There are moments in life when you stop and look around and think, “How in the world did I get here?”
A week from now I turn 60.
That number feels strange to even type. When I was younger, 60 seemed old. Not “getting older.” Old. The age of retirement parties, early dinners, and conversations about blood pressure medication. Now? It just feels like…now. Another mile marker on a road that somehow went by both incredibly fast and painfully slow at the same time.
My wife surprised me with a trip out to Colorado to see our children and their partners. Sitting here looking at the mountains, realizing that the little kids who once ran through our house are now building lives of their own, I understand something I probably should have realized years ago: I am incredibly lucky.
Not “successful.” Not “important.” Lucky.
I have my health—mostly. Thanks to a pretty solid workout regimen, I am still in pretty good shape. A little more worn down than I was at 25, obviously. A few more scars and surgeries than the average person too. But every scar has a story attached to it. I once read a quote that said, “Scars are just tattoos with better stories.” That feels about right.
And there are a lot of stories.
After college and a brief time teaching school, I knew pretty quickly that my life was not going to follow the traditional path. I wanted to coach gymnastics. Not casually. Not as a side job. I wanted it to be my life.
One thing led to another, and Stephanie and I opened a gym, Atlantic Gymnastics Training Center, in Portsmouth NH. Then another location in Dover, NH. Somewhere along the way, this crazy dream became a business, a community, and honestly, part of our identity. Today we employ around 50 people and have roughly 1,500 students a week come through our doors. Sometimes I walk into one of the gyms and still cannot believe it exists.
What is funny is that I do not actually coach in my own gym anymore.
When my youngest son was in middle school, I made a conscious decision to step back from daily coaching and spend more time at home. I concentrated on the business side of things because I knew those years with my kids were limited. I do not regret that decision for one second.
Then, when he went away to college, life opened another door.
I had time again. So I started consulting. Coaching overseas. Working in different gyms, with different systems, different philosophies, different cultures. I would like to believe I was already a good coach, but traveling made me a far better one. The beautiful thing about teaching is that if you are paying attention, you are also learning.
Switzerland. Italy. Central America. Canada. Different programs. Different methods. Different ways of communicating. Different ways of thinking about athletes and performance and fear and pressure and success.
And somewhere along the way, I grew.
Not just as a coach, but as a person.
I had the opportunity to work with Olympic athletes and world champions. Experiences that a kid from New York who simply loved gymnastics could never have imagined. And now, somehow, I spend a great deal of my life coaching in Italy—to the point where Stephanie and I bought a home there.
There is something about the lifestyle in Italy that fits me. The pace. The emphasis on relationships. The understanding that life is supposed to be lived, not simply survived.
At almost 60, I still feel like I am learning who I am.
These days, much of my time is spent working with coaches. Helping them grow. Helping them communicate better. Helping them understand that coaching is really teaching. It is education. It is leadership. It is human connection.
Maybe that is the strange gift of getting older.
When you are young, you spend so much time trying to prove yourself. When you get older, you begin to understand that what really matters is what you leave behind in other people. The athletes you helped believe in themselves. The coaches you helped become better educators. The people whose lives became just a little bit better because you crossed paths with them. Lately, much of my energy outside the gym has been going into writing. I am pouring my heart into a book called Coaches as Educators. In many ways, it is the culmination of everything I have learned over decades in gymnastics—not just about training athletes, but about teaching human beings.
I genuinely believe coaching is education. A coach is not simply someone who teaches a skill or prepares an athlete for competition. A coach helps shape confidence, resilience, communication, discipline, and self-worth. We are often with young athletes during some of the most important and vulnerable years of their lives. That responsibility should mean something.
The book is my attempt to move the needle, even slightly, within the coaching community. To challenge coaches to think deeper about how we teach, how we communicate, and how we lead. I want younger coaches to understand that the technical side of gymnastics matters greatly, but the human side matters even more. Athletes may forget scores and medals over time, but they rarely forget how a coach made them feel.
And maybe the funniest thing about being almost 60 is that instead of slowing down, my mind keeps racing toward the next project.
When Coaches as Educators is finished, I already have plans for a second book: From Practice to the Podium. That one will be far more technical—a practical training manual built from decades of coaching, observing, learning, failing, adjusting, and growing. A book designed to help coaches and athletes better understand the long journey from developmental training to elite performance.
I still feel like I have something to contribute. Maybe that feeling never goes away if you truly love what you do.
