death – aMediocreMan

Harold, my first experience with real death

(this is a true story, I witnessed this while driving to work several years ago)

I saw papers flying into the air, a small explosion

like a defunct roman candle, not a bottle rocket

up into the air about 10 feet, then scattered around by the wind

onto the curb, onto the median, onto the hot, Florida concrete

like shards of nothing

quick red lights forced closely to my front bumper

a woman, yelling and running from the fruit stand across the street

I got out, walked around the vehicle in front

The bottom corner of the windshield cracked in a soft ball sized circle

with dirty strips of brownish, black hair stuck between the cracks Continue reading “Harold, my first experience with real death”

the first honest obituary

A while ago, my grandfather passed away at the age of 88. I won’t bore you with the details. He was a great man, lived a great life and he died. That’s just life.

As my family prepared his obituary for the local paper, it got me thinking about a couple of things. Have you ever noticed how obituaries are always positive and always portray the dead person as a freaking saint?

Now, this has nothing to do with my grandfather, he actually was a saint and never hurt a soul.

But, I would like to prepare an obituary for a hypothetical dead person who was a real piece of shit.

Billy Ray Bumpkus 1980-2012, from Anytown, USA

Well, we all knew it was coming. Satan finally cashed in Billy Ray’s soul ticket and took him to the depths of hell where he belongs.

We all wondered how it would happen. Hell, the whole family and neighborhood had a death pool going.

Congrats to Billy Ray’s cousin Lula Bell who correctly predicted that he would die by being bitten by his pet Black Mamba named Hitler. $100 to you Lula Bell, well done. Continue reading “the first honest obituary”

pelicans

Finishing a beer, standing on my hotel balcony looking into the Atlantic Ocean, beautiful.

Several pelicans were flying by, gliding in unison, almost looking at me.

Every time I see a pelican I think about my grandfather. He loved pelicans. They were his favorite birds.

I can’t help but think that it’s him flying above the water, watching me, wishing to hug me again. Wishing he could give me advice again. Because his advice was always fucking great.

Wishing to sit with me again and enjoy a cold “Green Hornet,” that was his nickname for Heineken.

He was an intelligent man.

He was a great man.

His heart was true.

He was real.

I miss him more than anyone will know.

Tonight, I look into my hotel mirror, a couple tears rolling down, wishing I could be more like him.

Because he was real.

I have so far to go, so fucking far

to be as good as him.