Memorial for Billy

This morning I had buckwheat pancakes. Whenever we go to The Pancake House, I always have buckwheat pancakes. Buckwheat to me is like Kryptonite to Superman, an Achilles heel. It is my downfall diet-wise, not like some femme fatale, like Lana Lane - the evil resonance of Lois,  not my Lex Luther, rather the end of dietary illusions: the end of that innocent age when we dreamed we could control our sweet teeth and that old devil craving for buckwheat in the embrace of maple syrup!

So my brother-in-law Billy used to have the German Pancake when he visited, which was not that often, as he was a Zorba-esque character and Detroit is - it must be admitted - the Lex Luther in anyone's Metropolis!  Detroit is Bizarre-o world's answer to St. Pete Beach and Pass-a-Grille... the sunny havens where Billy spent his time.
But when he did come, we went to The Pancake House and he had a German Pancake, which was approximately the size of a goodly sombrero, dusted with powdered sugar, wedged with lemons, and he loved it, a bit of a mystery to the dull people who never deviated from buckwheat.

I said he was a Zorba-type. He loved life and did not bow down to the dark Devil in the detail, as did those  clever people and grocers... they "weigh everything!" (said Zorba!) Billy was a character drawn by Nikos Kazantzakis.
One day when he was living in Los Angeles with his new wife and baby boy, his wife sent him to the corner store for a gallon of milk. He ran into some of his buddies on the way back from the store; they were going to Daytona, Florida for the big Daytona race.....
Long story short, he ended up in Daytona, not even having dropped off the milk. He came home after the long weekend. Lot of story here. Zorba up to a point, I guess.