If that is my legacy, I am more than okay with it.
In a world that feels impossibly loud right now—war headlines out of Iran, a tumbling economy, the city budget, unstable national leadership, the constant churn of scandal and speculation, it is easy to feel like everything is closing in.
The noise is relentless.
And then, if you let yourself… you stop.
You step outside.
You shut it all off.
And you look up.
Somewhere above us, beyond the noise, beyond the arguments and the fear, Artemis II is making its way home having traveled farther than any humans have ever gone, looping around the Moon, seeing what few ever will: the far side, the quiet side, the side that reminds us just how small our conflicts really are.
There is something profoundly humbling about that.
NASA has always understood the power of naming of poetry in the face of science. The Sea of Tranquility. The Ocean of Storms. And now, Artemis.
Artemis: goddess of the hunt, of wilderness, of wild things untamed. Sister to Apollo. A protector. A force. A presence tied to the Moon itself. Her name carries the idea of being safe, unharmed, resilient.
What a perfect name for this moment.
Because while we argue, while we divide, while we question whether our leaders will escalate the next conflict or stumble into something we cannot undo… there are human beings floating in the vast silence of space. Not as Americans. Not as political factions. But as representatives of all of us.
Of humanity.
Think about that.
At the very moment we are looking up at the night sky, searching for perspective, they may be looking back AT US. At a fragile blue planet that holds everything we’ve ever loved, fought for, built, and broken.
And from that distance, none of our noise matters.
Only the question does:
What are we going to do with this place?
We have always been capable of greatness. We have built impossible things. We have crossed oceans, cured diseases, created art that stops time, and sent people to the edge of existence itself.
We are still those people.
But somewhere along the way, we got smaller. Louder. More consumed by the immediate and the trivial.
Artemis II is a reminder that we don’t have to stay that way.
It is a reminder that we are at our best when we are reaching not fighting. When we are exploring not retreating. When we are united by curiosity instead of divided by fear.
So tonight, step away from the headlines.
Look up.
Find the Moon.
And know that above all the noise, something extraordinary is happening. Something hopeful. Something that belongs not to one nation, but to all of us.
As Artemis makes her way home, may she return safely.
And may we, down here, find our way back to something better.
There are moments in life when the world feels a little softer, a little slower, and, if we’re paying attention, a little more sacred. For me, one of those moments happens every year during a long weekend in Colorado that my family affectionately calls Thanksmas. Part Thanksgiving, part Christmas, part chaotic family reunion, and entirely its own thing, it’s become one of the anchor points on our collective calendar.
Years ago our daughter and her boyfriend moved to Colorado. My son and his now fiancé drove out to visit and loved it. They followed them out to Colorado. No matter where life pulls us, new jobs, new cities, new adventures—this is the weekend we circle. We show up. We gather. We laugh until our ribs hurt. We eat too much. We retell the same stories, embellishing them each year like responsible adults. And we simply enjoy being together as the weird, wonderful tribe that we are.
This year, as I sit here in Colorado surrounded by my adult children and their partners, I’m reminded that the real magic of family isn’t in the big events—it’s in the decision to keep choosing one another. Again and again. Year after year.
One of the hardest times for me was five years ago, when I was working in Switzerland and couldn’t make it to Colorado. I had tried to pretend I was fine with it, “I’m in the Alps! I’m drinking hot chocolate! It’s practically cozier than being with my family!”—but of course, it wasn’t. Nothing replaces being physically present with the people who know your history, your quirks, and your questionable sense of humor.
But here’s the beautiful part: my family brought me anyway.
They printed out photos of me—full face, life-sized head, the whole works—and hauled “Flat Tony” around Colorado like some sort of wandering garden gnome. They took pictures of him doing all the things I would have done: eating, hiking, drinking beer, looking confused in gift shops… They even made sure he had his own seat in the car. It was ridiculous. It was touching. It was perfect.
And it reminded me of something essential: family doesn’t always look traditional, or tidy, or perfectly arranged. Sometimes it looks like cardboard cutouts. Sometimes it looks like mismatched schedules and last-minute flights. Sometimes it looks like adult children and their partners choosing—actively choosing—to hold space for one another in a world that keeps trying to rush us past the moments that matter.
This season, as the year winds down and we all start taking stock, I’m holding onto this truth:
Time with the people you love is never guaranteed, always precious, and absolutely worth protecting.
So here’s to Thanksmas.
Here’s to showing up.
