I sort of forgot it was, on account my father sort of forgot he was one along around 1976.
Life is dumb, so now his second wife, the remarkable Serpent Woman, regularly sends me packets of things she has cleared out of his desk, including a jumble of photographs going back three generations.
The cat thing seems to have been hereditary. Along with the music, which almost goes without saying.
God and Montreal alone know what these men would think of me, throwing bloody great dumbbells around, swearing like a sailor’s parrot. I was my father’s only son. For whatever it’s worth.