SICILIAN BIANCO

taco tuesday was NOT invited to the funeral.
actually, there's not even gonna be a funeral.
nope.
this is one efficient, effective exit,
and my old man was dressed to impress on the cremation express.
damn,
it's uncomfortable, knowing there won't be any more opportunities
to put him on speaker phone for new friends to experience.
i mean,
really.
i always knew he'd come through, and prove me an honest biographer-
usually,
after the stories of what kind of a tall tale/urban legend produced me,
i could tell folks were skeptical of how much embellishment i'd gilded on-
...until he'd call and unwittingly confirm that i'd been telling true stories.
no joke,
if you had to picture what he looked like solely from the timber, pitch, tone,
rhythm patois and intricate lexicon of a soundtrack?
well,
james earl jones doesn't look F*-all like darth vader, man.
but that's about as accurate a comparison as i can conjure up.
i'm in mourning over here.
and when we mourn, we eat-
and what do we eat when we're sad?
crabtree eats dog food.
i mean, c'mon.
he's a dog... don't be dumb.
but me?
i eat the best!
yup.
if i'm gonna swallow my feelings down deep,
they're gonna rest on a super-fluffy bed of homemade hand-tossed
semolina sicilian square-
check it out:
 
ARR EYE PEE EYE ZEE ZEE AYY!
get it?
oh.
well, anyway-
i made a sicilian bianca-
no sauce.
that's bianca, bro.
it's a white pie.
i know you see that crust, too.
mmhmmm.
good bread makes better people,
and i'm telling you this new-new is the TRUTH.
and also, all the stuff my father wouldn't ever have been caught dead eating on a pizza.
i s'pose that's the good news?
yikes.
braised broccoli, baby tomatoes, fire roasted tomato flake sprankles.
all expert.
raw red onion, baked at 480℉ for that perfect balance between soft an sharp.
mmmm.
cashew chee', from scratch?
yeah!
minced-up daiya mozzarella , maxxximized for meltability?
obvi.
thick-cut sliced garlic?
rules is rules, and those fried jauns are mandatory in this household.
wordimus prime.
and just to freak it off, and take it to eleven,
and make sure it had that little somethin' exxxtra-
two-tone toasted sesame sossamon sprankles.
F*ing right.
too much is the right amount,
and if there's one thing i inherited from the bigger albie on the block,
(besides this piece-of-sh!t hairline)
it's a penchant for excess.
you grieve your way,
i'll grieve mine.
...on that note:
i will be at work today, just like yesterday, and the day before, and tomorrow, too.
uh-huh.
that's the recipe for successful navigation of purpose-
if you can't work AT something,
due to uncontrollable outside forces acting upon the situation?
then you sure as sh!t had better work THROUGH it,
and become a force in your own right.
***********
i'm one of two alberts left in the family.
same-named, and without sons.
is this it?
is this where it ends?
the surname ceases with us, i s'pose.
i mean, it's highly unlikely
(although not impossible, still realllllly implausible)
that either of us is going to help produce a late-in-life heir to the title.
so,
i guess this is where the road ends-
hopefully not for another 50-60 years from now.
but still,
that's not something i thought about until now.
for me, facing reminders of mortality always brings up
the next three dominoes in the sequence-
that non-guaranteed, unwritten, but probably series of echoes that sound off
after the snap of a tethered lifeline- 
it's not just right now, but a series of right-now-and-laters...
cause-and-effect, action-and-reaction, etc.
the best move, in my opinion, is to act in accordance with your principles,
in anticipation of better tomorrows,
but with wholehearted appreciation for, and participation in, today.
yup.
today is the day.
just like every day;
never quiet, never soft.....