Here’s to laughing at ourselves.
Here’s to the families we’re born into, the families we build, and the families who are willing to carry around a printed photo of your head when international travel ruins your plans.
In this Season of Hope, may we all find our way back—no matter how far we’ve wandered—to the people who feel like home.
There is something quietly miraculous about a public library. It is a place of possibility, of openness, of hope—a house of doors that swing wide for everyone, not just those who can afford them. A public library invites you in simply because you are curious. Because you want to learn. Because you want to borrow a book, use the computer, attend a talk, or just sit and think.
In an era of paywalls, subscription models, algorithmic gate-keeping, and constant commercial pressure, public libraries remain one of the last bastions of true free access—to knowledge and to community.
When I walk into a library, I think of all those footsteps that have gone before me: children discovering wonder; teens finding a novel; elders paging through newspapers; job-seekers crafting new futures; immigrants learning English; families sharing story time; self-taught learners picking up a new skill.
The architecture matters—the wood shelves, the reading tables, the soft light, the hush punctuated by quiet laughter. But more than the architecture, it’s the ethos: that knowledge is a public good, not a private commodity.
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Why Libraries Matter
• Access doesn’t depend on wealth. Knowledge, ideas, and technology are shared freely.
• Libraries are the living rooms of our cities—neutral ground where everyone belongs.
• From card catalogs to digital databases, libraries evolve to meet the times.
• A library sends a civic message: we believe your mind is worth investing in.
Right here in Dover, our library stands as a proud example of what a community can build together.
The Dover Public Library is in the midst of a $7.1 million renovation and expansion. The project includes an expanded children’s spaces, larger meeting rooms, better line of sight and new elevator and stairwells. Truly an investment in accessibility and shared opportunity.
I recently toured the renovation site, and it is going to be historically accurate and absolutely beautiful. Just thinking about it gives me chills. Amid the scaffolding and sawdust, I saw a small but powerful symbol of the past—a Carnegie stamp embossed on one of the metal beams. A reminder that this place, built more than a century ago through the vision of a man and a town that shared a belief that knowledge should be free, carries that legacy forward.
This renovation isn’t just about bricks and mortar. It’s about vision—the belief that our capacity for learning, for civic life, for shared good, is still worth building for.
A Legacy of Giving: Andrew Carnegie’s Gift
Between 1886 and 1919, Andrew Carnegie funded 1,679 public libraries in the United States, and more than 2,500 worldwide.
Whatever one thinks of his industrial empire, Carnegie recognized that true wealth was not what you owned—but what you gave back. His libraries stood as beacons in small towns and great cities alike, democratizing access to knowledge.
He believed that every person, given the chance, could rise.
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A Question of Priorities
Today, we have billionaires of our own. Men and women who made (or inherited) their futures. Imagine if even a fraction of the fortunes of Elon Musk or Jeff Bezos went into building the next generation of public libraries, into revitalizing civic learning, into connecting rural America to the digital world.
Instead of launching cars into space, what if we launched communities into opportunity?
If Carnegie could build thousands of libraries from steel profits a century ago, why can’t today’s titans of industry fund the civic infrastructure of the 21st century—libraries, maker-spaces, literacy programs, and local journalism?
Isn’t it time we did better?
Reaching for the Stars
And perhaps that’s what libraries have always symbolized: the idea that human potential is boundless.
“Every time we think we have measured our capacity to meet a challenge, we look up and we’re reminded that that capacity may well be limitless.
This is a time for American heroes.
We will do what is hard.
We will achieve what is great.
This is a time for American heroes—and we reach for the stars.”
A library is, in its own way, a launchpad. Each book, each story, each conversation sends us further into the universe of ideas. And like all great launches, it begins right here on Earth—in towns like Dover, in rooms filled with shelves, light, and the quiet hum of curiosity.
Let us protect them, expand them, and celebrate them.
Because when we invest in libraries, we are investing in the heroes yet to come.
When we talk about community, we mean more than shared streets and town meetings. We mean shared responsibility for neighbors who are most vulnerable when New England winters turn brutal. The proposed Emergency Warming Shelter—transitioning from the temporary warming center at 30 Willand Drive to a purpose-built facility funded by the Tri‑City partnership and operated by Strafford County—is not only practical; it is our legal and moral duty.
