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“I have to see a thing a thousand times before I see it once.” 
                                                                                        - Thomas Wolfe, You Can't Go Home Again

It's finally Wednesday. When I was a little kid in Bedford Hts., Ohio that often meant my big brothers taking me to get the three-piece dinner special at Mr. Chicken. I don't know why they had a Humpday special, but cheap chicken was only on Wednesdays. It was painted on the outside wall of the building in case you forgot. I loved it. My dad didn't. He thought it was junk. He especially hated the pasty, instant mashed potatoes. They were my favorite. I even remember having pneumonia in the fourth grade and not being able to eat. My mom said she would get me anything I thought I could keep down. So I sent her for - you guessed it, Mr. Chicken. 

Today I was helping my mom around the house and lunch time arrived. I headed out to get the chicken. The smell - intoxicating. The drive home filled with the exuberance only manifested by the promise of deep fried goodness. Then it happened. Yuck. It was greasy. The biscuit was dry. The beloved mashed potatoes were ice cold in the middle. WHHYYYYYYY! You got me Mr. Chicken. I'm your April Fool.

So can you ever go home again? Is this the way the chicken always tasted? Has Mr. Chicken gone down hill? Or have I just grown up? Did the donuts at Dunkin' Donuts shrink? Or do I just remember the size of them in relation to my six-year-old hands? Was Benny Hill really that funny? Why did I like Scooby Doo so much?

This is all very confusing. Luckily my cousin found my long, lost class ring in a box of costume jewelry today. It still fits. All that chicken didn't produce a sausage finger. Yeah. Some things never change. Or was I just fat in high school?

So I finally made it to Broadway. Unfortunately the Broadway I'm talking about is in Bedford, Ohio. I just got through singing Don't Stop Believing by Journey at Karaoke night at the local coffee shop - Bedford Falls Cafe. It's a cute little place although I was disappointed there weren't any sightings of Jimmie Stewart's ghost. 

Of all the things that the Japanese have given us I think I pick sushi or even Hara-Kiri over the ritualistic torture of popular music. In fact most of the time I am at a karaoke event I would prefer that the performers (myself included) would commit Hara-Karaoke.

But then there are the shockers. There was a middle-aged smoker in a Browns sweatshirt that hit Purple Rain outta the park. My cousin always kills it when she does Vickie Lawrence's only hit. You know the one? Plus I won a bunny lawn ornament. So did my mom. Not a bad night in Oh-hi-ya.

This book caught my eye when I was in the Rockport Library on West 140th Street in Cleveland. Ironically I found my self at that branch as it was closest to the airport where I had just finished dropping my brother off and I needed WiFi to take a Facetime meeting! To me this was fortuitous as I had planned on writing about the ability to unplug and survive today anyway. Being in a home with basic cable and a phone with a curly chord for four days will do that to you. 

I got to thinking about if it is actually possible to be unplugged in today's world. So much of our three-dimensional lifestyle is being replaced with cyber-counterparts. Coupons come straight to our smart phones. Mail comes straight to our inbox - instantly. I was just in a meeting in a boardroom at a college in New Jersey in real freakin' time! Unreal! 

So can it be done? On a day like today I say no. We have to be plugged in. I don't see any way around it. I take meetings with Google Hangouts. I audition by sending people to my website. For a technophobe this trip to Cleveland has been very eye-opening. I never even realized how often I use the internet. I couldn't even use my father's funeral in another state as an excuse to not be at a meeting. Or not to blog!

With all we bitch about out there in the ether, I find myself being very grateful for the connectedness we all have at our fingertips. Plus the free porn. Let's not forget about the free porn.

"The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interrèd with their bones." - Julius Caesar

Of course the above quote is from Mark Anthony's eulogy to Julius Caesar. But I'm not sure that is true based on what I saw yesterday. Nobody had anything bad to say about my dad. It seems the swearing, racism, and general dislike of most of the people he met all got interred with his bones. 

It's strange that a guy who caused me so much angst and embarrassment can be summed up with a "eh, he's not such a bad guy." It's strange to know that some of the mourners haven't seen my dad in years - decades even. So what are they so upset about? The fact they lost their chance to ever see him again? The guilt over the family feud that kept them apart? Or do the memories of high school glories and young gun adventures just have them all choked up? 

Crazy day. I'm still processing. But I can safely say that you have to choose what to put in the hole when someone dies. It's up to you. Shakespeare's Brutus chose the good. My family chose the bad. What will you choose?

Today was my dad's memorial service. I had planned to basically read the blog I wrote about him the day he died on March 7th. Then I got to my mom's house Thursday. Then my brother arrived Friday. Then my mother repeatedly said things like "I hope no one says anything stupid.", "this is not a comedy club it's a Catholic church." and "Don't talk about how your father swore all the time." My speech suddenly got very short.

I was conflicted. I called my girlfriend in Jersey to ask what to do. She said I had to decide who I wanted pissed at me my mom or my dad. Logically you would go with the one who is living. But I made an exception and told everybody how my dad talked like a sailor. But I learned one thing: No matter what you do somebody will think you should have done the opposite. So you just be you. Like my dad - damn it.