Italians...

He looks me up and down, and he looks like the Godfather, even talks like him; low raspy voice, laid back demeanor, olive skin that's dark as could be.

"He has my brother's eyes."

It's the biggest compliment I've ever gotten from anybody, especially my grandfather's brother. It breaks my heart and makes me smile at the same time, because my grandfather is God in my eyes. To hear him say that, though, is tough- his wife later comes up to me and tells me how hard he took it when the old man died... "They were brothers, you know... real close. He took it rough." Fifteen years later, and it's like the shit went down yesterday.

Family parties are tough like that for me. I like'em, because of the standard reasons, but it's also tough to be reminded of the dead man every time. I bear a strong enough resemblance that people make remarks constantly, between my dark eyes, black hair, and natural hairyness. Later on, my great aunt will come up and show me an old picture she found of him, and my eyes tear up nearly immediately. I am in the shadow of a great man, and I miss him like hell.

The DJ eventually plays, "Sweet Caroline", and three family members get worried when I leave the room. I was only taking a piss, but apparently it's very evident that I still don't take his death well, and I have to convince them that that song reminds me more of the Red Sox at this point then of the old man.

Yes, I been drinkin.