Six years ago this past week, my dad died. I think I’m finally coming to terms with it all, coming to terms with the fact that he was no father to me, that he literally left my sister & me to fend for ourselves almost twenty years prior to his death, when my sister & I were merely teenagers. Ahh, but that was just the legal part (if it’s even true, but who cares, because to delve deeper would involve characters in my life that I hate and care not to associate with ever again).

In retrospect, “dad” left me and my sister behind, many years before that. Recent revelations make a lot of shit make sense and at the same time leave me as confused as ever. But one thing is for sure, I should never have even tried to pretend I had a biological father growing up. I just wish I hadn’t wasted all that energy pretending I did.

I’m working on closure, or whatever you want to call it. Kinda hard, because the one thing I really want to do is confront that asshole, about a lot of things, but he’s just a collection of ashes in my so-called stepmother’s house, a property I will never set foot on again, and a property I was never comfortable setting foot on in the first place.

I’m in a weird place. Of course I’m not glad he’s dead, or that he went through such a horrible experience as cancer. I just wish I could have realized years ago that he was not worth dealing with, not worth divorcing myself from the rest of his family, not wasting all the energy. It would have made the lead-up to, and the aftermath of, his death so much easier.

But how strange it is, to have all these “ah ha” moments, years after the fact; they have been flowing for months, ever since my sister & I finally requested a copy of dad’s will — an attempt at closure which, for the last few months, it has opened more wounds, but I believe ultimately will close the books on this for good. A friend rhetorically asked me recently, “was he really such a horrible man?”. The answer is yes, and it’s because he managed to present a front of kindness that makes people question my judgment on him, while all the time he was alive he was being a cheater and a liar and a shirker of responsibility to humans he brought into the world. He was good, to many people — when he could manage, and when it suited him. But he was rarely much to me and I say you bring a person into this world, you suck it up and be good to that person, you be a father to that person. You raise him, as best you can (even being a guy who left the house when your son is all of five years old, because you wanted to take up with a secretary you were having sex with while you were married to the aforementioned son’s mother (and let’s not even get into all the other women that followed, for years, women the son knows about and can prove, in case certain people are reading)).

And that means being involved in his life, caring about what he’s interested in, even if it’s not what you’re interested in. Being a force in the kid’s life. Being a fan, an advocate, when you can (full time is the ideal, but more than 2% is required, I feel).

Not pretending to be the kid’s father.

Not expecting to get a pass, when the kid is an adult.

Certainly not making the kid never want to have kids of his own — which is precisely what my dad did.

You can go back and read my posts from six years ago, when I struggled with the feelings of loss and anger simultaneously. It’s not evident in many of the posts, I was busy playing the sad son. But under the surface, starting from the day of his memorial service, a lot of shit came roaring back. And it’s been messing with me ever since.

I’d like to say this post is some sort of liberation decree, that starting today I walk forward without the memories of all that was wrong with my childhood (and adolescence, and hell, even adulthood), but alas I cannot guarantee that. Shit, I wouldn’t be writing this if that were true. But I am resolving today to start exhaling. And breath by breath, the shit inside me that is the product of four decades of bullshit and denial, will be expunged from my mental database. If I can’t do that, I’ll go crazy.

James was a little boy. Nine years old. We say “old”, as in “nine years old”, but nine years on earth is not a long time and does not make you old. Certainly not old enough to die.

One of my former co-workers had a son. His name was James. I think you can tell what happened.

Doing some research the best I can tell is that James had acute lymphoblastic leukemia, but the exact diagnosis is irrelevant at this point. Suffice to say, it was cancer. The Big Casino, as Uncle Junior called it on “The Sopranos”. Indeed. One never knows how Lady Luck is gonna deal the cards, and James got a shitty hand — years ago. And that’s the thing; all the time I worked with James’ mother, James was in remission. But somewhere in the last year while I was at my new job, the little idiotic cells were back at work and somehow gained a foothold once again in little James’ body. And a few days ago, they won. Stupid fucking cancer, the damned cells kill their own host. It makes no sense.

It makes no sense to read an obituary with the starting date in the year 2000, when it’s friggin’ 2010.

I attended James’ memorial service today, and it’s burned into my brain forever. There were speeches, many excellent speeches. James’ parents, grandparents, one of his teachers and four of his best friends all poured their hearts out in front of a huge assembly of sniffling, weeping, messes.

