One night shortly into my stay in London I was having dinner with Clive and Howard.  And Clive and I stayed up talking about family gossip as was our habit when I happened to mention my stillborn baby brother. 

Saturday – the big day. We met at the same hotel and a bus waited to transport us up the mountain to the Castello Morcote. Stunning views of the lake below and drinks were set up in a grass-covered courtyard at the top of the castle.

I went to Portland, Maine this weekend. I took the Greyhound bus there and back. Outgoing trip was marred only by this batshit crazy freakin’ fascist bus driver.

We cross the avenue to the other side where the French Embassy is because in their lobby is a sculpture which was recently confirmed as a genuine Michelangelo. So we peer in through the windows and get a good look.

I packed up our barest essentials following a 5AM dawn raid by the caribinieri and Peter bought Tobias and me one-way tickets to Boston.

He had chosen to die with his mouth open so they tied a teatowel around his face to keep it shut for the viewing. Viewing took place over the next 2 days and I asked if he wasn't ben cotto by then as it was 95 degrees in August heat.

My father passed away on Monday evening. It was ironic that with all of his health problems, none of them killed him. He died of atherosclerotic embolism (a stroke) while reading the paper after dinner.

We all poured down to the second floor where we have a huge conference center and a jumbotron television screen. We watched in horror as the towers collapsed. And then we got a bomb threat as did several other of the major towers in Boston and the whole city was evacuated.