Sunday, April 15, 2007
Aching.
There aren't exactly hordes of readers waiting on my next post, but it's gonna be a while before I can put my thoughts down on paper (metaphorically speaking). And when I say "a while," it could mean six hours, or six months. I'm just not sure.
Dad and I weren't Bestest Friends à la "Gilmore Girls" or anything. Nonetheless, I've found it difficult to get through today without thinking, "I should give Dad a call, he'd get a kick out of that" or "I wonder what Dad's up to?"
Dad and I weren't Bestest Friends à la "Gilmore Girls" or anything. Nonetheless, I've found it difficult to get through today without thinking, "I should give Dad a call, he'd get a kick out of that" or "I wonder what Dad's up to?"
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
More.
I'm at a Holiday Inn Express in Waterbury, Connecticut. I had a good dinner last night with my sister and her boyfriend. We decided on Friday for the memorial service. He wanted to be cremated, and though I hate cremation--I don't feel I can say goodbye to ashes--it's not my decision, it's his.
The service will be a simple, off-the-menu lunch at Dunville's, a restaurant in Westport where Dad and I had dinner almost every night from the time I was in middle school to when I graduated from high school. (And Dad continued going until he moved out of Westport.) Many of the people who work there still remember him. It really was like a second home.
I'll be saying something. I'm not sure what just yet.
Thanks to everyone for your condolences. It means a lot to all of us.
The service will be a simple, off-the-menu lunch at Dunville's, a restaurant in Westport where Dad and I had dinner almost every night from the time I was in middle school to when I graduated from high school. (And Dad continued going until he moved out of Westport.) Many of the people who work there still remember him. It really was like a second home.
I'll be saying something. I'm not sure what just yet.
Thanks to everyone for your condolences. It means a lot to all of us.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
This blog entry has no jokes.
My father had been having, as he put it, some "trouble with the post office." You see, back in December, we sent him his Christmas box, and a month or so later it came back, having never been picked up from his local post office. He asked us to re-send it, noting "Please leave at door," and so we did. Then it came back again, marked "no such person at this address." So I called him, and he said, in a rueful tone, "yeah, I need to get in touch with them. I'll fix it, don't send it just yet, I'll fix it." I joked that maybe I should deliver it personally, drive up to Connecticut and hand it to him, y'know? He laughed.
That was several weeks ago, and the package, still in its Priority Mail box, was sitting by our desk. We had chatted several times since--he had recently found Rooster Spice and would occasionally call to tell me what he thought of an entry (using the Comments box never crossed his mind, I guess). We last spoke on Saturday--a week ago yesterday--and he seemed in good spirits. We compared notes on being Presidents of cooperative nursery schools--coincidentally enough, he was a President, just like me, when his first kids were in preschool. K was also chatting with him occasionally about his family, for her genealogical research, and he was very interested.
This morning, around 11, my older sister D. called me. Dad died sitting in his chair in his apartment in Woodbury. He may well have just fallen asleep there--there was no sign of a struggle. We're not sure exactly when it happened, or why.
I'm someone with a theatrical imagination and a melodramatic bent. There have been a few times recently when I hadn't been able to get in touch with Dad for several days, and I "rehearsed" my reaction, as it were, if I found out he died. When it happened for real, it was a bolt from the blue, an utter shock. I was thinking to myself that I should call him--today is Easter, after all--but I figured I would do so in the afternoon. An hour later, D. called.
Now, I'm still processing. I suppose I'll rent a car tomorrow and drive to Connecticut, but I don't know what will happen next.
In the meantime, I opened the package. There I found the presents I expected: a photo album featuring our kids over the past year, and a copy of Thomas E. Ricks' Fiasco. And also, a Christmas stocking. We had expected him to come down this Christmas, so we bought it for him. When it turned out he couldn't, we decided to send it. I had forgotten.
I think he would have gotten a kick out of the stocking. And I know he would have enjoyed the book. But I really wish he had been able to see the pictures. Even more, I wish he had gotten on the train and visited us for Christmas, like we were planning. Failing that, I wish I had hand-delivered the presents.
He was 68 years old. Goodbye, Dad...
That was several weeks ago, and the package, still in its Priority Mail box, was sitting by our desk. We had chatted several times since--he had recently found Rooster Spice and would occasionally call to tell me what he thought of an entry (using the Comments box never crossed his mind, I guess). We last spoke on Saturday--a week ago yesterday--and he seemed in good spirits. We compared notes on being Presidents of cooperative nursery schools--coincidentally enough, he was a President, just like me, when his first kids were in preschool. K was also chatting with him occasionally about his family, for her genealogical research, and he was very interested.
This morning, around 11, my older sister D. called me. Dad died sitting in his chair in his apartment in Woodbury. He may well have just fallen asleep there--there was no sign of a struggle. We're not sure exactly when it happened, or why.
I'm someone with a theatrical imagination and a melodramatic bent. There have been a few times recently when I hadn't been able to get in touch with Dad for several days, and I "rehearsed" my reaction, as it were, if I found out he died. When it happened for real, it was a bolt from the blue, an utter shock. I was thinking to myself that I should call him--today is Easter, after all--but I figured I would do so in the afternoon. An hour later, D. called.
Now, I'm still processing. I suppose I'll rent a car tomorrow and drive to Connecticut, but I don't know what will happen next.
In the meantime, I opened the package. There I found the presents I expected: a photo album featuring our kids over the past year, and a copy of Thomas E. Ricks' Fiasco. And also, a Christmas stocking. We had expected him to come down this Christmas, so we bought it for him. When it turned out he couldn't, we decided to send it. I had forgotten.
I think he would have gotten a kick out of the stocking. And I know he would have enjoyed the book. But I really wish he had been able to see the pictures. Even more, I wish he had gotten on the train and visited us for Christmas, like we were planning. Failing that, I wish I had hand-delivered the presents.
He was 68 years old. Goodbye, Dad...
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
My main issue with vlogging...
...is that I respected Matt Yglesias much more before I heard what his voice sounds like.
Monday, April 02, 2007
Rolling Stones on K's PDA?
Well, I'll be damned, Steve Jobs was telling the truth. In May, the iTunes store will offer DRM-free music from EMI's entire digital catalog (except the Beatles). OK, it's thirty cents more than the DRM-ed versions, but they're also higher quality--265kbps AAC as opposed to the current 128. Why not Apple Lossless, Steve? And when will indepedent artists get in on the DRM-free lovin' action?
Hey, Browncoats!
Did you know that the makers of Done the Impossible, a documentary about the rise and fall and rise of Firefly, have released the movie as a legal torrent under Creative Commons?
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