In the winter of 1998, I almost died. My then best friend and I were headed to a Goth Night at a sports bar in Mall of America. Don’t judge, it was a blast. The weather outside was not. Snow, ice, and sleet made every inch of road treacherous, and it had been that way for days. And if my roommate and I had to spend another evening in the apartment together, one of us would have gone to jail the next morning.

We were on I-494, creeping our way through the snow and ice, when I happened to glance behind us. A city bus had bene there most of the way, but had lost control, and was now sliding sideways down the highway at increasing speed. I turned to my roommate, told him to punch it. He looked at me like I had lost my mind, until he looked in the rearview. Punch it he did, and we mostly hydroplaned our way to the mall.

I think of that moment often. When depression and low self esteem hit me hard, it feels like I’m on that bus, sliding towards a cliff. I’m just waiting for us to crash into the ground below, helpless in my path towards failure, death, and destruction. I was getting the better of it last year, then 2020 happened.

To say that the last 90 days of 2020 have been a kick in the teeth is an understatement. I’ve had bad years before, but oddly those years were also balanced out by personal triumphs as well. This year feels different. Those years felt like the Tower card in Tarot (my signature one), where great change is wrought by everything falling apart.

2020 is only halfway done, and most people feel like they’ve lived a decade already. Everything feels slower, that you walk through cotton candy to engage anyone or anything. It’s almost as if the whole world has become a small town, where everything is done by sundown, and we’re all concerned over who’s calling on everyone else. Everything shuts down by seven now, and gods help us if the internet shuts down.

When Covid first hit, I’d wondered if the slowdown of the world would force folks to take a long hard look at their world, their neighbors, and then think hard about the way they’re living. I included myself in that group.

Instead, we fell deeper asleep, especially in the thinking department. Who had armed revolt against mask wearing on their card for this year? Anyone? Would anyone know who Carol Baskin was if not for the virus? A lot of us are sleeping, and now is nightmare time.

But maybe this year is the Tower card after all. But it’s not for me, it’s for my country. Covid has forced us to rethink how we work, eat, and treat others.  The resurgence of Black Lives Matter would not have happened if not for Covid. If you don’t believe me, ask the families of people like Philandro Castile. And Breon Taylor’s killers still haven’t been arrested.

Just this week, entire industries have been overrun with sexual harassment victims coming forward. More and more people are starting to turn on Trump. Election and voter reform are now nationwide topics. Maybe while some of us are groggy, it’s because others are waking up. We all influence the sleep of those around us at home, maybe it’s starting to do that on a country wide level? I will say most of my neighbors, I really don’t need to see in their PJs.

The tile of this post comes from Revolting Cock’s “Attack Ships on Fire.” I had the poor taste to play that the morning of a naval disaster. That was the first time I was suspended from being a radio DJ, and it wouldn’t be the last. The line about waking up, to me, is about wanting someone to wake up my sleeping body while the ship is on fire. I may be groggy these days, but me and others have smelled the smoke, and are looking for the extinguishers. Please join us, shake off your sleep, and help us all before the ship goes down. 

On Tuesday, May 26 Larry Hund went from this world to whatever happens next. He was my father-in-law, though that title really does not do him justice. He was my mentor, sounding board, and most importantly, my friend.

Most people would pass Larry on the street, and not think too much. He wasn’t a big strapping guy, or loud and outgoing. But much like the hero of his favorite movie, Forrest Gump, once you sat down and talked with him, you discovered the kind, salt of the earth man he was.

Larry was born in Midland, Michigan in 1942. He never said too much about his childhood to me, but I hope it was happy. He talked to me more about his high school years, where he was a troublemaker. He got one of those judges who gave him a choice: jail or the military. And off to the Army he went.

Larry was a proud veteran. How could he not be? It had given him the love of his life, my mother-in-law, Jennie. Together they raised four children, traveled the country, and settled down in Waukegan, Illinois.

This is where I met Larry for the first time. I’d been friends with his daughter Lianna (now my wife, only took me twenty years to get her to date me), and his younger son, Brett. But Larry worked third shift, so I never saw him when we’d go to his house to play D & D. But then we all went to prom, and Larry offered to drive us in his big black Caddy. And he’d dressed for the part, donning a suit coat and chauffer’s cap. He was all jokes and smiles, which was his natural state most days.

I can’t speak too much about him as a father, except that it must have been excellent, considering how his children turned out. My favorite example of this was my senior year of high school. Me, my friend Todd, and Brett had all gotten bad progress reports. I was going to be grounded until college, and Todd thought his old man was going to whup on him. Brett? “My dad is going to be so disappointed in me.”

I’d see Larry at many events after that. Some were happy (Terri’s wedding) and some were horrible (the funeral for Larry Junior). But I don’t think I really got to know him until I started dating his daughter in 2001.

I will never be able to thank Larry enough for the woman he raised. But he was part of the package as well. He’d come over to see his grandkids and kids, and his face would just light up. He never really had a cross word for them, even when they got wild and crazy.

The more I hung out with Larry, the more I learned form him. He taught me patience with my children and others. He led by example, making sure his family did stuff together, and always trying to see the world. One of Larry’s favorite songs was “I was born under a wandering Star” from the movie Paint Your Wagon. I find that funny because Larry sure loved being at home sometimes.

I think I really got to know Larry after he retired. Him and Jennie moved to the Charlotte area to be close to Terri and Lianna. He and I would go do things together, to get out of our wives’ hair. My favorite was going to the movies.

Larry liked action and war movies. We’d go see stuff like the Expendables and Fast and Furious and lose a few brain cells. I was looking forward to doing it for a good decade. The universe, unfortunately, had other plans

It was after Larry went into the hospital for sever pancreatitis that everyone first noticed it. He’d forget things or lose his place in a movie. We chalked it up at first to getting older, losing a step, like everyone else who ages. Then the diagnosis came in.

Alzheimer’s to me, is a serious argument against the existence of a loving God. To take a healthy, older man, full of life, and rob him of his mind? It’s nothing but cruel, nature red in tooth and claw. It robbed my family of a husband, father, grandfather, and great grandfather.

But even in his end, he kept his spirits up. He loved watching Forrest Gump and always had a pleasant word for people. I should mention why Forrest Gump was his favorite movie. Like Forrest, he’d been on the ground in Vietnam, had encounters with famous people, and loved a woman named Jennie with all his heart. Don’t believe me about the famous encounters? He was the first soldier to hear that Gary Powers was shot down over Russia, and I still remember him coming back from the Opry with an autograph from some lady named Taylor Swift. I hear she’s done quite well for herself.

Now, the family is gathering to say farewell to Larry. Folks are coming from across the country to say goodbye. Afterwards there will be tears and stories. I have a feeling Forrest Gump will be watched. After that, I’m going to hold my own memorial for Larry.

I’m going to sit in a recliner, pop open a beer (or cider) open some peanuts, and watch a movie called Drive Angry. It’s a Nicholas Cage movie, a funny supernatural thriller. It’s also the last movie I went to with Larry in the theatre. It was after the diagnosis, and I decided to stop the car before letting him off. I thanked him for being my father-in-law, for giving me his children as friends and family, and for showing me what family really was. He shrugged it off. I’m sure it made him uncomfortable, but if Larry taught me anything, it’s that to tell the people you love you love them. Now, today, because nobody is promised tomorrow.

I like to think there’s something after this. I don’t know what it’s like. I don’t know who or what runs it. But I like to think that somewhere Larry is sitting on a park bench, in a white suit, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette, because he can. He’s like Forrest, just sitting on a sunny day, waiting for his Jennie.

Goodbye Larry, I love you.