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My 92 year old pop passed away a few weeks back. He was an unsentimental old goat: he wanted no funeral, no obit, no & #39;Donations in the Name Of . . . & #39; requests to be made by yours truly. But WTF, how many pops does a guy have? If like me, but one, then you gotta fuck& #39;n say . .
SOMETHING. So here goes. My pop had dementia, a raft of physical infirmities: it was his time, and his passing was a mutual release - no faux boo-hoo& #39;n - He& #39;d & #39;passed away& #39;, as a sentient soul, some time back . . . But in his profane, roistering prime, he commingled
tenderness, generosity, & playfulness, with world class, Blue Ribbon worthy wise-assedness. He couldn& #39;t help but correct a fellow& #39;s grammar, even at the risk of inviting violence; he couldn& #39;t help but comment on a fellow& #39;s weight gain, even at the risk of inviting tears..
He managed to mangle every one of my girlfriend& #39;s names, down the years, and he confused their biographies to such an extent as to make them unrecognizable when referenced ("I never dated a opera singer . . I slept with a busker once, is that who you& #39;re thinking of . . . ?").
He& #39;d empty his wallet if I needed a buck (starving actor years), and he never said what he really thought, which was why don& #39;t you cut your fucking hair and get a real job; he stocked his garage with toilet paper, canned peas, and windshield wiper blades primarily
to keep me from going without . . . he taught me how to differentiate between scotch, bourbon and Irish before I was old enough to drive; he taught me how to swear like a sailor; he taught me not to be intolerant (in theory: in practice, he was intolerant of bible thumpers,
& #39;long haired hippie freaks& #39;, and women with large butts), and when he eventually came out of the closet, in his early 60& #39;s, after my mom died, he taught me how to make conversation with a succession of vacuous boy-toys who he used as arm candy at various social events.
He liked to sing loudly in public; he didn& #39;t seem to care much about stains on his shirt; he read like a motherfucker, until his mind went; he ordered all the desserts on the menu and invited the waiter to join us in eating them; he embarrassed me as a kid but taught me,
basically, to be unembarrassable as an adult. He was too far gone by the end for me to say goodbye to him, alas, and it& #39;s kinda weird to memorialize him in a tweet-storm, but WTF, such is the age we live in. Dad: I still confuse lie and lay, I am way too fucking fat, and I
