{"id":220,"date":"2004-06-28T01:10:00","date_gmt":"2004-06-28T01:10:00","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/bobtherieau.com\/blog\/index.php\/2004\/06\/28\/65f7e91c-c6da-4ba7-bad0-1e2eb9204551\/"},"modified":"2018-06-13T01:29:40","modified_gmt":"2018-06-13T01:29:40","slug":"65f7e91c-c6da-4ba7-bad0-1e2eb9204551","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/bobtherieau.com\/blog\/2004\/06\/65f7e91c-c6da-4ba7-bad0-1e2eb9204551\/","title":{"rendered":""},"content":{"rendered":"
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I Apologize In Advance For Using Up Your Oxygen<\/b><\/p>\n

By a series of circumstances—some of which involving underwear—I found myself driving my sister and my nephew to the desert early Thursday morning for my uncle’s funeral service later that day. Dad had asked the local parish priest to say a few words, and he did, by delivering what amounted to a stripped-down Catholic mass at the funeral home. We family members sat in the first two rows so we could mostly make out what the padre had to say. He eschewed the microphone for most of the service though, so the remainder of the attendees heard next to nothing, mostly just the odd croak, wheeze, and “amen.”<\/p>\n

The few Catholics in the crowd followed along with the call and response scheme, offering an “and also with you” and “in this we pray”when they thought it was time, getting it right a majority of the time. This part puzzled though, why was the priest dousing the wreath on the table behind him? There were no ashes there, no casket, just a wreath. Dad explained it as “symbolism. It’s symbolic. Duh.” Well, sure. Just like the Lazarus story.<\/p>\n

The less than respectful parts came later during the eulogizing. One mourner proclaimed “oh yeah, he sure liked to party, we had a real good time, real good…” Another, arriving in her black “mourning shorts and chukka boots” described my uncle’s “giant stack of girly magazines, must’ve been this high” to the attendees—and the elderly Catholic priest.<\/p>\n

Very tactful.<\/p>\n

The wake was nice though. Friends and family got together and swapped stories about my uncle, their lives since they’d last met, and how they didn’t want to meet again under such circumstances. I tried to meet as many of them as I could, asking them about their lives and their recollections of the Coachella Valley in the 50s, 60s, and 70s. I guess I was hoping to hear from them how my uncle’s life might have turned, but that never happened. Or maybe it did. The recurring theme was that it never turned at all. He was always disinterested in the 9-to-5 rat race. He was “comfortable in his own skin,” as they say, never heeding everybody else’s idea of success.<\/p>\n

And he surrounded himself with people who felt the same way.<\/p>\n

With that, I had an epiphany. Drop the pathology<\/i> line. Which is what I’m going to do.<\/p>\n

By the way, it was 110 degrees in the desert at the end of last week, and the A\/C in the Jeep Grand Livingroom hasn’t worked in months. Today, though, back in San Diego, I bought the part that I had suspected was the problem. A twenty dollar part, since you asked. Now the A\/C works fine and pumps out very cold air. Twenty dollars! Bah!<\/p>\n

For that I subject my nephew to the furnace blast of driving through the valley with the windows open to the point where he said, “momma, I’m gonna barf.” “Is he serious?” “Oh yeah,” said my sister, “he won’t say it unless he really means it.” So we pulled over on the way home so he could get sorted. My sister ran cold water over his head in the gas station restroom, so with that and a little air, he was fine.<\/p>\n

Uncle Bob’s such a cheapskate it makes you want to barf, doesn’t it?<\/p>\n

Well, doesn’t it?<\/p>\n

– bob<\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I Apologize In Advance For Using Up Your Oxygen By a series of circumstances—some of which involving underwear—I found myself driving my sister and my nephew to the desert early Thursday morning for my uncle’s funeral service later that day. Dad had asked the local parish priest to say a few words, and he did, … <\/p>\n

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