Extreme cold events are not occasional inconveniences. They are life‑threatening emergencies for people without reliable shelter, heat, or access to hygiene. The existing temporary site—a former martial arts studio—was always intended as a stopgap. It lacks adequate bathrooms, showers, a kitchen and the design features needed to safely and humanely support people during extreme cold. Building a dedicated warming shelter corrects that deficiency and reduces foreseeable harm.
The resolution before the City Council is clear about scope and accountability:
The Tri‑Cities (Dover, Rochester, Somersworth) will fund construction.
Strafford County will operate the facility once built.
Opening the shelter during extreme cold will be decided by local Emergency Management Directors using established emergency‑sheltering criteria developed with state and federal input.
The facility’s use will be limited to a county‑wide, seasonal warming center unless and until a mutually agreed, suitable replacement is found.
Those guardrails matter. They ensure that taxpayers’ money is used for its intended, life‑saving purpose and that operational responsibility rests with the county agency best positioned to run a county‑wide service. They also create transparency and a clear path for public engagement if future uses are proposed.
Funding that honors past intentions and responsible stewardship Dover’s share of construction funding comes from two sources tied to charitable intent: proceeds from a Guppey family‑donated parcel (with a requirement that proceeds help those in need) and the sale of the current warming center (which was purchased with ARPA funds—no Dover property tax dollars). Using those funds to create a safer, more functional shelter respects donors’ intent and maximizes the impact of one‑time resources on an urgent human need.
Legally, municipalities and counties have emergency‑response duties and public‑health responsibilities. Morally, we have an obligation to prevent foreseeable harm. When a safer, better‑designed shelter can be built with clear operational oversight and limited, defined use, choosing inaction risks lives. The proposed facility addresses that risk directly.
Practical improvements that matter A purpose‑built warming center will provide:
Adequate bathrooms and showers for dignity and public health;
A small kitchen to meet basic nutritional needs during activation;
Design features for safety, privacy, and efficient operations during extreme weather.
These features are not luxuries; they are basic elements that reduce the spread of illness, protect privacy and safety, and allow staff and volunteers to provide services effectively.
No project is perfect. I share the desire for a site that’s even more accessible and closer to wraparound services. But the reality is that this proposal represents the best, feasible option now: funding is secured, operational responsibility is defined, and the timeline addresses an urgent need. As I tell my business teams: do not let the perfect be the enemy of the good. Approve a safe, dedicated warming shelter now—and continue advocating for improvements, better locations, and stronger supportive services going forward.
Support doesn’t mean we stop asking for better placement, more services, or continued transparency; it means choosing life and safety for neighbors in crisis. The agreement’s conditions also ensure that any change in purpose or location will require full vetting and public input—so approving this plan does not close the door on future community‑driven improvements.
Building the Emergency Warming Shelter is responsible stewardship of charitable funds, a practical step to prevent needless suffering, and a fulfillment of our legal and moral obligations to protect residents in extreme cold. Let’s move forward—compassionately, transparently, and with a commitment to keep improving.
The political atmosphere in this country has become dangerously toxic. Too many leaders, pundits, and influencers no longer work to bring people together—they work to keep us divided, angry, and afraid. Division has become a tool for holding onto power. When we are constantly told to fear one another and to treat “the other side” as an enemy, violence becomes inevitable.
The recent assassination of Charlie Kirk is a tragic and disturbing reminder of where this road leads. I disagree with nearly everything Charlie Kirk stood for and said, but disagreement is not dehumanization. His death should not be celebrated. Political violence has no place in our country.
In the aftermath, discussions have predictably become polarized. Some commentators emphasize the danger of right-wing violence, others deflect blame or minimize the pattern. As Howard Kurtz reported on Fox News, President Biden pushed back against suggestions that right-wing violence is to blame, underscoring how fraught and contested public reactions can be. The piece “Why blaming ‘the left’ is easier than deterring violence after Charlie Kirk’s murder” highlights how convenient narratives and political convenience often shape the conversation—yet they do little to actually deter violence or heal a divided nation.
Fear as a Weapon
When cruelty is directed at one group, it becomes easy for the rest of us to look away and feel grateful it is not aimed at us. That is exactly what those in power count on. They weaponize fear—fear of immigrants, fear of people with different skin colors, fear of other religions, fear of neighbors who vote differently.
This us-versus-them mentality blinds us to what our country could be. We are told that if we don’t agree 100% with whichever party is in charge, we are un-American, radical, or dangerous. That is not freedom. That is manipulation.
