7 Years....

October 28th was the 7th anniversary of DNA's dad leaving this world, dying, going to a better place, blah, blah, blah. One year, DNA was tired of trying to explain the figurative language to his young son, because really, DNA doesn't believe that there is an actual city in the sky with streets of gold and all the saved people of all time congregate for eternity. What does DNA believe? Well, it's not necessarily in opposition to Christianity (or other religions, for that matter). DNA believes in the philosophy of living a Christ-like life (not so much in the rules and dogma of a religion). After all, what does it mean to "believe in Jesus?" Does that simply mean, "believe he existed?" Easy. What does DNA win? What do you mean, "That's not what they mean when they say, 'believe in Jesus.'" Does it mean "believe what he professed?" Yes, now we are getting somewhere. When you put belief in someone, we're talking about believing in ideals and ways of life.

DNA also believes that he doesn't know very much about the world or the universe, and what really happens after we die is and always will be unknown. DNA admits that although unlikely, it is possible that the spirit lives on in some form when the body dies. (In fact, DNA has a cool idea for a mystical sci-fi story in which the missing mass of the universe, identified now as 'dark matter' and 'dark energy,' is actually the manifestation in the physical universe of all of the energy contained within a multidimensional 'spiritual' universe [cuz mass =energy, and spirits are energy, and perhaps this spiritual destination is one or several aspects of higher dimensional physics]).

However, DNA believes it is much more likely that immortality is imbued in you by the living memory of those who pass before you, in the ways that you think and act, in your memories, in the lessons you learned from that person and the lessons you then teach to others, and in the actual genetic code which shaped that person, which he passed on to you, and which you may pass to your kids. This is more of the Old English/Germanic way of looking at immortality: Tempt Fate, do great deeds, and your song will be sung forever.

If your song is to be sung forever, you need a singer and a songwriter. In the old days, you had a sceop, (poet, in Old English) who sung your deeds. In the digital, age, DNA's dad has DNA. DNA wrote a little tune about his Dad, called, "I Wish I Would Have Listened To Him More," which sums up the best of what DNA could put in a four minute song about his Dad. If you want to listen to a bit of it, go to iTunes or CDBaby! and look up the DNA Vibrators. Then, click on the song and listen a bit. Go ahead, do it. DNA will wait.

Did you like it? DNA hopes so. There is that little bit of immortality that DNA can put his finger on. Since that part is done, there is the matter of the great deeds that needs to be attended to.

Well, let's see. When Dad was a younger man, after he married Mom, the family lived in Kincaid. One morning, after the third shift, as Dad was prone to do, he stopped in the local tavern, and had a beer before coming home. On one particular morning, Dad was sitting, enjoying his beer, when a mountain of man, 6 foot and then some, 250 pounds, came in. He and Dad had had words before out at the mine where they both worked. Apparently, the guy thought Dad needed to be taken down a peg or two. Now, to be fair, Dad may have been a little cocky, but unlike most men who are cocky, Dad was never afraid to throw down to back up anything he said. Most men, when faced with "put up or shut up," will shut up when some big fucker calls them out. Also, Dad probably wasn't cocky to this guy. Dad had no problem telling someone, telling anybody, exactly what he thought of them. He was a pretty good judge of character, and he probably sensed this guy had little.

Well, after a few moments, the guy walked up to where Dad was sitting at the bar, and said, "You need to move. This is my seat." The bartender didn't like where this was going, as if he had seen this guy to this kind of thing before. The look in his eye to Dad said, "If you know what's good for you, you'll get up and walk away." But Dad valued equality over almost everything else. This guy was no better than him, and certainly didn't deserve or require special treatment simply because he demanded it. Dad said, "I don't think so." The guy replied, "You don't understand. I'm not asking, and you are going to move. Whether you move or I move you is the question." Dad said, "Well, you little punk, you can try."

In one quick motion, the big guy swung his full mine bucket, a large round steel lunch bucket which weighs a few pounds, and smacked Dad squarely in the face. Dad didn't know it at the time, but it shattered his cheekbone. He was knocked off his barstool.

"God-damn about time somebody put you in your place, you little sum'bitch," the guy said. "Next time I tell you to move, you better..." The word "move" did not cross his lips. Dad sprang up and grabbed the guy, wrapping his strong, wide, right hand around his throat, and squeezed with all his might. Within a split second, the big guy knew he was in mortal danger. He began to flail madly about, connecting with blow after blow from his ham fists against Dad's head and face. Despite the blood flowing from his nose, despite the roar of pain in his face from his broken cheek and damaged sinus, despite the pressure that filled one of his eyes with blood, he grabbed the guy's throat with a grip like a vise, and had one and only one goal to achieve. The big guy dropped to his knees, and within a few seconds his frantic attempts to free himself became weaker. The bartender pleaded with Dad, "Mister, you're killing him! You gotta stop!"

And then, Dad was given what he was looking for. In a moment, his eyes locked with the big guy's eyes, and in Dad's face was the calm determination and reservation that he was prepared and able to do anything he needed to do to defend himself against punks, and in the big guy's face, the realization that he had been beaten, by a better man than he.

Before the big guy passed out, Dad let go. The man crumpled to the floor. Dad bent down close to him, and whispered, "If you ever come up to me again, you will feel my hand again, only this time, I will break your fucking neck." Then, to the bartender, "You're a dirty son of a bitch. How many times have you let this asshole do this? I ought to choke the shit out of you, too."

Dad never went back to that bar.

This is a small measure of the man that was DNA's Dad. Like Bad, Bad, Leroy Brown, or Jim, (you know what DNA is talkin' bout if you're a Jim Croce fan) you just didn't mess with Dad, unless you were comfortable with the idea of meeting your Maker. He was a wonderful human being, kind, generous to a fault, but if crossed him, or threatened him or his family, then there was no middle ground, and if you fought, only one would walk away.