go ahead and destroy this

Today my family celebrated the life of my grandfather, who passed away last week at the age of 86. It's still sort of unclear to me what he died of, besides having lived to the age of 86. But it is somehow appropriate that his passing is obscured by mystery, since that is how he chose to live much of his life.

He was a deeply private man, my father's father, even toward his family. There is plenty of evidence that he was a bright and witty man but he was not the type to boast of his accomplishments or draw attention with his personality. The record shows that he was a highly decorated veteran of World War II but he was stubbornly reluctant to share those stories. He was obviously capable of profound love and affection but you really had to be paying attention to recognize it.

My grandfather commanded my respect, if not my outright adoration, because for all his accomplishments and faults he raised a son who himself became an amazing and devoted father. (A father who, for all his accomplishments, loathes being recognized on this Web site. Please don't tell him you read this here.)

For its part, the funeral mass and brief military ceremony were tasteful and elegant. My aunt gave a beautiful eulogy and my cousin sang a lovely and mournful rendition of Amazing Grace. I gave a reading -- the second letter from Paul to the Corinthians -- which, despite a twinge of agnostic shame, I came to appreciate as an admirable statement of faith. At the interment site, my grandfather was given the honor of a 21-gun salute. (Incidentally, this is a misnomer. There are only seven rifles in a 21 gun salute, each firing three shots. They should call it a 21-bullet salute. The children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren were each given the token of a rifle shell, which I intend to cherish in the event that I can get it past the airport screeners.)

Such is the boldly painted pageantry of death.

I came home this weekend not simply to pay my respects to my grandfather, but to find out more about him. And I have learned more in the past week than in the previous 30 years. There are things about him I now see in myself. There are things he was that I want to be and there were things about him that I want to learn from.

Perhaps more importantly, I am here to bask in the warmth (the relative warmth, naturally, as the temperature is hovering in single digits) of family. More specifically, I am here to be with my father, as he grieves, and in that process know him as deeply as I can.

I hope I still have many years with my parents, and until the end comes I want to absorb not only their traits and tendencies but also their wisdom and their experiences. Love is too rare and important to be treated as a mystery.

Rest in peace, Grampa.

Handle with Care

This past weekend I not only attended the Madison, Wisconsin wedding of two good friends, I also served in the matrimonial choir and as the master of ceremonies for the reception itself. In the interest of posterity, what follows is a rough transcript of my remarks to begin the reception.

---
Welcome, friends, and family, family friends, family of friends, friends of family friends and family of friends' families, to the first annual wedding reception of Graham Kent and Sarah Benton.

[TO THE COUPLE]: We'll talk later.

My name is Jason, and it is my distinguished honor to serve as master of ceremonies this evening. As some of you may be aware, I am the one who originally introduced Graham and Sarah, lo these many years ago. So, in a way, you could say that I am partially responsible for bringing us all here tonight.

[APPLAUSE]

Thank you, yes, I am wonderful. But tonight is really about Sarah and Graham.

In fact, for quite some time, Graham and Sarah's relationship constituted the only evidence that I had any idea what women want. Apparently they want Graham.

Fortunately for the rest of us bachelors, today it appears Sarah has cornered the market. For his part, Graham has for himself the one girl for whom it can be said that every man who's ever known her has had a crush on her at one point or another.

As a final gift to the couple, I want to discuss briefly the meaning of marriage. The officiant went into this earlier, during the ceremony, but I prefer like to look at this a little more analytically.

Specifically, we're going to break down the word "marriage."


[PRODUCES POSTERBOARD WITH THE WORD "MARRIAGE" IN LARGE BLOCK LETTERS AND TELESCOPING POINTER (IMAGE COURTESY OF dl004d)]

MA

As we all know, "Ma" is short for "Mom" or "Mother." Surely, there is no purer love than the love of Mother for child. "Ma" represents marriage's grand aspiration to that pinnacle of affection, trust and devotion and calls to mind the sacred notion of family. And more than this, it evokes a sort of rebirth. Man and wife are reborn as one, with marriage as their "ma." This "ma" can be strict, and from time to time she will embarrass you, and sometimes she will chase you around the house threatening you with a wooden spoon. But she does it out of love.

RR

Next we have "RR," which does not stand for "rest and relaxation." No, marriage is hard work. In this case, "RR" stands for "Rrrrr!" as in the sound that animals make when they are angry with each other. Married couples will make this sound sometimes, over silly things, like how to pronounce the word "Sherbet." But to make "marriage" work, you have to get past the "RR". If you can't get past the "RR," then all you've got is "MAR", which we know means "to mess up." As in, "to mess up a perfectly nice wedding reception."

I

Now, I know what you're probably thinking. "There is no 'I' in 'marriage'" – not figuratively, anyway. Marriage should about "we" and "us." Ah, but! you'll notice – and the fellas out there probably know what I'm talking about – The "I" is silent. The silent "I" in "marriage" is your cue to tell your selfish side to shut up. And at the same time, it is a commandment to keep your eyes open to the beauty that is all around you, and, at this moment, seated next to you.

