Thankfully, I've never had anyone close to me die. I've only know two people in my life that died. One was a coworker who killed herself. She counts--but I barely knew her. The other was a relative who I didn't particularly like. I remember in high school a couple girls kicked the bucket but I didn't know them (nor did I care). I guess you can say death hasn't really struck home for me--which is a good thing. Why, I've had the misfortune of attending only one funeral in my entire lifetime--and even that turned out to be an event.

Although I consider myself a California boy (and the only proof you need is my panicking fear of the rain), I haven't live here my whole life. I was born in New Jersey and lived there until I was ten when my family was uprooted to California. My father said it was because of a promotion he received at work but the reality was they transferred him to California because he pissed off all of his coworker on the east coast.

California and New Jersey were two very different places (although as I got older, I came to realize Jersey is fine: it's California that's different from everywhere else in the world). After two months of living here and not fitting in, I realized my whole life needed a complete overhaul. What was hip in New Jersey was SO two years ago in LA. And the first thing I needed a change was my appearance.

Perhaps my perceptions were off as to what made a real Californian. Or maybe I was so desperate to fit in, I turned to clichés to find a look. Or maybe it's just 'cause it was the 80s and people did a lot of stupid things in the 80s. Whatever the reason, I decided to adopt a surfer persona. Mind you, I had never surfed a day in life at that point (or up 'til today for that matter). I decided that surfing was in and that's what I was going to do.

I packed up my snowsuit for good and went down to the local mall, stocking up on Maui & Sons attire, loud Hawaiian shirts, and the biggest pair of aviator sunglasses my little face could wear. I remember going to school, not having to worry about wearing Celtic gear in a Lakers town; or taking a coat and umbrella "in case it rains." I felt like a true Californian--I was part of the LA lifestyle and no one would ever view me as an outsider again.

Of course, I continuously got ridiculed and beaten up for it (especially every time I said anything with my heavy Jersey accent)--but that's another iRANT for another day.

About a year after moving here, my family decided to take a New Jersey vacation so we could visit and see all our old friends and relatives. I was especially looking forward to it. I wanted to show all my Jersey school yard chums how cool--how Californian--I had become. So while the rest of my family searched the attic for their snow mittens and ski masks, I packed up my suitcase with surf gear (including big aviator sunglasses)--ready to impress.

I don't remember anything about the flight there (shows you how much the in-flight movie sucked) but I do know this much. Right about the time we touched down in Newark was when my paternal grandfather died. It wasn't much of a shock to the family because everyone knew he was going--but it was assumed he had another two or three months before he died. That was one of the reasons for our trip: my father wanted to see his dad one last time. What I'm trying to say was a funeral was unexpected by all--including the little Californian kid who had an obsession with Hawaiian shirts.

My father's family was full of crazy people so there was probably gonna be an incident whether or not I was there (those people are insane and bickering is the only form of communication they know). Nevertheless, I remember walking through the doors of that funeral home wearing a bright orange Hawaiian shirt (sans aviator sunglasses--I knew that much) and immediately all attention was turned on me. The shirt was as bright as it was loud: it woulda stood out anywhere--let alone a room filled with people dressed in black.

It really wasn't my fault--it's not like I intentionally set out to make a spectacle of myself. I was going to Jersey for a vacation--not a funeral. I didn't have a suit or anything black--I just had about a dozen different Big Fat Party animal shirts. I came there to look cool and impress my friends: not mourn a recently deceased relative.

Unfortunately, my crazy aunts didn't see it that way. It started with mummers around the room and erupted into a full-scale assault. They cornered my mother and I, unleashing a tirade that would put Mussolini in tears. How could you come to a funeral dressed like that? Don't you have any respect for the dead? You never liked our father! This is the worst thing anyone has ever done. Surely you will rot in hell for such a blasphemous act (which is exactly the sorta thing you'd expect to hear from funeral-attending Italian women).

That was the first (and hopefully last) funeral I ever went to. I remember not feeling sad during it, which was probably because I didn't like my grandfather that much in the first place. I felt bad because I didn't feel bad--but I was a kid and hadn't seen the guy in over a year. He didn't speak a word of English and the only Italian I knew were the curse words my father used to scream at me (which proved to be highly useless in conversation).

I've never had anyone close to me die and I'm very grateful for that. The saddest I've ever been over a death was when Laker announcer Chick Hearn died (I actually cried). But it's not like Chick was close to me--he was just a guy I listened to on the radio. I could never begin to act like I know what anyone is going through when a family member dies. And to be completely truthful--I don't wanna know.

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