There was a slideshow, images of James. We watched and wept. Many images cycled through, images of an infant, a little boy. The locations changed, the clothing, the features, the scenarios. But after all the images were done, as the show faded to black, I was struck by how I had watched all these photos and never saw a photo of James as anything other than a kid, a boy. When my Grandmother passed away months ago, I watched a similar slideshow and I recall enjoying photos of an infant, a kid, a woman, a bride, a mother, a grandmother, a retiree. Where was James the teenager? For that matter, where was James the Prom King, James the husband, James the father, James the old guy? James mowing the lawn? James drinking a beer?

Alas, these photos cannot be taken.

It makes no sense.

Emma was Brenda’s pet cat. Well, that’s what she started out as. Brenda got her shortly after the two of us got together, and Emma immediately spent much of her time showing her displeasure at having to share Brenda with me (especially the first year, when I was finishing school and Brenda often left Emma alone in her apartment while visiting me at school). But in those first few years after Brenda got her, I also took care of Emma during the summers when Brenda was off doing summer theatre gigs. I quickly became very attached to her, as, I believe, Emma got attached to me. We sorted each other out.

In total, the three of us went through almost eighteen years of life together, marking loads of residences, moments, anniversaries, milestones, memories. There’ll never be another cat like her, there’ll never be another Emma the Cat. She died, one year ago today.

Emma would never put up with another animal in the house, so/but for a very long and fun time, we were “stuck” with “just” Emma. And so shortly after Emma died, Hooper the Dog came into our lives, and in many ways I see my amazing experiences raising and learning about this dog as Emma’s last gift to us. I suppose Emma continues to live on in Hooper.

We also added another cat—Ellie—to our family last December, and while I haven’t written much about her on here yet she adds an extra layer of complexity to this weird little ride of adapting to life without Emma. She’s different, yet similar, to Emma. So it’s been fun and sad, exhilarating and disappointing, interesting and boring, to get accustomed to this new feline resident. More to come about her in the future, for sure.

But the main act tonight is Emma. I miss her still, always will.

I wanted to share with you one of my favorite Emma stories (more specifically, one of my favorites not already published on this website).

We had just moved from our first apartment in Hoboken, NJ, to a new, bigger, two bedroom place. It was hot—really hot—and humid. O.J. Simpson had beaten a murder rap that very day. We had paid professional movers to move our crap from Tenth and Park to Seventh and Willow Ave in Hoboken, and despite being spared the pain of dragging our stuff up five flights of stairs, we were still currently surrounded by boxes, brimming with Our Shit, swaddled in immense amounts of pro-grade, puffy and fluffy, bubble-wrap and puffy-paper.

Hours and hours after the movers had left, we were sweaty, tired, and painted into corners with our things and packing paper. Emma had been exploring the new digs with the careful stalk and active nose of a cougar in a new zoo. Emma jumped up on the microwave cart, currently in the middle of the kitchen, and—this is important—next to a recently-emptied box that was now the receptacle for all discarded packing materials, and began to walk around and eye the box adjacent. Three feet high, and loaded with puffy things, she began to show an unhealthy interest in the box.

“Brenda…” I silently gestured towards the scene that was unfolding.

Slowly, Emma walked to the edge of the cart and lowered her head toward the box, sniffing. She waved and poked a paw into the abyss, seeing that the paper would not hold her weight. But the curiosity was too great, and we watched her slowly try to walk on water, if you will, and fail miserably. She ended up doing a head-first dive into the box, disappearing instantly into the paper. We laughed, but the fun was just beginning. The box began to tremble, the papers churned and flew about, and eventually Emma exploded out from the paper, perched impossibly on the edge of the box, and then as the box began to fall over, she did a gainer off the edge of the box and shot like a bullet for the back bedroom, not to be seen for quite a while.

We laughed so hard, I can still recall how hard my sides hurt.

These are the memories I think of today. I’ll think of her all day today, and I’ll think of her at least a little bit, every day, forever.

Sheldon Brown is dead; he passed away today following a massive heart attack. The cycling world—particularly the bicycle mechanic world—has suffered a huge loss.

Sheldon Brown’s cycling/technical pages are loaded with excellent information, and I refer to it (and other people to it) often.

Bummer.

Emma is gone, and there isn’t a damned thing we can do about it. I miss her; there are a hundred things a day that remind me she’s gone: the ingrained look-down before I take a step, for fear of stepping on her; the look to the bathroom to make sure she’s there, before I close the closet door; the corner of the wall rubbed raw from her little chin. The howling emptiness of the spaces where her litter box was, and where her food and water bowls were.

It sucks.

We are working our way back.

A week and a half after putting Emma to sleep, Brenda & I find ourselves brimming over with energy, an unclaimed love that needs to be swallowed up by one or more new companions. The initial feeling is one of replacement, but that is wrong. Emma lived 17 years and had a great life, and despite our desire for her to live three to ten years more, she did not; we did what we could for her, she died peacefully, and we will carry the guilt of watching her die forever, nonetheless.

