I had the most intimate knowledge of him. He selectively disseminated information about himself to people, and I guess he chose to tell me the most since, in the aftermath, I'm the one who has the most comprehensive view of him.

The coroner told me they wouldn't have the toxocology report for two weeks. I told her what he died from and what cocktail of drugs they would find in his system: morphine, percoset, vicadan, xanax, syroquil, marijauna, alcohol, welbutrin. I know how he did it. He used the morphine. Probably took the entire bottle. Besides, that was really all he had enough of to kill himself.

What causes me the most grief is all the calls and text messages from him. That he pulled me in at the last minute. It's hard not to question myself - feel guilty - like he reached out to me and I didn't help him. It would be a little easier to swallow if I just found out he was dead, but knowing that he asked me to come get him... I knew he would eventually commit suicide. I just wish he wouldn't have pulled me into it. He knew I couldn't come - I was working and I had a crying woman in my car that I was comforting. I couldn't drop everything I was doing to rush to him. To find out if this time he was for real.

He was for real. Bastard.

Died Last Night

My good friend (and neighbor) killed himself last night. I was photographing a wedding reception. At one point, I picked up my phone and had a missed call from him and a text message. At 10:49 he wrote, "I need your help." That could mean anything at all, and though it didn't suggest urgency, I called him. He didn't answer. I left a message saying that I was at the wedding and didn't have my phone on me. I got his message and if he called back and I didn't answer, it was because I wasn't near my phone, but I'd be checking my messages.

30 minutes later, I had another missed call from him and another text message. At 11:19 he wrote, "Drunk. Depressed. Going to bed. Call if light is on."

I had plans to sleep over at a friend's that night, so I wasn't going back home. No big deal, he was going to bed and nothing seemed terribly wrong.

At 12:26 a.m., I got another text message from him. It read, "Come get me I'm dead." I called him twice immediately but he didn't answer.

At 12:30 a.m., I got another text message that read, "sorry". I called him again. He didn't answer. I texted him, "What's going on?" No reply.

At 1:00 a.m., I texted him again and said, "Haven't heard from you. Hope ur ok." No reply.

Some time after 12:30 a.m. he overdosed on morphine and was found dead in his bed this morning.

The Lady Love Makes The News

I would first like to say that, as I write this post, the Golden Girls are on. The girls are worried about Rose being addicted to painkillers. A very important episode with a very important message: drugs just make some people more tolerable

So, I was in Creative Loafing this week. It's weird. I haven't been in the paper since I was in high school. I recently reconnected with this music journalist I know because of a professional gig. Late one night we got to talking and he asked me to be the subject of this recurring, inconsequential piece in the music section. It was all very spontaneous, and it had to be done by the next morning. I said sure. I pretty much had free range with the topic, though I ended up going with something he threw out upfront: I had to come up with five things bands should not do.

It was fun and came very naturally. I gave him my list, and he wrote a little intro profile and punctuated each of my points. The next day, I asked him to send it to me - what he turned in to be published. He told me that he never let people see the articles before they ran. From his experience, people inevitably don't like something and want to make a change. But for me, he would make an exception. Of course. Of course. I wouldn't have any gripes.

But of course. Of course. There was something I didn't like. Two little, very powerful words that I felt portrayed me as intimidating and unapproachable. "Bitingly caustic." It wouldn't have been a big deal other than the fact that I was specifically being identified as the publicity & promotions rep for a local club who is very image-conscious at the moment.

I never aked him to change it. I just couldn't do it. I already felt like one of those women who say, "Does this make my ass look big? Tell me. I promise I won't get mad." But then they get mad anyway. What can I say? I'm a cliche.

No, I couldn't. I did, however, passionately communicate my apprehension about the image being projected and why it mattered. Beyond that, if he wanted to change it, it was up to him. Graciously, he obliged me and did a little editing, though I'm sure he regretted ever making the exception for me. I basically reinforced what he already knew. Still, I was very thankful for the consideration.

The end result:

REAL LIFE TOP FIVE: THE LADY LOVE

The Lady Love is the new publicity and promotions rep at ... She sorts through tons of band press kits and promo packs daily. Here, she offers some constructive criticism and advice for hopeful - and, in some cases, hopeless - musicians.

1) Avoid John Mayer "Do not drop the John Mayer bomb. Every musician in this city has either played with him, opened for him, shared the stage with him, or sounds like him. Sorry, but it doesn't make you special."

2) Don't Be A Name Dropper "Do not drop more than 10 names of bands you've opened for in your bio. It's tacky and implies you'll never be more than an opening act."

3) Don't Get A "Heart" On "Please, please, please do not ever say during a performance, 'This next song comes straight from the heart.' It's tired. 'This next song comes straight from the groin would be better - or at least funnier.'"

