Good Morning. Hello. How are you? #1210
I went to a funeral. I saw an old friend and it was amazing. I pressure washed a road. Write a will people.
Good morning. Greetings from the brilliantly-named (GMHHAY writing callback there) Belttown, MD. Do people have homes where their mail says Belttown, MD? Is there a more depressingly-named city in America? I am charging my Lightning at a hotel.
America’s non-Tesla charging infrastructure sucks. I hate that they only charge your car to 90%. I hate that it takes an hour to go from 50 to 90% even when you’re at a charger that can supposedly deliver 300kw (they never actually do) to a car that can take 150kw (they never actually even get to 150. 100 if you’re lucky). I hate that so many chargers are broken. This station has six chargers. Two are broken. The Toyota dealership across the street has two EVs parked in two of the stalls, not charging, just sitting there. Maybe for looks. I don’t know. It is annoying.
This Courtyard Marriott is an exact copy of the one in Berwyn, PA, where I stayed last night. It is disconcerting.
There is an old man in the lobby here wearing a Ketchikan, Alaska shirt. I am not going to talk to him.
I am returning from Megan’s funeral in Berwyn, PA. I do not like non-urban Pennsylvania. Has real colonoialism-spoils vibes: like they took the land from the first people, and carved it up and gave it away to the highest bidder. This is, I suppose, the entire country, but I really feel it in rural Pennsylvania. They’re just so proud of their homes and land, like the earned it or something. There was a demonstration going with a bunch of Trump billboards, and people milling about with “pray for Trump”signs. Awesome.
Topic for another day. Thank the gods, my life is overwhelmingly busy this week, so maybe I’ll never have to write to you about the political events of the weekend.
I will say, my god, seeing a friend, talking in person, nothing like it. Seeing Liisa was the best. Liisa, hi, I love you, you are awesome, thank god we got that time together. It is crazy how you can see an old friend and just talk honestly and intimately like no time has passed.
As for the funeral? It was fucking sad! Sad!
It was not, per se, a sad funeral. Lots and lots of people were there. Megan had a whole life, so many lives, so many walks of life, people who loved her from all of those walks of life. There was so many people there that knew Megan since they were 7, 8, 9 years old. I was freakin almost forty when I met Megan, but that still means it’s been like fifteen years, and I loved her, and she was amazing, and her old school friends took all her photo albums and spread them around the venue, so you could do a little tour of Megan’s life. Which, you know, she was a fully-formed adult when I met her. But like all fully-formed adults, she was a kid at one point: and a high school student, protesting the removal of a beloved tree, and a college student, in plays and acting, and friend groups, and photos of friends with those… god it is all so universal. Photo albums, captions, cute captions about kids needing caffeine or making silly faces or whatever. Just like I have, just like you have, assuming your a Millennial or older. Hanging out at Denny’s, god, the kids of America hang out at Denny’s so much in small towns.
In 1994, while on a Roadtrip, I stopped in Malvern/Paoli/Berwyn, PA to visit a college friend of mine, stayed a couple of days. Went to a coffee shop. In one of Megan’s albums, from 1994, was a flier from that coffee shop. Maybe ten years before I met her. That kinda fucked me up. Only time I’ve ever been to that area before yesterday.
I never thought about photo albums at funerals (sorry, memorials). It is wildly effective, it is wildly emotional, it is intense.
And then the photos from the 2000’s and beyond were on screens. Photos of Liisa, photos I took, one photo of my arm, lol. And in the speeches, the childhood friend (Gretchen, maybe, what a great name) said you should just take the photos that mean something to you. Brilliant. In one photo album we found a postcard Liisa had written Megan, Liisa took that home. On one of the boards we found this photo of Liisa and Megan I took, just beautiful, both of them, and a great photo, wow I was a good photographer back when I cared. Here. Let’s see if my photo filing system, hobbled by hotel Internet and Dropbox offline sync, can still deliver. Why yes, here you are. From 2005:
I took the print copy. It is now on my sun visor in my car. Will it stay there? I don’t know.
The funeral was not sad for everyone. I mean, that’s not true, it was sad for everyone, but for some people, it was also joyous. You know how funerals are: it’s often hard to keep from indulging in morbid humor, from joking, from laughing, from finding joy. And that’s what Megan would have wanted! It’s totally acceptable! And good even!
