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Two days ago, I killed my father. I looked into his eyes, and watched him fade; there was nothing I could do. But really, I was just an accomplice. The real asshole is this other guy you should know about, his name is metastatic nonresectable liver cancer, and that’s who you want to be taking a real look at. You might also want to run a background check on a duodenal adenocarcinoma that was removed from my father about three years ago, because that jerk is at the root of all of this.

Happy Father’s Day, yeah yeah. The whole way up to my Aunt’s place, and the whole way back, the radio voices boasted of great deals and specials and gift ideas for dad. I thought to myself: just shut up already.

How’s this for a pre-race regimen:

Thank you to all, who have sent me so many kind thoughts and offers. You’ve all helped, in your own ways. I get a special kick when someone I’ve never even met face-to-face sends me some touching note—via email—because I know dad hated email. I kept trying to tell him it’s a viable means of communication, but dad was a traditionalist. Oh, well.

You know what happens? You lose them. You lose the people you love. It happens. Sometimes they get run over by a car, as happened to my friend Rich. Sometimes they catch a bad break and a fatal disease decides to pay a visit and fucking kill them, as happened to my dad. Been through it a couple times now, and I can tell you this, it sucks. And you never make the best of it, but I know I will continue to be an idiot, and so will everyone else.

Guglielmetti Philip John, 61, of Randolph, passed peacefully in his home on June 3, 2004.

He lit the cigarette with the automatic reflex he’d developed over the years, so I didn’t even notice it. I saw the sweep of his hand on the cigarette pack; but the extraction of the butt, the lighting of the stick, this was something I had seen thousands of times before, so I paid it no mind. Easter, 2001.

First annual inspection, done. Airplanes are required to undergo an inspection every twelve calendar months, and “the annual” is often a dreaded ritual where the aircraft owner drops his plane off with his mechanic and waits for the list of expensive things wrong with it. In a good year, the inspection is just that, and things are inspected and nothing it found our of order. Most years, one or more things are found out of order, much to the chagrin of the owner. Some years, the annual presents an opportunity to take care of a few things that have needed doing, and that is what my situation was.

With my father in poor health and Father’s Day fast approaching, I guess I should have expected some irony. The first bit of that arrived in my inbox this morning; the latest email newsletter from Duluth Trading Company (sort of a J. Peterman catalog for tool freaks) sported the following subject line:

“Hello? Hi, this is Rob, Phil’s son. Yeah, he got home today and he wanted to talk to you, hang on.” (hands phone over)

Dad’s sick; he has been for a while. He’s very sick now. That’s all you get to know for now. Actually, that’s all any of us gets to know for now. Talk to ya later.

Update/note: This utility has been through a few changes. It currently exists as a Perl script written by Axel Jacobs, and is part of the Radiance source code. Get some!

My sister has a new last name. My airplane is in pieces. My wife’s half-sister is now a nurse. I have a brother-in-law. Tomorrow marks four years of marriage for Brenda & I (and almost fourteen years of best friends/partners-in-crime/lovers). I finished the Woodward book today (mixed feelings; Susskind’s book is next up). Randy & Jan are expecting. All good.

Sunny Orlando, Florida. Been there, done it. But it was time to do it again. Brenda’s sister was graduating from school, and becoming a nurse. We went down there, to watch. We went early, to vacation. As I said, been there, done it. All who know me know my distain for the place. A card-carrying Disney hater, I loathe the land of calculated happiness, forced smiles, Olive Gardens, and line length camouflage. But, you know, blood is thicker than water.

In honor of the one reporter present at the Presidential press conference last night with the balls to try and get a straight answer out of our fearless leader, I offer this extended dance mix version of Question Number Thirteen:

After a promising fall season, wherein I shamelessly gushed about aircraft ownership and looked forward to the months ahead, I was greeted by a particularly pissed off Old Man Winter. This curtailed all flying for months. In fact, my flying has suffered a bit of a crimp even these last few months, as my weblog content clearly shows. Lately, I haven’t seen an aviation article on this site at all, just a lot of bitching and ranting.

VVVVVVROOOOMMMM!!… VVVVROOOOOMMMM!!… ”…and Waltrip’s making a move…” VVVVROOOMMMM!!…

Week two of Al Franken’s new radio show brings James Fallows and Ron Suskind to the airwaves, and later this week my beloved Bush basher Molly Ivins will be a guest. I’m enjoying the show. I wish Al & Katherine all the luck in the world, and sincerely hope that their message reaches the voters of this country.

Good evening everyone, and now it’s time for Birthday Report.

I blew the dust off my little portable radio I keep at work for ballgames. Damn power switch is getting a little flaky, but working it back and forth a few times I was eventually able to get a clear signal. I tuned in to 1190 AM, WLIB here in New York City.