What Constitutes a Disaster Story?

A sneak peek and a funeral-planning faux pas

Logo created by Pamela “PJ” Fronzeo

I’ve been teasing the name change/rebranding of this newsletter for a LONG time now, and I’m finally at the finish line.

That lead image you see is the work of a very talented designer named Pamela “PJ” Fronzeo, who worked closely with me to create a visual concept that encapsulates the theme for this newsletter moving forward:

“Disaster Stories: Surprisingly Hopeful Tales from a World on The Brink”

The theme here is hope. No matter how awful things seem (are?), there’s always room for hope. Actually, the worse things get, the more important hope becomes.

That’s not to say I’m going to fill your inbox with naive, pollyannaish tales of manufactured inspiration. There’s no shortage of that out there already. Plus, I kinda hate that shit.

But as someone who struggles daily with letting a what’s-the-point mindset take over, finding those tiny glimmers of hope in even the worst situations is invaluable. I suspect that’s the case with some of you as well.

The format of Disaster Stories will generally remain the same as RPR — at least initially. You’ll receive a monthly newsletter focusing on the personal side of natural disasters, the stories behind those quick, one-line quotes from news articles about hurricanes, wildfires, floods, tornados and any and every type of disaster inherent in being a human being on this beautiful, horrific and ever-changing spinning orb we call Earth.

But I don’t want to limit myself to only natural disasters. The world we live in today is filled with disasters, catastrophes and overblown mishaps that run the gamut from tragic to hilarious.

While most of the stories will focus on the floods and fires that are becoming increasingly common in the era of extreme weather, I’m also going to throw in the occasional tale of self-destructive buffoonery — like what happened at my grandmother’s funeral …

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A surprise guest at my grandmother’s funeral

Barry Taters*, an old friend of mine whom I see maybe once a year, didn’t know my grandmother, but he played a pivotal role in her death.

Let me explain.

Too old for the dicks

A few years ago, Mr. Taters showed up for guys’ weekend — an annual pilgrimage a group of high school and college friends make to watch the first round of the men’s NCAA college basketball tournament — at the Poconos-adjacent flophouse we’d rented, said his hellos, sat down on a couch in the living room and, like a narcoleptic mid-coitus, fell asleep with like 20 dudes talking loudly around him.

Now 10 or 20 years ago, there’s no way Mr. Taters wakes up and leaves that couch without a dick drawn on his face. But for a bunch of middle-aged dudes with aching lower backs and an all-consuming desire to avoid anything that could be considered “work” on this sacred weekend, drawing dicks simply isn’t worth the ROI anymore. Real men — the kind who work with their soft hands manipulating Excel spreadsheets like bosses — understand that bending over and quietly drawing intricate, vein-heavy and possibly bent dicks on some poor shlub’s face is no easy task.

That’s why when Mr. Taters fell asleep, someone snapped this picture of him in his most vulnerable state:

Photo courtesy of author

Who was this mystery photographer? Why did this picture magically wind up not only on my phone, but also in my “Favorites” album? How was it sent repeatedly to unsuspecting friends and family in my contacts? While there’s no way to know for sure, I suspect someone hacked into my phone, uploaded the compromising photo and spread it the way Measles is spreading under this anti-vax administration.

A proper send-off

But back to my grandmother, a streetwise old bird with a caustic sense of humor reminiscent of Ron White. When Gram died (believe the official cause of death was “fuck this hell-in-handbasket world, I’m out,”) the funeral planning fell on me and my sister. True to form, we waited until the very last minute to do it.

Luckily, we had help. The night before Gram’s funeral, my best friend Greg drove hundreds of miles to Ashley, Pennsylvania, armed with nothing but a dry-cleaned suit and a stash of IPAs. The three of us spent the night at Gram’s house, drinking Greg’s beer, retelling old stories and putting together a photo slideshow for the funeral the following day.

The latter is important.

Alcohol has a way of loosening inhibitions that allow people to get through the day without making spectacularly bad decisions, flouting social norms and winding up in jail. It also helps justify questionable choices when planning your grandmother’s funeral.

It was alcohol that led me to believe adding a photo of a thankfully dickless-faced Barry Taters in my grandmother’s memorial slideshow was not only OK, but also a goddamn brilliant idea.

Blissfully unaware

When I went to bed that night at around 4 a.m., I remember thinking, “Man, we really nailed that collage.” That is how a now infamous photo of our dear Taters, a simple man whose only mistake was feeling comfortable enough to be fall asleep around his friends, became an integral part of my grandmother’s funeral.

The next morning, I popped one of Gram’s leftover Xanax and steeled myself for a day that I expected to be emotional but not hilarious. Blasting STP on the way to Lehman Family Funeral Service — the same team that handled dozens of Bilski funerals, including my dad’s — my biggest concern was whether we had picked the right cemetery for Gram’s final resting place. (We didn’t, but that’s another story.)

At no time did I give a second thought to the photo of Taters — or the photoshopped images of Gram’s sister-in-law with the twin towers prominently displayed in the background or the shots of Gram incongruously plopped right in between Omar Reyes* and his fiance from the photo used for his wedding invitation.

In my defense, I’ve been to a lot of funerals, and I’ve never seen a setup quite like the one the Lehman’s put together for Gram.

The moment I stepped into the viewing area, it felt like I was sucker-punched. In the center of the room, my grandmother was displayed in her open casket like a geriatric Snow White waiting for “True Love’s Kiss” (as in life, Gram looked beautiful in death). Directly to her left was a 50-inch screen that displayed a rotating collage of photographs of Gram with her friends and family …. and Taters. Here’s a still from it:

Photo courtesy of author

The slideshow played on loop for the duration of the hour-long viewing, and Taters’ slumbering photo was shown repeatedly — garnering strange looks from mourners and spurring awkward, uncomfortable conversations with family I rarely see. While I stood to the right of Gram, I fumbled my way through multiple conversations like this:

Distant Cousin: I’m so sorry for your loss. Your grandmother was a wonderful woman and … (pauses to look at the photo of Taters) Who is that guy? Is that Timmy’s boy? That’s Ralphie, isn’t it? Wait, no, that can’t be Ralphie. Who is that??

Me (itching my collar nervously): Will you be joining us for lunch after the service?

Embrace the insanity

Eventually I embraced the circus of absurdity my sister and I created, and allowed mourners to believe Taters was whoever they thought he was. I even took my beloved Boston Terrier, Judith Weiland, out of her travel bag and held her in my arms for the majority of the viewing.

I’m just glad that no one had drawn a dick on Taters’ face when he passed out that guys’ weekend because, given the state my sister and I were in when planning the funeral, we almost certainly would’ve included it in the slideshow.

*The names of the characters were altered for their own protection. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about the events — this is exactly how it all went down.

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Get in touch

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Thanks!
Jared