Last night the wife and I went out dancing. Her mother is still with us, and so we were out until last call. We went home, and, well it's dancing, we were rared and ready to go. I couldn't rouse myself until 11:30.
I finally talked to my mom around 12:30 to find out that my father died this morning. You expect some sort of emotional something. A physical shift. There is nothing. Strange. I guess it takes time or being around a body. Now it's just a notion, a notion I was familiar with since my father told me at the dinner table, when the strokes started. I think it was post college, in the months after where I was staying home before moving in with some musicians. My mom, father and myself were having dinner. My father lost his latest job, and we were aware of his medical condition. Things were getting worse with him. At dinner we asked my father what he wanted to do with his life. If he had said "I wanna rock!" I would have been overjoyed. Instead he told us all he wanted to do in life was die. Shortly thereafter he had a minor stroke and so we rushed him to the hospital. I would like to think that that was the impetus to get the fuck out of my parents' house. Though I think it had more to do with pussy. As most things do.
I think about watching The Royal Tennenbaums. I think it's been long enough, but I fear it will be a formality. An attempt to feel something my reviving old emotions. We shall see. My wife rushed to the store in the interim and got a home pregnancy test. We've got a second bun in the oven. I think we both knew before today, but I can't blame her for trying to counterbalance. When I'm done with this my wife promised me a blow job. We'll see if I can make it.