Known to his public as a husband, father, teacher, corporation guy, and jewelry salesman, Dad was once a songwriter. Of Seussian perplexity. And singer, in his prime. A complex genetic affect having doomed him to the form, for he'd no way to effuse, to rhapsodize—except in meter and in rhyme.

Um. A childhood rather quivery. An adolescence stretching toward infinity— its rescue? The delivery of four beautiful children, with assistance from his wife, whose divineness is unmatched in all the Louvre. Except maybe by his daughter, of the four the first and finest—and perhaps coincidentally, presenter of this oevre.  

A grateful guy, he'd say.  A celebrant of life through music-- somewhat sad sometimes, and sometimes somewhat sadder than just sad. Turns out sadder just means inner. Turns out inner rules the outer. Turns out truth is just a stairwell in the Hotel MC Escher. Okay dad. Wanna let me write this, please? I mean. Geez.

In summation. It is not without a dram of trepidation and unease, that he sanctions me to share his strange disease. Loud as possible, he’s telling me to say. When you do? Just ask good old Neil deGrasse. Somehow sounds the best that way.