If the phone hadn't rang, you'd be a half sentence into a screed about our confusion of entertainment and reality which started to set in a little after we put an actor in the White House.
Some other time.
If the phone hadn't rang, I'd be putting the finishing tag on another column, looking forward to open mike night over at Summit City. Hoping the strings on my guitar would hold for one more workout.
But not tonite.
If the phone hadn't rang, I'd have mowed some grass and updated some websites and maybe even have jumped in my boat for a little Meatgrinder training. I'd have gotten a lot done today.
It started out looking so good!
But the phone rang. It rang and I answered and what I heard changed my day. Not in a way you ever want.
What I heard was that a lifelong friend had passed without warning. Someone I expected to be laughing and sharing a cold beer with today. Someone I've known since I was 14 years old. Someone who's time surely couldn't be done already.
What I heard left me dazed and scrambled and unable to get my bearings even to this key stroke. It is a strange sensation because I mostly can't get past what I won't hear again.
I'll never hear "Hey Shmiegel, you gotta put the snerbitz in the flerd." again. It's something I've heard and understood many times. I accept that you may not.
I'll never hear "Whattayamean, whattayamean?" when I ask "whattayamean?" in the middle of some tangent again.
I'll never hear "coocooo for cocoapuffs" in that perfect coocoo bird voice again.
I'll never hear the same guy sing "Ave Maria" like an angel again.
And worst of all, I'll never hear "hey Steve, got sauce on and bread in the oven, come on over" again.
I'd rather have gone deaf.
A few years ago, Timmy proudly volunteered his services when we asked him to step in and cook spaghetti for our annual paddler appreciation in October. Just like his father and uncle had done years before. The cooking gene is strong in the Marinaro family and no one walks away hungry. There are about a thousand visitors over the years who could attest to that.
Those of us lucky enough to sit down for a gom session with Timmy Marinaro would be treated to olives, pepperoni's, fine cheeses, a perfect pizza made entirely from scratch, a jug of Paisano, and a whole lot of laughs. The man was truly happiest when he was cooking for his family and friends.
Tim spent most of the last ten years taking care of his elderly father, Nick. I spent a lot of time with him in the last couple and he never complained. He had no life but to take care of a 90 year old man 24/7, but he didn't complain. He just liked to be able to help.
Timmy had a huge heart and the world would be a much happier place if more were like him instead of the creeps that inhabit our infotainment airwaves.
If the phone hadn't rang, I wouldn't have gotten the chance to tell you that.