Turning leaf

Virginia creeper is turning red......

Still unwell, watching Apocalypse Now.....

Jeb's funeral and memorial are today in LA and through the night while I'm asleep, it will be an incredible event, I wish I could have been there but I'm not so...... I will continue to be thankful for the friendship we had and the times we shared and try not to think about what else there might have been x

edit - a great tribute from Jeb's friend who i never met, really made me laugh x

Jeff Eamer posted to Witzend Live
6 hours ago via Mobile

My friend. My confidante. My everything. Here's to you my dear best friend. I love you.

Jeb was 37 years old when he died last week. Well… that's what it said on his dating site.

"For people who knew him well, he was 42.

For me, his best friend, he told me the truth -- he was 47.

Which I found very odd when he had his 50th birthday party 9 years ago.

But Jeb was never very good with numbers. Unless they had to do with inches.

We were seen together so often people thought we were lovers.
Which might have been the case, but he was not my type:
my type – being a women.
He did have a wife. She was my type. But alas, I was not her type: her type – being a women.

Jeb was a great conversationalist. A typical, hour-long conversation
would be taken up with him talking about himself and what was going on in his life -- and then he'd say, "but enough about me and my life. What do you think of me and my life?"

At which time, I would completely ignore his question and proceed to fill the next hour about me and what was going on in my life.

Our self-obsessions were the glue that kept us together.

That and our ongoing disagreement as to which one of us was getting better looking as we were getting older.

There was never any doubt of that – I was.

Over the years we had thousands and thousands of deep and meaningful
conversations. We talked about 911, the war in Iraq and Janet Jackson's wardrobe malfunction.

He was so excited when the Red Sox finally won the World Series and said, "It was about time that football team won!” We talked about Obama getting elected, and Sarah Palin's keen sense of world geography.

We talked about Hussein getting captured and executed, Bin Laden getting captured and executed, Gadaffi getting captured and executed and Miley Cyrus's twerking. I mean this was deep stuff.

Jeb was a 'can do' kinda guy. If there was a wall to be knocked down he would knock it down. Most often the wall didn't need to be knocked down, and he wasn't quite sure why he knocked it down. But it gave him a great sense of accomplishment doing completely unnecessary things.

Jeb's motto: No fires today? Well then, let's go set some!

He had telekinetic powers too. He once was made a car drive right into the front door so he could get an insurance company to pay to completely retrofit this building.

As a chef, he was unrivaled in his ability to reheat Costco chicken, rice and frozen peas. It was no wonder he combined his two great loves:Music and Microwaves.

There were many examples as to why we were best friends. Perhaps themost significant one was our prepubescent attitude toward farting.

We farted with pride. Farting to us was not just a science. It was an art.

Like sweet music, we composed them. They were nothing short of

symphonic. They brought us closer together. And, at times, further apart.

When I would object to a particularly pungent melody, he would pout and

ask, "Don't you want you to experience all of me?" What I wouldn't give
to smell one of those farts today. Well, let's see… I wouldn't give my car for example.

Over the last three years my time spent with Jeb changed. Before he began building the club we would spend maybe 4-5 times a week together.

These last few years was reserved to mostly just one day: Sunday.

We would have marathon TV viewing sessions, lounging on the couch,

ordering take-out and pretending we were root vegetables. Along with farts, sitting on the couch for 8 hours brought on epiphanies.
Like… Maybe we shouldn't watch the exact same episode of Rachel Maddow three times in a row.

We had a name for our Sundays. It came out of an experience when some
musician was upset at Jeb that he didn't get to play one night because the line-up was overbooked. He called Jeb a ‘douche bag.’ In honor of this brazen insult we dubbed our weekly get together, "Douche Sunday."

Sometimes we embellished the theme. Like "Strawberry Douche Sunday" Or "Unscented Douche Sunday." Our motto: As long as there were Sundays, there would be Douche.

We laughed together. And cried together. Okay, only I cried, but I cried enough for the both of us.

We shared stories and Viagara. And shared stories about Viagara.

My best friend died. "Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth." Okay, I didn't write that, that was Lou Gehrig of the New York Yankees. One of Jeb's heroes. Jeb always said, second to Michael Jordan, Lou Gehrig was one of the best basketball players that ever to step on a court.

Jeb, I loved you in a way I never thought I could love another man. In fact, I loved you in a way I never thought I could love anyone.

Your sudden departure shattered my heart into so many pieces that I
can't even find them all. But I will.

I will look for them on Lincoln Blvd., Venice Blvd., Washington Blvd., Abbott Kinney Blvd. And Abbot's Habit, Intelligentsia, The Talking Stick, Norm's, Cafe 50s, Centanni's and the Western Hoagie Shop.

I will look for pieces of my broken heart on Venice Pier, the Venice

Boardwalk, and every street and alley we walked and bicycled over the
last 14 years.

But I will wait till the maid cleans that couch before I look for any pieces
under the pillows." — with Witzend Live at Witzend.