R.I.P. Dave Fairbank (Not Really. Don't Be Alarmed. You'll Understand When You Read the Post. Jesus, Lighten Up.)

I confess that I was torn when I read this entry from our man in the OBX. On the one hand, it's predictably droll, self-deprecating, and entertaining. On the other, the topic is, well, morbid. And we've got our share of that right now. But it's also the kind of thing that could lead to a recurring bit, and we rarely let that kind of thing pass without pouncing. So please enjoy Dave Fairbank's autoeulogy.

I’ve been thinking about death lately. Not a cheery topic, but it’s tough to avoid with the official U.S. COVID death toll tracking like one of Elon Musk’s rocket launches, and with George Floyd and other victims sparking national and international protests and demonstrations.

Discouraging, yes, but not entirely gloomy. I took the opportunity to write my own obituary. I presently feel fine and don’t think my demise is imminent. But you never know. As I told the site’s Pocket Sultan at the most recent OBFT, if I get infected by the coronavirus, I have no idea if I would be asymptomatic, dead in a week, or somewhere in between. Or, I could go the traditional route and drop dead of a heart attack. Might as well prepare a little. (I do enjoy Pocket Sultan. Please feel free to use it.)

One could argue that writing your own obituary is a mite macabre and self-absorbed. But I submit that it’s compassionate. It relieves grieving loved ones of the added chore of adequately recapping a life, and it affords time to assign booze delivery for the wake or to devise tactics that screw relatives in the event of estate squabbles.

It also provides the deceased an element of control about their existence. We read obits all the time that say Jimmy loved gardening or Angela cherished time skiing with her family, when in fact Jimmy just wanted out of the house and away from the missus, and Angela was scared shitless of skiing but her family never asked her and kept booking ski trips.

Writing your own obit is hardly an original idea. Lots of people have done it. I found it to be a pleasant diversion. You could write it straight, but what’s the point in that? Let’s put the “fun” back in “funeral.”

I plan to leave this with my loved ones and hope they see fit to print it somewhere. If not, I may require legal assistance. As always, suggestions are welcome.

After overstaying his welcome by several years, Dave Fairbank of Kill Devil Hills finally departed this world on (FILL IN THE BLANK), leaving an open bar stool in establishments on the Outer Banks and beyond.

He is survived by his wife of XX years, Suzanne, whose love and support are matched only by her tolerance for her husband’s goofballery and myriad shortcomings. He is also survived by a sister, Sandy Chambers, and her husband (Bill) and sons (Michael and Alex), all of whom had the good sense to live hundreds of miles away so as to limit direct contact with the deceased. He fathered no children, sparing potential offspring a questionable upbringing.

Dave was preceded in death by his parents, Bob and Ruth Fairbank, loving, wonderful role models who deftly masked their disappointment in their oldest child and now have the opportunity to ask him why he didn’t amount to more.

Dave spent most of his professional life as a sportswriter, which permitted him to Peter Pan his way through adulthood, telling stories about games and kids and coaches, and avoiding real work. He wrote thousands of stories in almost 40 years as a newspaperman and freelance writer, many of which were competent.

He possessed no useful skills, was a disaster with technology, understood little about regular jobs, and squandered too much money on alcohol, for which his parents are almost certainly giving him a disappointed side-eye in the hereafter. He tried to listen to people and to read broadly. He enjoyed movies and music and was partial to blues, old jazz and 1970s era funk and soul. He never saw “Hamilton,” yet somehow endured. He was sociable, yet rarely dominated a room. Rumor had it that on occasion he was good company.

Dave was born on Sept. 24, 1958 in Baltimore before his parents whisked him away to the wilderness of Edgewater, Md., south of Annapolis. He attended Southern High School and then Washington (Md.) College and the University of Maryland-College Park, where he graduated with a General Studies degree, which meant that he was qualified to do nothing. He had the opportunity to work with his father, who helped run and later owned a small business, but he was determined to do something less lucrative that required excessive and unusual hours and peculiar work habits.

He spent the bulk of his career at the Newport News (Va.) Daily Press, covering mostly college and prep sports, along with the occasional professional golf tournament, NFL game and NASCAR race. He saw, in their youth, Allen Iverson, Michael Vick, Alonzo Mourning, Pernell Whitaker, Ronald Curry, Terry Kirby, J.R. Reid, Percy Harvin, Olympic sprinters Francena McCorory and LaShawn Merritt, CFL legend Michael Clemons, and future NFL head coaches Mike Tomlin and Sean McDermott, among an almost embarrassingly rich list of talent. Crossing paths with those athletes didn’t buy groceries, but they provided stories. He was humbly surprised and grateful that subjects returned his phone calls and willingly spoke to him.

Dave fortunately avoided the staff cuts and purges that became de rigueur under the soulless, corporate jackals that increasingly ran newspapers. He left the newspaper business in 2015, and he and Suzanne relocated to the Outer Banks, where he swept sand and dodged hurricanes and sampled fish tacos. He did some freelance writing for various publications and was a periodic contributor to a friend’s blog, a gig that somehow was even less profitable than newspaper work – re-confirming his financial acumen.

In short, Dave was blessed beyond all reason and explanation. In other countries and circumstances, someone of his limitations might have been homeless or institutionalized. Instead, he managed to carve out a niche and function among the public. Wonders never cease.

In lieu of flowers, retire to a tavern, have a few drinks, and over-tip your server.