In Memorium

Frank died, like he lived: barely noticed at all.  Given his dire perfomance on Main Street the other day, a performance as dire as the ragtag collection of abusive men owned by a Kremlin stooge give, his demise was perhaps not a surprise.

And neither was the terrible language that he used a surprise.  A course, foul man, whose attempts at elegance failed, alongside every single speech he ever gave.

An alleged relative of his, the late Tommy, had a similar issue with speech and the giving of speeches.  Terrible.  Chronic.

Frank is and was a short-sleeved T-shirt of a man.  Not a vest, but not strictly speaking the complete article, either.  He spanned an uncomfortable space between offensive mediocrity, and stultifying blandness.

In announcing his death, where we acknowledge is a week or so premature, we seek to put a full stop on the distorted paragraph that became an unpunctuated sentence that is, simply, Frank's life.

Let us not wait for his quiet death to not mourn his passing.  Let his friend, and anyone else who wants to give false witness to his moronic actions and tragic wordsmithiness.

I will remember Frank as a crude man who wasn't from Chelsea.  A man who, if he was oil, would only be sold in a barrel of unrefined.  

Many will speculate as to why he made an enemy of me.  I do not know.  I cannot say.  I wish I did know.

RIP @FrankCastligia 

It's worth giving the eulogy here as well, for posterity.

This is a sad, almost tragicomic, day.

For what it's worth, I did everything I could to try and steer Frank on a different path.

His death is regrettable, almost senseless.

We remember him as we remember the fallen of Chicago, whose names are lost to history, but we nevertheless recall something of them, or at least try to.

We will remember Frank at his best, whenever that was, and not the mid and latter day Frank who attempted to fight an unwinnable war.

RIP Frank. I bestow upon you the ultimate accolades:

Boat drinks, son. Boat drinks.

Frank was a good man with a good plan he pulled up his hood fam' we backed him by puttin up our hoods and bandanas. He was a bit bananas but I can't help but feel he's still toastin' as a ghost. He's probably verbally roastin' the host of the upstairs mix-up. 

Paddy smirks at his silly free-flow impromptu poetry. Toastin' a very enjoyable soul to be around with some dumb sounds.