Hocus Smokus

Usually when people say that they "talk with the dead" they mean that do some seance shit around a table to hustle people out of their hard earned money. Or maybe they have a Madam Cleo act they do over the the 900 lines for $1.75/min - or whatever the fuck the going rate is. Maybe they even get into character and wear some shit on their heads and impart a fake accent. More power to you. Today I stumbled upon (or fell into) the depths of my crazy. It's deep in there ya'll

I'll keep this brief as the hour is late and honestly I think I just scared the piss out of myself.

As I was sifting through my friends list on Facebook, like a 13 yr old deciding who was "cool enough" to invite to 'like' my brand new shiny blog page, I ran across an old friend. Don't get excited, about your own invitation, I invited a dead guy. At first there were people that I thought "I might piss them off" and passed them by, but not this dead guy. That's saying something. I never even met this man, but he held a place in my heart. Still does. Always will. There are days that I still think of him - like today. As I type this, I imagine that he would be ever so proud of me. I can see him sitting at his desk in front of his little computer too, staring out that window and watching the planes go by. Fuck LA. Randal, I miss our talks; even if I was hammered and pissed you off. I miss you bitching at me about what the fuck I was going to do with myself and then asking me to edit your shit. I miss your telling me what to do for stomach aches then telling to "straighten up and get my shit together." I may not have my shit together, but I'm straightening up and I invited you to the show.

All you other twats got invited too, but only because the Facebook assistant told me it was a good idea. I'll play nicer next time, my heart just hurts a little right now....