"I found you in Hell. Don't you think I could find you in Jersey?"

After a pretty stellar first few hours of the New Year, today hit like a brick. Not a ton of bricks, though; just one. There were so many avoidable problems regarding equipment during my first patient appointment that it pissed me right the fuck off. Happy Fucking New Year's, now deal with last year's bullshit. Luckily the rest of the day went better. I threw off getting any non-clinical work done and came home early.

I rode home a little after four o'clock. It was still light out, which is a rarity for me. It was kind of nice. I really like the windbreaker I got for bicycling, although I found grease stains on it (as well as two of my couches!) earlier. Ah, well, stains add character.

Since I got home, I've pretty much been listening to Billy Bragg and cleaning my monkey nest. It's looking much better. Of course, I spent almost an hour on the phone with friends (which is kind of a rarity that I miss, now that I've been doing it again).

While I was cleaning, I kept coming across things that remind me of my cousin John. I saw the photo we took in Tremblant four years ago, when the whole family except him was there. He was healthy then, but still rarely spent time with the rest of us, it seemed. Most of the memories I have of him are childhood ones, before he became super-prep venture-capitalist.

I remember when I must have been two years old, and it must have been his seventh birthday party. December, 1980. I remember it was a wood-paneled restaurant, and I was asking my mom where John-John was. "Jon" is a term of endearment in Farsi, and this nickname - universally used in my family - meant "John, dear." I remember when I was barely five and he was nine, and we were at my maternal grandparents' farm in Minnesota. The first time I heard "The last one there is a rotten egg!" was when his fourth grade legs challenged my kindergarten legs to a race back to the farm house across ditches and open land. Needless to say, he kicked my ass in that race. That's the memory that came to mind at his funeral in July, and that's what I put into the memory book. I also found the card with waterfalls on the front that were available at the funeral. That's now posted in my kitchen doorway; the photo's tacky as hell, but it's something I have of him, as much of a commodity as it is.

I had a half-bottle of Riesling in the fridge; it was stoppered with the glass fish bottle-stopper from Ramin's wedding. John was the best man; I remember his speech was written down on notecards for completeness. I have absolutely no recollection of what he actually said.

Fittingly, the glass fish was involved in letting me get buzzed tonight. I was in Minneapolis when I found out John died, and I just wanted to get pissed. I met up with Phil that night (as previously planned) and was suitably distracted watching a cute girl in our group, and had a few beers without going overboard, thankfully. (I did get toasted on Mickey's on the flight to the funeral until the flight attendant took it away.)

I watched What Dreams May Come earlier while eating. Movie heaven is bullshit - but comforting bullshit, in the end.