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The Pimp Daddy Blues

The title might seem trite, but its the name that seems to best describe the deep melancholy malaise I seem to find myself in since learning my cherished friend Greg Griffin aka Pimp Daddy had passed away.  Suddenly, the air seems a little heavier and the world feels a bit darker. Outside of saying that, I have struggled with how best to speak of Greg, because he's not easy to sum up in a few words.

In a feeble attempt at this summary, I searched through the muddled but merry wealth of memories I shared with my old friend. Greg and I first met when I worked at the Levee House in Marietta many moons ago.  He didn't actually work with me there but once you're into those local hospitality worker circles, the bonding begins and Greg and I would become fast friends. We would eventually work together as servers at the Becky Thatcher restaurant. This began a few wild, riotous, twisted, laugh-filled years of joining a crew led by Greg and the equally-beloved Dean, who we lost sev…

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