Smoke on the Water

The Day the MuseSick Died

I'm posting this late in the day on the 26th, so you might call this "A Year and a Day".  I'll just call it a year though.

Back in the '70s, one of the best songwriters of the era laid down an epic track, celebrating the music and mourning the loss of Buddy Holly.  American Pie, by Don McLean remains high in the pantheon of superior songs, and it is a fitting parallel to this annerversary.

The Day the MuseSick Died.

For that atrocious pun alone, Rob would have me dragged off and shot.

I can think of less praiseworthy forms of demise.  Seriously, I can picture Rob chortling and laughing his patented "Buwahahaa!" as he'd watch me trooped off to the post and blindfold for Abuse of the English Language.

A few days short of one year ago, I wrote this eulogy in tribute to a man who's impact on my life is mirrored in the lives of dozens of other writers, and quite literally, thousands of other readers. 

My closing words from that year-ago eulogy are no less fitting today, than then.

Now, a final word.  I've been as maudlin, emotionally torn-up and just flat-out shattered at Rob's demise as imaginable.  I've shared tears with friends on the phone, swapped some war-stories of Rob and most sadly, have been the bearer of the bad news to three who had not yet read of his death.  Those were the worst moments of all.

But now, it's time to move on.  Rob wrote often of his football days, of playing through the pain, of hustling through the hurt.  So, we've got it to do.

Life goes on.  Shitty things in the news which would've pissed Rob off still need ranting.  The laughable idiocy of the Left still need lampooning.  Bourbon needs be sipped, cigars need be smoked, hogs must be roasted and fresh green peanuts need their boiling. 

It falls to us to do all that, lest we be dragged off and shot.

Goodbye, Rob.  Adios, Acidman, you cranky old bastard.

Your friend,

Jim

Sloop New Dawn

Galveston, TX

And to that, may I get an Amen?

Updated, ten minutes after initial post:

Some of you might wish to revisit what many other bloggers had to say a year ago.  Ain't none of us going to fill the hole Rob left.  None, of us.

Old Spice

The classic scent of the common man.  Common many years ago and less so now, but not a forgotten fragrance either.  It is still spashed daily by thousands, upon a like number of wizened, grizzled mugs.

A scent considered dated, passe' and far out of style, yet which still sells millions of dollars worth annually; the men who wear it are to those who love them, absolutely never dated, passe' or out of style.

This evening, I read the following comment in response to this post by the always read-worthy Law Dog Files.

Arfin Greebly said...
LD,

Dammit.

You made my eyes water, and I'm not eating anything hot.

If I somehow managed to grow into my father, I would consider it an honor.

I have long felt those were shoes I could not fill.

Every time I review the integrity with which he has lived his life, I find myself wanting.

I hear ya, Afrin.... and raise you an "amen".

So, though while Law Dog's post speaks of an entirely different sort of spice, he speaks the common language of sons who come to know thier fathers later in life, and surprisingly, in their own lives as they live them.

A bit melancholy, to be sure.  But not sad.  No, not sad at all.

Indeed, every morning that I drag the whetted steel across my own aging jowls, I find myself more and more to be shaving the face of my Father.

So, Mr. Greebly?  Don't feel bad, mate.  I know I can never fill my Dad's shoes.  Not even close.  I'll be happy if I can be merely half the man my Dad is, and even that is to aspire to fight above my weight.  For all his flaws, mistakes and shortcomings, he's lived a life which far outstrips mine in accomplishment, experience and integrity.

I admire him beyond words, and love him beyond measure.

And shall, always.

Happy travelling, Dad, and Happy Father's Day!

addendum: 

By the way, I come to my love of black pepper quite of my own volition.  I can remember quite cleaerly, the four of us (Dad, my late Mom and (now estranged) brother, dining at the Western Steak House on Orangethorpe Ave in Fullerton, CA.  And my folk's watching in astonished amazement as I quite literally blanketed my steaks (we ate there often enough), in a good solid layer of black pepper, relishing every bite.  I was in the 2nd grade then.

And while I've never came to appreciate any sort of bell pepper or hot chili peppers, I still loves me a well peppered steak.