AGE

And finally we have "AGE," fittingly, at the end of "marriage." Marriage is essentially an explicitly stated desire to grow old with another person, to begin that long slow march into eternity, together. It is a lifelong commitment to another person, a promise to take care of them, even as they become helpless, incontinent, nonsensical and cranky, not unlike a newborn child.

Which leads us back to "MA".

Let me be among the first hundred or so people to wish you good luck on your journey through marriage. Congratulations to each of you on your lovely choice of spouse, and to both of you for the beautiful wedding ceremony we just witnessed.

I think we have all been inspired by what we've seen today. I feel a lot of love in this room right now. In lieu of a group hug, I will now call upon Sarah and Graham's closest friends and family to offer their toasts to the new couple.

Happy Birthday to the Official Mother of the Jason Hammersla Files. Mom, if awesomeness were measured in years, you would be, like, a million years old.

Happy Birthdays to Ariel, Eppy and the Grand Marnier, who turned a combined 86 years old over the past five days. Separately, they are all good friends. But together, they make a fine old broad.

The Jason Hammersla Files salutes Oscar Mak, who fulfilled a life-long goal by completing the Boston Marathon this week in under four hours, beating his personal best time by nine full minutes. As part of this effort, Oscar was able to raise more than $2,700 for the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. In his honor, I composed the following song -- in Oscar's trademark hip-hop style. Congratulations and Godspeed, Oscar.
___________________________________________________________

"Oscar Kills Cancer (So Shut Up, Bitch)" by Jason Hammersla

There's a lot of suckas walkin',
Talkin' like they know tha score
But they got the wrong direction
It ain't like that anymore
It's a knowledge revolution!
Here's the bayonet of truth:
The death count here is rising
And it's going thru tha roof

You think that you a killa?
Cancer kicks your fuckin' ass
We all looking for an answer
And we need it fuckin' fast
While you walkin', talkin' shit
There's a gangsta on tha street
Runnin' mile afta mile
Stompin' cancer with his feet

CHORUS
All you wankstas frontin' ain't nothin'
While you sittin' on yo' ass, homey's busy gettin' rich
While you runnin' yo' mouth, he out runnin' for somethin'
Oscar kills cancer -- so shut up, bitch.

Allow me to be the first to extend a "yo, wassup" to Aiden Roger Clark, son of Ce-Ce and heir apparent to a treasure trove of punk-rock post-romantic cynicism.

Word to his mother.

On November 25, 2004, I wrote this:

This year so far -- including IOUs and promises -- I've tallied 11 phone calls, eight cards, seven e-mails, seven gifts and three meals. This represents slight growth from 2003, when I received 10 phone calls, seven cards, five e-mails, four gifts and two meals.

The 2005 score:

Three phone calls, one card, four e-mails, five gifts and two meals. To be fair, at least four people combined on one of those gifts, so it's really more like eight gifts, and I'm not counting one of those meals as a gift even though that's pretty much what it was, so it's really actually like nine gifts and one meal, this doesn't include the free Flat Top Grill stir-fry, although that is really more of a promotional coupon than a gift, much like the 20-percent-off DSW certificate I received in the mail, neither of which I have yet had the opportunity to redeem, so I don't think it counts as a gift. If a gift certificate is not redeemed, does it make a sound?

Overall, it was a somewhat disappointing end to an outstanding year, probably my best all-around year since 1998. Thanks to those of you who contributed in 2005. Your efforts will not be forgotten. Should this trend hold true, here's hoping for an equally shitty birthday card turnout for 2006.

Excelsior!

Happy birthday to the Maestro. If you see him today, buy him a drink.

(But don't get him drunk, or you'll have him singing a cappella music six inches from your face all night. You've been warned.)

Everyone loves my mom.

She has always been the ad-hoc diplomat of the family: the one who actually conversed with other people in the neighborhood, the one who would accept or decline invitations, the one in charge of buying Christmas gifts and greeting cards and fruit baskets.

At dinner, she would regale us with stories of her workday at the elementary school, where she apparently swaggered (as much as a perky 4'11" jewish woman can swagger) down the hall as if she were Arthur Fonzarelli, spurring coffeemakers into action with the nudge of an elbow and dispensing droll, sage advice to the many adoring, adopted protégés tugging at her skirt like Somalian refugees.

When my friends would come to pick me up for the usual merry-making, they were always sure to spend a few minutes kibitzing in the foyer with my mom, who would doubtlessly find some amusing way to embarass her teenage son. When girlfriends came over for dinner, my mom -- perhaps desperate for another female perspective in the otherwise cro-magnon Hammersla dining nook -- would joyfully chit-chat for hours, extending mercilessly into my alotted make-out time.

My mom is funny, in a dirty-joke-telling way and in a fish-out-of-Long-Island sort of way. She is beautiful, with the kind of megawatt smile I just know she practiced in childhood, rehearsing for her Oscar acceptance speech. She is smart enough to embarass you, especially if you are related to her.

For these reasons, everyone loves my mom. But you could add up all the love from all those people, and it still wouldn't match how much I love her all the time.

Happy birthday, Mom.

Happy Birthday to Katie Haas, meine haupt-madchen. She is my most bleakly brilliant friend, a sweet-hearted woman, and the northern-mid-atlantic region's leading distributor of schadenfreude.