One of the things I remember most about my dad is his stories. He always had a story to tell, sometimes lengthy but usually quite short.

For example, he told me that if I ate while lying on my stomach I would turn into a crocodile. It was true, he insisted. He had seen with his own eyes children who ate on their bellies and then transformed into crocodiles and crawled into the sewers to hide from their parents.

Some of his stories were a bit more believable. He was born in Cambodia, and lived most of his life in and around Phnom Penh. He said his uncle lived in the countryside and had an elephant farm that he would visit. Growing up, he would go there and play with the baby elephants. They liked playing with beach balls, he said.

Other stories, were completely fucking ridiculous.

His family had a dog, he told me. At one point, his family had to leave their home because some sort of guerrilla fighters (he never specified exactly how they were aligned) was launching an attack nearby. The family left in a hurry, and accidentally left the dog locked in the house. They returned twelve days later. My dad claimed that the dog had not relieved itself in the house during that time and that as soon as they opened the door, the little pooch ran out and pooped to his heart's content.

He also apparently owned a motorcycle and this made him quite the stud.

My mom has also told me a few stories about my dad. Most of them involve him going behind her back to buy things. Their first apartment was in downtown Houston. They walked and took the bus everywhere because they didn't have a car. My mother adamantly argued against it, because they were still young and broke. One day, my dad came home from work and asked my mom once again if she wanted a car as they were on their way out of their building for dinner. She said she would consider it. He pointed across the street at a green car parked int the lot across from their building, and asked if she would like a car like that one. He had gone out and bought a car on his way home from work. Mom thought it was ugly, but she still drove it.

When I was about nine years old, my family owned a Toyota Plymouth. It was a kind of purple-y grey color and pretty awesome. One night, my dad called the family over because he wanted to get milkshakes. (He liked to get milkshakes late at night.) We all agreed and walked into the garage. There was a shiny new blue minivan sitting there. Mom was fucking pissed, but my brother and I had fun smelling it.

At one point, my dad got the idea that he would renovate our attic space to be a playroom for my brother and I. That plan was quickly nixed when one misplaced step saw him plummeting through the ceiling and down to the garage floor.

The first movie I ever saw in a theater was Toy Story. My dad took both my brother and I to the old dollar theater by Panchos. It was the first time that we had ever gone out to do something without Mom, so during the entire movie I was scared that I was going to get in trouble.

One time, I asked him to buy me a new pair of sneakers. He insisted that he was only going to buy me one shoe and I got so upset that one of my feet was going to be shoe-less that I started crying.

I learned to drive sitting on his lap and I cried when he told me he was going to give me his truck because I thought trucks were for boys.

My dad loved to learn. If something broke, he'd find out how to fix it. If he wanted something, he'd figure out how to build it. He liked working with his hands. On weekends he would wake up in the morning, cut the grass, water the lawn, fix the broken things, cook a meal for us, and then take us out to a movie. He made such fucking delicious food.

He always said he hated the stupid cats, but he was always the first one to bring a new one home.

Whenever our friends needed help with something, he was the first one there.

There isn't really a point to this, but I just wanted to share.

( under this cut is what Bernie typed when I got up to get a glass of water )

( this is more that bernie typed )