Girl, I think we are all so numb right now that this really happened. Your smile, you laugh, your 24 bar breaks, your 1/2 sweet 1/2 unsweet tea, your friendship…

You know though, I wouldn’t have taken one cent for the year I have been able to say that you are my friend. Every smile, every hug, every time I ran from your camera. Girl we all made some awesome memories together. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. We all found each other when we all needed something. God gave us each other and though you’re gone, you’re really still here with each one of us.

I LOVE YOU, SUSAN.

Susan Alice Shelley – 12/2/1964 – 2/21/2007

People living deeply have no fear of death.
— Anais Nin

     Just forty-eight hours ago, I was sitting down to write about what great friends I have.  Mere moments after writing, “Pirates never die,” I received a phone call which showed that the world had decided to see just how much I really believed that.

     She was there one minute, laughing with us like no tomorrow.

     And then she wasn’t.

     We’d met before, briefly, some fifteen years ago.  We knew the same towns, some of the same people.  And when she showed up again last year, it was all so familiar … hard and fast friends, an instant sister, that crazy gypsy, that Wicked Wench.
     It was only natural that I wrote her a testimonial a few months ago:

She’s an incredibly talented artist with a death-lock stranglehold on the eclectic. She’s all fun, all the time, complete with an infectious laugh that can change the mood of an entire bar!

     For those of us who’ve been around her, all we have to do is remember how she she lived: Like there’s no tomorrow.  Nothing left unsaid.  Nothing left undone.  No regrets.

     Laughing at every damn thing — like a bunch of kids with attention deficit disorder — certainly has its benefits.  I remember taking her out for her birthday that night with Niki, going to Market Square…

     Oooh, Kitty!

     (Maybe it’s Susan *grin* Besides, it’s only a 24-Bar Break)

     Pirates never die.

     I’ll write more on this later.

—–

     [5:34PM]

     Reason I waited?

     A pirate died.

     At 12:22 or so.

—–

     [11:34PM]

     Back on the track.

—–

     [2:21AM]

     We’re always there for each other.

     For a few months, I’ve been writing down some of the bizarre and humorous things that come out of peoples’ mouths.

     Back on November 10th, we’re sitting having a late lunch, and from out of nowhere, Zacque sits up in his chair, narrows his eyes to slits and monotonically mumbles:

Ahhh! Get your genitalia out of my eyes! I can’t see!

     On November 20th, I slammed the last portion of a beer sitting on the table, because you know, we can’t abuse the alcohol.  Susan quotably quipped:

Yeah, what’s a little backwash between friends?

     On November 30th, Zacque, Susan and I were sitting in the Old City when Niki walks in wearing a — form-fitting — red shirt.

Zacque: “Ya know, that’s a very nice shade of red.”

Me: “Yeah, I was gonna say, that is a very nice shade of nipple.”

Niki: “And they’re cold, too!”

Me, Susan & Zacque: “DUH!”

     Now, of course, there have been many, many more over the last few months, most of which are too rude to post here (I try and keep things semi-clean).  Hilarious, nonetheless…

     But this one today, from Lisa, takes the cake:

Stop cursing! I’m ovulating and it turns me on!

     Apparently, insanity runs in circles.  😉

     A few months ago, I went out with a couple of friends (Gina and Joe) and had a fun time.  In trying to make sure Joe was okay to drive (he ran from the car) I inadvertently dropped my phone in her backseat.
     Long story short, one of her workmates, Paula, volunteered to bring me the phone, and I agreed.  She didn’t bring it to me, however.  Instead, she threw it out her window in Halls, TN (where I definitely do not live) and ignored all attempts at contact.
     Fortunately, an older gentleman named Wade ended up with the phone (picked up from a ditch and put it in his mailbox by his postwoman, he said).  He called me, from my phone, and arranged to get the phone back to me.  Thank God for honest people in the world.
     Last night, a friend of mine called Paula and let her have it.  In turn, Gina calls me to scream at me so much I have to walk outside from where I was to hear her.  She calls me a liar, tells me that I had fabricated the entire story and that she’s told my friends, they believe her, and blah blah blah blah whiney, idiotic garbage.

     This is overly dramatic for me, and whole lot of them can screw off.

     Another asshat has been hanging around telling people he’s a race car driver, with millions of dollars, million dollar contracts, and he’s gonna start paying three of us at the first of January.
     He told me that he lived in a 4000 sq ft house and wanted me to secure it and run Ethernet around it.  Told me had a four bay garage where he keeps his race cars, and one of the bay doors is torn off because he and a friend came home drunk and couldn’t get it open to park the truck — so they rammed it. 
     He told me that he has a private jet, and has invited us all out on several occasions, but never follows through.
     He’s told us all that he owns Tennessee Racing, Inc.
     He’s an IMCA driver and points leader.
     He’s on Team ARCA.
     He’s a NASCAR driver.
     He was in Daytona this weekend with Teresa and Dale Earnhardt, Jr.

     Needless to say, he hasn’t paid any of us a cent.  “My racing license was revoked, and I’m trying to get it back.”  Of course, he’s already told me that one, and that he did get it back.  “Yeah, but I went this weekend and got it back.”  Of course, he’d already told me that they’d reinstated him the week before.  But that’s also been mixed with, “I might be going to jail,” “All my assetts are frozen by the court,” and “I have to go to Europe to hide from some very bad people.”  Of course, those things have changed, too.  “The judge let me off even though she hates me,”  “I have more money than the courts know about,” and “I said I was gonna to Europe to hide after I hurt the guy who was molesting my daughter.”  But no, he didn’t.  He’s talked himself into both a corner and poverty.
     About the house:  “Oh, well, I haven’t bought it yet.  I was looking at four, but they were out of my price range.  I only have $750K and need $1.2M.”  I can’t help but wonder why he’d crash the garage doors on a house he doesn’t own, then?  He lives in a crappy apartment in South Knoxville.
     Why doesn’t his pilot file flight plans?  “I didn’t know they were supposed to.”  Yeah, that pilot stuff might elude him, especially since he claims to have had a pilot’s license.
     Tennessee Racing, Inc. doesn’t exist?  “Yeah, I registered that in Iowa.”  No, not there either..
     He’s not on the IMCA list.
     Team ARCA’s never heard of him.
     NASCAR certainly hasn’t ever heard of him.
     Teresa and Dale Jr. have had a parting of ways and certainly haven’t sat down to dinner together, much less together with anyone else.  And since Dale Jr. has been busy with the Nextel Cup and giving press releases about the future of DEI & his younger brother, Kerry, it’s pretty much an impossibility that our dear-old-bullshitter had dinner with just him, even.

     “Well, maybe I should just not come around if it’s gonna be like that!”
     “Good idea.  BYE!”

     Besides, I doubt Dale Jr. would take time out of his busy schedule to have dinner with a door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesman.

     I declare this a Drama Free Zone.

     Take it outside — we don’t need that crap in here.