More That Unites Us
I have spent much of my life traveling—across states and countries, among many languages, religions, and cultures. What I know with certainty is this: people everywhere want the same basic things.
They want safe neighborhoods. They want to raise their families with dignity. They want meaningful work and the hope of a brighter future. These are not partisan goals. These are human goals.
When you open yourself to the richness of the world, you see clearly that compassion—not cruelty—strengthens a society.
Rejecting Violence, Choosing Unity
There is no need for political violence, and there is no excuse for those who instigate it. Violence, intimidation, and cruelty cannot build a future; they only destroy one.
We cannot be tricked into believing cruelty is strength. We cannot let fear divide us into warring camps. The truth is there is far more that unites us than divides us—and our leaders should remind us of that every day.
Compassion is not weakness. Compassion allows communities to thrive. If we choose compassion, we choose unity. If we reject violence, we choose hope.
The world is still a wonderful place. It’s time our politics reflected that.
References
Howard Kurtz, “President makes comments following Charlie Kirk murder as he rejects suggestions about right-wing violence,” Fox News.
“Why blaming ‘the left’ is easier than deterring violence after Charlie Kirk’s murder.”
The current state of the MAGA party is not about prosperity, or security, or even policy. It is about cruelty.
If you can be shown images of suffering—children in Gaza denied medical care, migrants detained by masked men, families deported without explanation—you are supposed to forget how far your own quality of life has slipped.
The State Department has halted “medical-humanitarian” visas for people from Gaza. If you see others denied life-saving care, you don’t focus on the millions of Americans who can’t afford health insurance. You forget about our broken healthcare system.
When masked men scoop people off the streets and deport them to who knows where, you don’t focus on the fact that millions of Americans are priced out of safe, affordable housing. You forget that in one of the richest countries on earth, we have children who go to bed hungry.
Donald Trump deploys the National Guard into American cities. Not because crime is surging—it isn’t. Crime rates are at historic lows. The point is to create fear. To remind you what could happen to you if you step out of line.
This isn’t about law and order. It’s not about national security. It’s about cruelty.
And cruelty is a distraction. If you’re focused on the pain of others, you’re not asking the real questions:
Why are wages stagnant while corporate profits soar?
Why does healthcare bankrupt American families?
Why do we have more empty homes than unhoused people?
The sign of a functioning government is a social safety net. A society where people do not live in fear. Where illness does not mean bankruptcy, where housing is a right, not a luxury, where safety is measured not by soldiers on a corner but by stability in people’s lives.
Cruelty is not strength. Cruelty is weakness disguised as power.
Here in Dover, on the Seacoast, we know what community looks like. We see it every day—in neighbors helping neighbors, in volunteers who staff our food pantries, in people who step up when someone stumbles. That is real strength.
The politics of cruelty only works if we accept it. We don’t have to. We can build a Dover, a Seacoast, and a New Hampshire that shows what compassion, fairness, and responsibility look like. That is our task, and it’s one worth doing.
Originally posted on my personal blog, VACILANDO. I thought it was worth sharing here as well.
It’s only the second day of August, and already I feel it slipping away.
Summer in New England is a master of false promises. You wait all year for it—through sleet, through piles of snow on the sidewalks, through endless gray. You make plans. Big plans. Road trips to see friends you haven’t hugged in too long. Picnics by the ocean. Long weekends at the lake where time feels like it stretches a little. But somehow, none of it happens the way it did in your head.
You try to squeeze in a drive along the coast, only to be swallowed by traffic before you even reach the beach. A picnic? Maybe next weekend, if the weather holds and no one has a family thing. That lake weekend? Turns into one night—if you’re lucky—followed by a frantic Sunday scramble to beat the traffic home.
And yet, summer is the season we all romanticize.
As a kid, summer was freedom in its purest form. We rode our bikes until the sun went down—and even after. I was born on the 60’s and really grew up in the late 70’s and early 80’s Our parents had no clue where we were, and honestly, neither did we. We could’ve been in town, or two towns over, or, once or twice, in another state entirely. No phones, just friends and endless roads.
Some of my most formative summers were spent at gymnastics camp. That’s where I really learned how to coach—andwhere I learned a few other things I probably shouldn’t have. But most importantly, it’s where I met my wife. We became a couple at that camp. Everything we’ve built together—our family, our work, our life—it all traces back to those hot, muggy, joy-filled days.