And I found comfort in being amongst all these people that care about Megan, that meant a lot to me.
But I was really sad.
I have not had time really to process Megan’s death. I have not gone back and looked at our old text messages. I.. I don’t know, man. The whole thing is sad.
We met her mom, she was really sad.
We met her current partner, who was also really sad.
It was fitting, in a way, since we were sad too! We were not the laughing posse at this funeral. And I am often the laughing posse at a funeral.
But not this time.
I tried to make some sort of grand theory of how close you are to people and how that might impact how you are at a funeral when it comes to humor. But I don’t really buy it today. I think it’s just.. I don’t know. Not random, but…
life.
They were playing a lot of Megan’s favorite music, which is, you know, a lot of it is old. It was nice, but also.. am I going ot have to hear this old music at every funeral from here on out? I don’t know. Maybe only play new music at my funeral.
Her partner did put the theme song from this absolutely crap movie Megan loved, though: Hard Ticket to Hawaii. It is so bad. Megan made me watch it twice. I appreciated he put that on the playlist. It is kind of amazing, that, ten years later, Megan still loved that terrible movie and was making people suffer through it.
None of our friend group with Megan was there. Liisa had met her mom before, she knew one other person there, I knew no one. Which is mind blowing: all those people, and on top of that there are tons more people out there, effected (affected, sorry, that is another stupid grammar rule by people who aren’t alive) by her passing. She touched so many people.
Anyway, seeing Liisa was amazing, revelatory. Old friends. See your old friends. Sit in a car or at a bar and talk to your old friends. Share what’s going on in your life. My god, we have so little time, so little time.
And write a fucking will, don’t leave your funeral, your journals, your life to someone not of your choosing.
Write a fucking will, people.
Before I forget, I want to tell you about my weekend. Just a few things:
Walmart: I never thanked my friend Jocelyn, hi Jocelyn, for, two or three years ago, educating me that you can look up where things are at in the Walmart app: like what aisle they are in. It is absolutely insane how much I rely on this now, it was completely life-changing, and I never thanked you for it. Thank you, Jocelyn.
While I was at the Walmart, a monstrous thunderstorm took place and I guess I’ve never been in a Walmart in a thunderstorm, because it is loud. Apocalyptic. Metal roof and all. Makes sense, but never experienced it. Scary.
I finally got around to pressure washing the street outside of Chore House. Maybe six months ago a worker took away all the extra concrete left at my house from the greenhouse construction. When he took it away, he spilled a bunch. Then it rained, and the black ashphalt has been stained white in front of Chore House since. It has been slowly fading, but it was clear it was never going to fade completely.
So I ran 150 feet of hose from the pump house, and plugged in my pressure washer to my Lightning (Pro Power onboard!) and pressure washed the street. Neighbors would drive and walk by. They all said they hadn’t noticed the stain. They were lying, but I appreciated them being polite about it. Levi, though, he told me the truth.
At the edges of the street, the concrete had hardened into actual concrete, maybe a quarter inch thick, making a bright white band along a maybe 20 foot section of the road. Reader, I got out my Hercules SDS-Max hammer drill, and I jackhammered that shit away. I jackhammered the road. It ruled.
While I was out there, waiting for the first wash to dry in the 90 degree heat, I also took a moment to bust out my gold metallic paint and paint the address and flag on my posh mailbox. It had been fading. Now it gleams brilliantly in the sun. I wish I could show you, but I do try and maintain a modicum of internet opsec here. I can’t just post a photo of my address, that is a bridge too far. Stalkers gotta work a little bit, right?
No media of the day, oh wait, actually. I listened to the new album from my friend Abby’s new band on the drive up to Berwyn. It is great. A brilliant psych rock album from a brilliant Boston psych rock band made of up old Boston luminaries from bands like Mr. Airplane Man and Bullet Lavolta. Here it is. Give it a listen.
Today I head home and immediately turn around, head back into Chapel Hill and see the early-arriving of my employees, in town for our annual Summit, which starts tomorrow. Will I manage to write you every day this week? I think I can do it. The Summit starts at 10. I am usually done by then every morning. Of course, we will be going out in the evening, so… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ who knows what will happen.
Okay truck’s about done charging. Let’s hit the road.