| August 31, 2002 Driving from South Lake Tahoe to San Francisco with no real goal in mind (gonzo vacation planning) and noticed that I was headed into Vallejo. A bit of calculation later I realized it was one year to the day since I had learned that the Pope had died. Yes, the real Pope, not the fake one that lives in Italy. So I stop and get a room in the Motel 6. Why the Motel 6? Should be a Knight's Inn really, the motel of choice on tour, but I am not even sure they still exist, so the Motel 6 will have to do. Seem to remember hitting a few of those as well. So how does one properly pay homage to the memory of the Pope? Should I eat fine food - lots of it? Have a few deep belly laughs? Rant and rage? Put my fist through the wall? All of those, but what I do is decide to take a stab at the obituary that I have been putting off for a full year. So who was the Pope? A big man with a big heart. And a giant sense of humor. A man who could tell a story in a way that could make a room full of people laugh until they cried or roll on the floor in helpless delirium. A man who insisted on loving women more and harder than they could or would love him back. A man who experienced all of his passions, positive and negative, to the utmost. A man of huge appetites. A man whose towering rages could be matched only by his flights of humor. He was a spritual leader, an artist, a musician, a disc jockey, a seller of hemp clothing, a security guard, a writer. He was a man who touched the hearts and lives of all who knew him. |
Papal rants and those inspired by him |