4) Stay At Least Semi-Sober "Don't get so drunk on stage that you can't play your own music. It's a bad sign when your fans start asking the venue for their money back."

5) It Shouldn't Matter If There Are 3 or 3000 "Don't get pissy if only three people come to your show. Having a bad attitude on stage due to 'low voter turnout' will only alienate the three paying fans you actually do, or did, have."

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That's all folks.

~ the lady love

Charmed But Near Dead

I received a message from a reader this past weekend who told me, "You haven't posted in your blog in over a week! I'm going through withdrawal."

Then, I got a note from a fellow Flickrite who said, "Hey, i don't mean to add any undue pressure or anything, but there are some of us out here who always look forward to seeing your new photos. So i think you should post something soon. Is that rude? I don't mean to be rude."

People, you do flatter me so. Wow. But please be patient with me. Seriously, I am drowning in work right now. I feel like I'm chained to my apartment and computer. Nothing would make me happier than to have the time to write and take pictures.

Don't give up on me. I haven't given up on you.

~ the lady love

Brokedown but at least my hair looks good

This past weekend I broke down alongside the interstate. My passenger side rear tire blew. It was a hot afternoon, so I picked a really good day to wear a sweatshirt.

I've probably had five flats this year. But this time, I had no spare tire. The last flat I had was when my donut blew while I was driving to the tire store to replace a flat tire. Go figure. Yeah, the rim was bent on the donut, so they wanted to charge me $300 to replace it. I said no. If I break down with a flat, it will cost me less to get my car towed than to pay that absurd amount of money for a donut. I'll go to the junkyard and pay $15 for a spare from a wrecked car. Just give me the rubber from my old tire, and I'll keep it in my trunk.

Well, that was nine months ago and I never made it to the junkyard, but I did make an instant little adventure for myself when I got that flat tire on Sunday.

At first I forgot. I pulled off to the side of the highway and went about my way to changing the tire. I popped the trunk and - Oh Shit! - I don't have a spare.

I had to make a call. With 30 minutes to bide until my rescue, I decided to make myself useful. I jacked my car up with a creaky jack and put two big scratches on my car while doing it. That's okay; the war wounds will give it character I told myself. I jacked the thing all the way up before I realized I hadn't broken the lug nuts, so I cranked her back down. To break the lug nuts, I had to climb up and balance myself on the wrench and give it a few bounces with my entire body weight, so I'm lucky I didn't break my ankles or my neck given my tendencies toward falling. I jacked it back up and pulled my tire off just as my official help arrived. I tossed the flat tire and the spare rubber from my trunk into the truck bed, and we made our way up to the first service station off the next exit. For $15 bucks they put the spare rubber on and balanced it. All in all, it could have been a lot worse, but I think I'll be locating myself a real, functional spare tire asap for future breakdowns.

While I was stranded alongside the interstate fixing my tire, I had a few people pull off to see if I needed help. The first was a single, older white woman, perhaps in her late 50s. We chatted for a minute, and she went on her way. The second was three hispanic men, who got out of their car and asked if I needed help. I said thank you very much for stopping, but I was fine and had somebody on the way. They left. The third was a black couple. The man got out of the car and walked up. He said they were driving down the other side of the interstate when they saw me. That means they got off at an exit and turned around to come back up the other side of the interstate - just to help me. Wow, I said. Thank you so much but here's my help pulling up now. Thank you again. Thank you.

Thank you to these people who thought I might be in need and stopped to help. All of you. But in the 30 minutes I was standing on the side of the interstate, tell me, where were my white brothers? I just found it somewhat ironic that the only help that was not extended to me was from a caucasian male, but how many of them do you think passed me? Just wondering.

I may have been broken down, but at least my hair looked good. It's getting so long. I figured the length softens me up a bit, you know, from my otherwise hardened look. Haha.

After my breakdown, later that night with a foxy hairdo:

When Lady Love Became Your Majesty
So, I called my phone company today to increase my minutes plan. I've been going over my minutes every month, especially since I became the publicist for a local music venue, so I needed to upgrade. When I called in I was in quite a playful mood, and the service rep started out with "Thank you for calling t-mobile. How can I put a smile on your face today?" I started laughing and replied, "Well, I guess just asking worked, eh?" She asked if she may call me by my first name and I said, "Well, what else would you call me?" She replied that would call me whatever I wanted her to call me. I said, "How about 'your majesty'? Will you call me 'your majesty'?" She said sure and proceeded to call me "your majesty" throughout the rest of the call. Now that's what I call service.

~the lady love

You Know You Live In The Ghetto When...

...you flip on the tv and see your neighborhood crack whore getting busted on Cops.

~ the lady love