Funeral for an Acquaintance

A man I worked with absolute eons ago has died. He was 101 years old and went peacefully while sleeping.

We weren’t close though we worked in the same building for yonks. He was old school and I was trying to grow and learn in a male dominated industry. Women in pressrooms were salespeople at most, not Production Managers.

While it was sweet that Peter told me, on more than a few occasions, that I reminded him of his youngest daughter, it felt as though he couldn’t see past this. That is, as long as he was seeing me as just like his kid, he wasn’t paying attention to what I was telling him about the print work we were trying to produce for his customers. Maybe he took me seriously, maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t exactly the most patient human in my early 30s.

None of this matters now (and hasn’t for 30 years). I could have employed diplomacy and grace. He could have refrained from treating me like a little girl. Neither of us did.

The point is that he lived a long, happy, healthy life. He had a wonderful wife, loads of grands and great grandkids and a shitload of friends. Good for him. I’m sincerely happy he had such a full, wonderful life.

I’m also angry—that doesn’t feel like the right word. I’m, perhaps a bit jealous (?), maybe resentful (?) that he got to live so very long and The Amazing Bob didn’t. I’m peeved (?) that Peter had such tremendous health but TAB didn’t and I don’t. That’s not especially evolved of me but, to be fair to myself, it’s just a petty shadow, not the full picture by a long shot.

Peter Orlando in the radio room aboard the USS ATR-2 in 194

I imagine that his wake and funeral will be huge events. He was dearly loved. The family might need to rent out a coliseum. I mean…fer reals. On top of being a nice guy, he was one of the last veteran’s of D-Day still standing.

Fer Bast's sake, the President of France awarded him the Chevalier of the Legion of Honor,
“as a sign of France’s infinite gratitude and appreciation for your personal and precious contribution to the United States’ decisive role in the liberation of our country during World War II.” (source)

Should I go to the wake? I want to pay my respects but also it’d be nice to see so many people not seen in years.

Is this crass of me? Ultra déclassé? Not cool? Yeah, probably.

I’d like to apologize to a few folks. For what? Having been a rabid wildebeest and just generally socially weird in my early-mid 30s. I’d like to completely avoid a few. Then there are the ones I’d like to embrace and thank for their grace, support and kindness.

I’d like to go but this has the potential to be a MONDO awkward occasion. The last time I saw any of these folks, I had hearing, my face wasn’t twisted with nerve damage and I didn’t need a walker or wheelchair to get around.

I think I probably won’t attend. 

I’m envisioning the co-worker who gave me shit about needing more volume on my phone (he was in charge of the company’s phone system). He attempted to shame me for even mentioning my failing hearing because TAB had REAL health problems—NOT me. Dude, I’m not two dimensional—I can take care of and love TAB and be concerned about my own health AT THE SAME DAMN TIME. Neat, huh?

I’m thinking about the manager I had who mocked my hearing loss, saying, amongst other things, that I had “selective hearing” as opposed to brain tumors that would grow and steal my audio. Yeah dude, nice “jokes” at my expense. When did you become an expert on my auditory system and Neurofibromatosis type 2?

I was completely deaf five years after these boys had their fun.

Yeah, I’m gonna stay home. Maybe donate to some charity in Peter's name.

Assorted

I had a dream that I was walking around Boston—from downtown to Back Bay and the South End. All of the buildings were architecturally on par with Boston’s central Public Library.

Exteriors were mostly all done up in Late Baroque style (think Palace of Versailles in Paris) with a few takes on High Baroque thrown in for good measure (picture Basilica di Santa Maria della Salute in Venice by way of Paul Klee, Brâncuși and, maybe, Dr. Seuss).

Interiors all sported murals by John Singer Sargent.

Was all the glorious, elaborate art and architecture the point of the dream? Fuck no. I was lost and trying to find my way…home. Maybe I got lost because the views were so distractingly awesome?
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Another reason to not set foot in Alabama:

A couple in Alabama were arrested after the corpse of their 19-year-old son Logan was found wrapped up in a freezer by a new homeowner in their old residence. (source)

Just imagine it—you’ve bought a new home. It needs work (mostly cleaning?) before you can move in. During your spic-and-span-a-thon what do you find? A dead body. Awesome.

Blankenship (the county sheriff) told PEOPLE the deceased was receiving disability benefits due to his ongoing medical issues. (source)

So, what it looks like to me, Ma and Pa Halstead were fed up with taking care of their disabled son BUT they weren't sick of cashing his social security disability check each month. What to do? Off the kid, tell no one and move. Oopsie though—they forgot to get rid of the body before doing a runner. HEY, haven't we ALL forgotten to dispose of the decomposing body of a loved one we've iced before moving to new digs?

Halstead mom and pop have two other kids who are now in the care of the Alabama Department of Human Resources (whatever that is). Ya know, there are a lot of folks on this planet who shouldn’t be allowed to breed. Cheeto, naturally, tops the list but these ratfuckers def make the top ten.
~~~
Reason #5,000,034 why I’m glad that I, generally, only borrow books from the BPL now:

I was between ripping yarns and scanning the online library shelves. What did I find? A new series by an urban fantasy author that I like...or so I thought.

What I failed to notice was that, instead of Jim Butcher, the writer was James Butcher. Guess what—James is Jim’s less talented son. To be fair to me and my powers of observation, the cover art was by the very SAME artist (or a damn good copier). Same font too.

The book starts in the same urban fantasy style as his father’s books but the main character’s every precious thought goes on encyclopedically for pages on end. The protagonist doesn’t seem to have any friends and I can see why—he’s a tragically dull, navel gazing bore.

Would James have gotten a book deal if not for his bestselling dad? Doubt it.

I only mention it but Joseph Hillström King is known by his pen name Joe Hill. Why? He wanted to make it based on his own talent rather than that of his father—Stephen King.

He did.