Unearthing

Tangent
Originally uploaded by kafkas_undies.

Remembering things after the fact can be horrific, to say the least. But sometimes recall can be fantastically hilarious and this latter case is almost ubiquitously preferred in the firsthand with the standard masochist exemption. But I'm not a masochist - at least not in the traditional sense - so I was pleased when my inadvertent recollection took the form of all things sugar dust.

At dinner last night, I was conversing with my dead grandfather. Sam. He was telling me about his retirement home in Costa Rica. West coast, I asked with my mouth and with a set of slightly raised knowing-too-much-for-their-own-good eyebrows. Oh yes, he said aloud. The "of course" was implied and I appreciated that. So did my eyebrows for they knew grandpa had lost his taste for subtly. Three tours in 'Nam will do that to a man.

And I didn't mind sitting through Grandpa's horrible jokes but pretending unfunny is its opposite is where I draw the line. And draw it I did each time grandpa got confused about what funny sounds like.

My dead grandfather gave me a ride back to my hotel on his Hog. It again affirmed my love for Harley passengership. Owning or driving a bike doesn't particularly interest me, but passengership is a frivolity after my own heart. Especially when randomness and dead relatives are involved. And especially when the driver is my dead grandfather and he insists that his not yet dead granddaughter wears a helmet and a leather coat. Safety first is so something my dream grandfather would say.

In a very real sense, I think I finally got to know my dead grandpa Sam. Over bad jokes, smuggling stories, a bloody steak, and wine. I finally got to know the man behind the slanderous mythology - folklore propagated by a woman claiming to be my mother. And as I got to know my dead grandfather, I also got to know the joys inherent to myth debunking. I dare say it's more fun than riding ten Harleys while wearing ten helmets.

And much to my surprise, Grandpa, I've come to understand that I've known you all along. Grandpa, you are Everyman's Everyman. You are every illustrator's dream. Even posthumously. You are a caricature of every sexist stereotype I can think of and that's why I love you. That, and because you do it all without a hint of pretense. Grandpa, you're more natural than Mr. Natural. Crumb would have been lucky to meet you.