I miss those people. I miss the camaraderie. I miss the carefree days and the questionable decisions at night. There was a freedom in those years that’s hard to replicate. Life wasn’t simpler—just more spontaneous.
And yet—I never fail to appreciate what I have now. I’m deeply grateful to live comfortably, especially in a time when so many people are struggling just to get by. That’s not something I take lightly. There’s peace in knowing that my family is safe, and our needs are met. That’s a kind of wealth I don’t ever want to take for granted.
But still—summer moves too fast.
As adults, the season is no longer endless. It’s scheduled. It’s booked. It’s full of obligations and logistics. Even beauty can feel rushed when it’s crammed between calendar appointments.
Sometimes a song will come on, and I’m instantly transported. The other day it was “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure, and suddenly I was seventeen again—sweaty, smiling, leaning against the wall of a dorm at camp, wondering what the night would bring. No responsibilities. No schedule. Just music, people, and the sense that anything could happen.
In those moments, I feel it all again—the joy, the freedom, the ache.
So next summer, I want to be more deliberate. I want to appreciate the scent of fresh-cut grass—the kind you first notice in spring, that smells like promises to be kept. I want to savor simple walks with my wife and our dog, when no boots or jackets are needed. I want to sit by a campfire under a clear sky, counting stars and spotting the occasional satellite. I want more boat rides. More dinners with our friends at the lake. More Waffle Sundays with my own maple syrup. I want to appreciate each moment as it comes—not in hindsight, not when it’s slipping away, but right then.
Summer is cruel. Not because it’s unkind—but because it always leaves too soon.
But the memories… those stay.
And right now, I’m sitting by the campfire at the lake. Solar lights glow on the dock, casting reflections across the boat. Strings of warm bulbs hang in the trees, giving the night a soft, golden hush. I hear laughter from across the water—other families, other friends, also trying to hold on to this fleeting season.
And I’m lucky. Lucky to be here. Lucky to have a wonderful wife to share it all with.
The other day my wife and I and our friend Rob got into a discussion on what are plans were on our death. I have had a great life and I have tried to make the world a better place so although I do not want to rush into it- I am not afraid of death. What shocked my wife and my friend is that I had given it so much thought. I even have a song picked out!
Take a moment today and realize that sometimes we take life too seriously. Let’s not do the same in death.
Future Dead Me Is Throwing the Party of a Lifetime (Literally)
You ever sit around and think about your posthumous party plans? No? Just me? Well, buckle up buttercup, because I’m not going out with a whimper—I’m going out with Kevin Bacon, Charlie Sheen, and maybe a little emotional sabotage courtesy of Olivia Munn.
Let’s start at the beginning. Like many dreamers, I occasionally fantasize about winning the lottery. Not just a few bucks—no, I mean the full, glittering, ruin-your-humble-relationships Powerball fantasy. But unlike most people, I plan to use some of my winnings not on a yacht or a private island, but on my Celebration of Life party. That’s right. A party after I die. And it’s gonna be legendary.
The Guest List Is… Unusual
See, while some people want tearful speeches from close friends or maybe a slideshow of slightly embarrassing childhood photos, I’m taking it up a notch. I’m hiring professional actors—famous ones—to show up at my memorial and pretend they knew me intimately.
Picture this: Everyone’s gathered, reminiscing about the time I spilled barbecue on the carpet or whatever, and then boom—Charlie Sheen walks in, visibly shaken. “I just… I just can’t believe they’re gone,” he whispers, clutching a program like it’s the last cocaine napkin he ever touched. People will gasp. “Wait, did Tony know Charlie Sheen?” someone will ask. “I thought they hated ‘Two and a Half Men!’”
Then, five minutes later: Kevin Bacon strolls in. Somber. Dignified. He approaches my urn (yes, we’ll get to that), places a hand on it like we just finished our final conga line last month in Cabo, and mutters, “We were closer than anyone knew. I’ll miss you, buddy.” Boom. Six degrees of confusion. My family may never recover.
A Little Mystery, A Lot of Munn
But that’s not all. I’m injecting a slow-burn emotional twist into this Oscar-worthy event. Enter Olivia Munn. She arrives quietly, like a whispered rumor in an overpriced perfume ad. She doesn’t mingle. She doesn’t speak. She approaches the urn, drops a single note onto the table, dabs her eye, and walks away. People read the note: “I always had feelings for you. Wish I had the opportunity to have expressed them.”
Will anyone know if it’s true? Absolutely not. But will it haunt them forever? Oh yes. Especially those who dumped on me in high school. You’re welcome.
