The Worst Day of Someone Else's Life

The first thought I had when I woke was “Today is going to be the worst day of someone’s life. But it’s not mine.”

We buried a man that day. I knew from the minute I woke that the depth of suffering I would witness would astonish me. I’d truthfully never seen anything like that.

The only funeral I had attended before that was the one for Charlie’s grandmother. It was a modest affair, she was an old woman with few friends and a very small family.

I missed my own grandmother’s funeral. I was in Hawaii.

But here I was, at the service of a man I’d known only by association, a good friend to my father-in-law. Through the service I thought mostly about his daughter who is not much older than me. I thought about losing your father. About losing my own father.

This is the worst day of her life so far, I kept thinking.

I have a friend whose kid has neuroblastoma and my friend writes frequently of the worst days as he experiences them. When they go in for treatments, he knows they’ll be tough and the poor boy will suffer and watching your kid suffer is the worst kind of Hell.

I Don't Want to Break Up with Brian Williams

I’m broken hearted over this whole Brian Williams thing.

By all accounts, Williams is a gifted storyteller. He’s known for spinning yarns, entertaining small groups of colleagues and coworkers with quips and tales. He’s engaging and magnetic and his stories, while sometimes inaccurate, are amusing and impressive.

The problem with that is Williams is also a journalist. In the United States we expect our journalists to tell the truth.

It’s important to make the distinction that in our country we hold journalists to a standard of honesty that other nations simply don’t impose.

Now that it’s publicly acknowledged that Brian Williams tells tales, the integrity of his reporting is being questioned. Even though he’s never falsely reported a story while sitting at the news desk.

I Drink & I Cuss & I'm Okay

When I graduated Clemson I borrowed my friend Elena’s cap. It had a paw and crossed oars which represented her well. I was a crew team drop out so I taped a sign over it that said, “Sponsored by Budweiser.” 

It fit. I’d just completed 124 days in a row of having at least one alcoholic beverage at Tiger Town Tavern.

Yes. I’m a drinker. And unapologetic about it.

But at 22, graduating university, knowing the true things about me, in this order, were: I’m a drinker, I love Charlie, I’m a writer, and my family’s a big hot mess, I removed the sign before the processional.

My father told me to. He said professors who were considering me for graduate school may not think it was funny.

Fuck that. 

Wish I could have said that then.

My favorite part of Erika Napoletano’s brand is her vocabulary.

She cusses a lot.

And I love it.