My father ended this confessional with the non sequitur wisdom that ended all our conversations: "Son, don't ever mess with no white women."
- Paul Beatty, The White Boy Shuffle
"I Have a Father. His Name is Corby Clark"
I've always been a fan of the line, "BLANK killed my father, and now it's after me!"
One afternoon in May, having recently graduating from high school and having made the monumental mistake of shelling out a $150 to go on a religious retreat with a chunk of my graduating class, I was sitting by a nurky pond with Brent Jones, Part One -- don't ask -- grateful that he hadn't been brainwashed by this papist Breakfast Club riff we were slogging through at the time, when in the distance, we heard what may have just been a motorcycle, but I was convinced was, in fact, a Big Giant Bee.
"It's a big giant bee," I told my future roommate. "It killed my father, and now it's after me!"
From such humble beginnings began the quintessential Clark conceit. It may have been brushed aside and forgotten if it hadn't been committed to tape... or inscribed in a crudely illustrated graphic novel. (Actually, I think I drew a pretty good BGB.) Anyway, on this day of all days, I thought I'd go ahead a set the record straight:
He wasn't really killed by a big giant bee. He lives in California where -- having recently retired from a twenty-year gig with the Air Force -- he sells rocket fuel. (Apparantly, it could be argued that he is, in fact, an arms-dealer.) He's a math whiz, a bit of a sci-fi nut, and he taught me everything I know about charming lies.
You know how some people are embarassed by their dads? Well, I'm not, except perhaps in one regard: He said he liked the movie Daredevil.
Haps to the Pappy Day, Big Black Duck.
- Paul Beatty, The White Boy Shuffle
"I Have a Father. His Name is Corby Clark"
I've always been a fan of the line, "BLANK killed my father, and now it's after me!"
One afternoon in May, having recently graduating from high school and having made the monumental mistake of shelling out a $150 to go on a religious retreat with a chunk of my graduating class, I was sitting by a nurky pond with Brent Jones, Part One -- don't ask -- grateful that he hadn't been brainwashed by this papist Breakfast Club riff we were slogging through at the time, when in the distance, we heard what may have just been a motorcycle, but I was convinced was, in fact, a Big Giant Bee.
"It's a big giant bee," I told my future roommate. "It killed my father, and now it's after me!"
From such humble beginnings began the quintessential Clark conceit. It may have been brushed aside and forgotten if it hadn't been committed to tape... or inscribed in a crudely illustrated graphic novel. (Actually, I think I drew a pretty good BGB.) Anyway, on this day of all days, I thought I'd go ahead a set the record straight:
He wasn't really killed by a big giant bee. He lives in California where -- having recently retired from a twenty-year gig with the Air Force -- he sells rocket fuel. (Apparantly, it could be argued that he is, in fact, an arms-dealer.) He's a math whiz, a bit of a sci-fi nut, and he taught me everything I know about charming lies.
You know how some people are embarassed by their dads? Well, I'm not, except perhaps in one regard: He said he liked the movie Daredevil.
Haps to the Pappy Day, Big Black Duck.
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