Now, it’s time to unload all this pent-up love on one or more new creatures, and it’s fraught with issues.

I love cats, but I also love dogs, and so does Brenda. Most of my life I lived in places unsuitable for dogs, but I managed to have my experience with both good and bad specimens. A Beagle who couldn’t be controlled, a Doberman who scared everyone but loved us all. But after that, it was cats for me, and I loved every one of them. Apartments are what they are, and one thing that that is is a good place for cats — not dogs. So I got used to the idea of cats. Emma ended up spending 17 years showing us how insignificant dogs were, but now that she’s gone we’re wanting that great big gigantic canine 24/7 problem more than ever.

And so we headed to the Boulder Humane Society today.

We’ve been trolling the websites for the last week or so, and today we headed to the Boulder Humane Society (with our friends Bill and Lauren) to see if there was a match. “Happy” the Plott Hound mix, was our chosen “possible match”. The damned thing bit my lip after 45 seconds of interaction, but we still spent an hour with her and walked her around a while. Brenda helped me realize this was not the animal for us. Bill and Lauren also came to a similar conclusion about the pup they tried out. Brenda & I spent a lot of time soaking in the emotions of the many cats housed there, as well. It was a heartbreaking way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

We’re more steeled than ever to get a dog, and have spent the bulk of this afternoon looking at the various shelter websites. We’re convinced that we’ll be good parents, but the questions abound. Do we get a dog, and, if so, do we get a little one or a big one? Do we get a cat at the same time, and if so, do we get a couple while we’re at it? If so, do we get a kitten and an old fart? a couple kittens??

We want to get it right the first time, and I can tell you I can’t endure a lot of trips to the shelter. I gotta go; lots of promising pups and kitties on the websites…

She was loved, she was our child; she will be missed.

Richard Jeni, standup comedian, killed himself the other night. I always remembered him as one of those great comedians who sailed under the radar, one of those acts that you were proud to say “yeah, he’s great”, with the smug satisfaction of someone who was more plugged in to the comedy scene than the person you were talking to.

Jeni’s specials on TV were the kind of laugh-fests that you remember forever, the kind that have you with tears in your eyes and your sides literally hurting from laughing so hard. Interestingly, his interview & quote in the Bill Hicks documentary “Just a Ride” was very telling. He said that watching Bill Hicks, you really questioned what you were doing (referring to standup comedians in general). I thought that was one of the greatest accolades Bill Hicks ever received, since I considered Richard Jeni to be a great comedian and here he was saying he wasn’t even in Hicks’ league.

But enough about Bill Hicks. He’s been gone a while, and Richard Jeni is freshly departed. Damn; I still can’t believe it. Comedy’s a tough racket.

The way I see life, it’s like we’re all flying on the Hindenburg, why fight over the window seats?
-Richard Jeni

Elayne Boosler’s eulogy
Bill Hicks’ “It’s Just a Ride” transcript

Well, shit. Molly Ivins, my favorite Texan, has died. Losing her third battle with breast cancer, one of our greatest bastions of clear thinking and best practitioners of humorous-while-pissed-off writing is no longer around to comment on the bullshit that politicians do.

I still remember reading one of Molly’s editorials in the Star-Ledger, back in New Jersey, a few months before the second Iraq War began. I was struck by how clearly she distilled the issues, and how humorously she did so. I followed her syndicated column, and read her excellent book Bushwhacked, a book you should all read. One of her rants from last May even garnered a post on my website, for what that’s worth. Read the book, read her columns. While you’re at it, watch the movie Bush’s Brain for some great interview clips from Molly about the Evildoer in Chief currently taking up space in the White House.

Molly was great. In the style of Jon Stewart, and in response to the political realities of the day, she kept you laughing, to keep you from crying. She will be sorely missed.

Reading some of the pieces she wrote in past years that related to her battle with cancer reminded me of my dad’s losing battle with cancer, and my attempts to write about and reflect on cancer as an attempt to cope with the experience. Molly’s writing on the topic is just so good, it’s inspiring. And then you realize she’s written her last column.

Rest easy, Molly. You fought a great fight. Several, in fact.

Now head on over to Creator’s Syndicate read her obit, and then read her work. All her latest syndicated stuff is there: Molly Ivins’ Syndication Page.

There’s also a little about Molly in each of these obits and tributes below, all worthy of a read. The last link there is to the piece Molly wrote about cancer a few years ago.

Read this.
Read this too
and this…
this…
this…
and definitely this.