Pop Goes the Urn
Now, I did mention cremation. I’m going into an urn. But this isn’t just any urn—it’s part of the entertainment. Halfway through the party, right after people have just calmed down from the Olivia Munn emotional hit, “Pop Goes the Weasel”starts playing. Slowly. Creepily. Everyone turns toward the urn.
Is it going to pop? Is this a prank? Is this my soul saying hello? No one will know. And that, my friends, is the spice of life. Or death. Whatever.
Closing Remarks (Also Possibly by Morgan Freeman, TBD)
Look, we don’t get to control much after we’re gone. But with a little financial planning and a lot of questionable priorities, I plan to leave my loved ones with one final gift: confusion, laughter, and deeply misplaced envy.
So wish me luck on the lottery. And remember, if you see Kevin Bacon crying over a mahogany urn one day, just smile knowingly. We were very close.
Eulogy Delivered by His Holiness, the Pope
(Probably very confused, but committed to the bit)
“My dear brothers and sisters,
We gather today not in a cathedral or a chapel, but in what I am told is a moderately priced event space near a Dave & Buster’s. It is here, surrounded by friends, family, and… is that Charlie Sheen? Yes? Okay… that we celebrate the life of a remarkable soul of Tony Retrosi.
Now, I must admit, when I received the invitation to speak at this memorial, I was surprised. Not because I am unfamiliar with Tony—we exchanged exactly zero letters, prayers, or sacraments in recent decades—but because of his unique relationship with the Church. Yes, he was what we might call a lapsed Catholic, a term which here means: raised Catholic, guilt intact, but hasn’t been to Mass since at least the Obama administration.
And yet, in his own chaotic, beautifully unorthodox way, he embodied the spirit of community, joy, and endless curiosity. He questioned, he doubted, he sometimes yelled at priests during weddings, but Tony also loved. Tony celebrated life with a passion that makes this entire party—complete with musical urns and Olivia Munn—feel like the Gospel according to Guy Ritchie.
In the Catholic faith, we believe in redemption, grace, and the power of a good party. And I have been assured, by my team and at least three baffled cardinals, that this is exactly what they would have wanted.
So to Tony my departed sibling in Christ, I say: You may not have been present for the Eucharist, but you were absolutely present for the hors d’oeuvres. And perhaps that is its own kind of communion.
May eternal light shine upon you—preferably with a soft filter and ambient lighting—and may you rest forever in peace, joy, and just enough mystery to make the haters uncomfortable.
Amen.”
Posthumous Letter to His Holiness the Pope
(Sent from beyond, but with perfect comedic timing)
To: His Holiness Pope [Insert Current Pope’s Name Here] I am hoping for Pope Hilarious II From: Tony Retrosi, Lapsed (but not rude) Catholic Re: My Funeral and the Accidental RSVP Mix-up
Your Holiness,
First off, let me say thank you. I know you’re a busy man—world peace, doctrine, exorcisms, Italian lunch—and I really appreciate you taking the time to speak at my Celebration of Life. I realize this probably wasn’t high on your papal planner, especially sandwiched between canonizing saints and mediating international conflict. But I’m glad you came, even if under slightly misleading pretenses.
You see, Your Holiness, there may have been… let’s call it a clerical error. A Vatican intern (or possibly a guy named Kyle on Fiverr) sent you the invite along with a forged RSVP from “Bishop Francis of Totally Real Diocese.” Honestly, I didn’t think it would work. I just wanted to make my cousins do a spit take when the Pope showed up at my memorial flanked by Swiss Guards and confusion.
Also—I should clarify: while I may have missed a few (okay, all) Sunday masses after age 16, I always kept a rosary tangled in my junk drawer at our house in Italy and felt vaguely guilty about everything. So spiritually, I was still on-brand.
I do hope you enjoyed the hummus spread. Sorry about the urn thing. I know “Pop Goes the Weasel” isn’t liturgically approved, but you’ve gotta admit—it’s got a hook.
And finally, thank you for the kind words. I never got around to confession, but having the Pope deliver my eulogy kind of feels like skipping straight to the Vatican FastPass, doesn’t it?
May God bless you. And may you never again be tricked into attending a funeral that ends with Charlie Sheen doing karaoke.
