yesterday my dad came to visit my home for the first time ever. in the course of a half-hour visit, he smoked exactly 9 cigarettes. asking him to smoke outside would have a: been somewhat cruel as it was bitterly cold out and he is a frail 72-year-old man and b: meant we had even less meaningful conversation than we did because he would have been outside the whole time. he is the only person i know who shakes out a fresh smoke with one hand while stubbing one out in the ashtray. he smokes 3-4 packs a day, drinks a bottle of bourbon a day and is still standing. his memory is going but it's hard to tell because the drink has kept him in a permanent state of befuddlement for so long. we went out to eat and then stopped for a drink (i never have hard liquor in my house). we came back here just long enough for him to tell me where his will is, that he has set up a living trust for all of us, he wants to be cremated, and that he doesn't think he'll see me again. and then he left.

thisaway - thataway