Sincerely, Tony Culturally Catholic, Spiritually Confused, Eternally Grateful
Vatican Press Office Statement
For Immediate Release Subject: Papal Attendance at the Memorial Service of [Your Name]
In response to widespread media coverage and viral social media posts featuring His Holiness Pope Hilarious II seated uncomfortably between Kevin Bacon and a crying Olivia Munn, the Vatican would like to issue the following clarification:
The Holy Father’s presence at the memorial service of Tony Retrosi was, of course, entirely intentional and deeply meaningful.
Though some have characterized Tony Retrosi as a “lapsed Catholic,” we prefer to recognize them as a freelance theologian with boundary issues. Their unconventional approach to faith—marked by humor, occasional sacrilege, and an unwavering commitment to confusing their relatives—reflects the kind of messy, authentic humanity that God probably finds amusing.
While the initial invitation appeared to have been delivered via pizza receipt and may have involved a forged diocesan seal drawn in crayon, the Holy See embraces the opportunity to meet people where they are, even if “where they are” includes a party DJ and a confetti cannon that went off during the Hail Mary.
His Holiness was deeply moved by the service, especially the note left by actress Olivia Munn and the unexpected musical interlude involving “Pop Goes the Weasel” and a spring-loaded urn.
Let it be known: Tony Retrosi is officially remembered as a beloved child of God, a master of posthumous mischief, and now—unavoidably—a footnote in Vatican protocol training.
We extend our blessings to all who attended, and assure the public that the Pope was, indeed, aware of most of what was happening. Probably.
In Christ (and mild confusion), The Vatican Press Office Pontifical Department of Damage Control and Holy Surprises
The Secret After-Party: Vatican VIP Edition
While most guests shuffled out of the Celebration of Life processing the emotional rollercoaster of Pope tears, celebrity eulogies, and the traumatic memory of your ashes threatening to spring forth mid-chorus of “Pop Goes the Weasel,” a smaller, more exclusive crowd received mysterious golden wristbands with the words: “One Last Blessing.”
They were quietly ushered to a nearby Dave & Buster’s.
The Pope entered first. Still in full white robes, he politely declined the airbrushed “R.I.P. TONY” T-shirt being handed out, but did accept a mozzarella stick with quiet grace.
Then in strutted Charlie Sheen, holding a tray of jello shots and shouting, “Let’s consecrate the night, Your Holiness!” To which the Pope—only slightly weary—replied, “Let us pray you don’t remember this tomorrow.”
Kevin Bacon challenged two cardinals to a Dance Dance Revolution battle. They lost, but with dignity. Olivia Munn, still mysterious, spent the evening silently feeding tickets into the prize counter. She left with a lava lamp and what may or may not have been emotional closure.
And then… it happened.
Air Hockey Showdown: Sheen vs. The Pope.
It was a best-of-three. No one blinked. The Pope adjusted his zucchetto (that’s the little hat—he doesn’t play around), and with a whispered “Deus vult,” he sent the puck screaming across the table. Charlie returned fire with a wild shot that knocked a passing nacho into someone’s memorial slideshow.
The final score: Pope – 2 Charlie Sheen – 1 The Afterlife – speechless
As the party wrapped up, the Pope raised his root beer in your honor. “They may have lapsed,” he said solemnly, “but they never missed a chance to make heaven laugh.”
Then he pressed a single button on a nearby claw machine, and every toy inside released at once. No one knows how. No one asked.
Olivia Munn’s Whisper to the Urn
As the after-party wound down and the Vatican’s security detail gently escorted the Pope away from a Skee-Ball tournament gone theological, the room dimmed. The air was soft with neon glow, mozzarella fumes, and just a hint of divine confusion.
That’s when she returned.
Olivia Munn, radiant and reserved, stepped quietly back into the now-empty party hall. The air stilled. Even the popcorn machine paused, respectfully.
She approached the urn—my urn—still slightly tilted from the earlier “Pop Goes the Weasel” incident. She knelt down, smoothing her dress, and leaned in close. Her lips were inches away, her voice barely audible. But if you had been there (which, let’s face it, spiritually you were), you would’ve heard her whisper:
“You were the one I never got to understand… and the one I never stopped thinking about.”
She placed a single silver coin next to the urn. No one knows what it meant. A symbol of regret? An inside joke? A down payment for eternity?
Then, without another word, she turned and walked away, the hem of her dress sweeping over the fallen Bingo card from earlier. A soft door click. Gone.
Back at the Vatican, a Swiss Guard who was live streaming the event swore he saw the urn shimmer.
