Frank Thorne's ink sketch of a fully clothed colonial drummer always hung over our toilet no matter where we moved when I was a kid. Behind the toilet, you understand, where it wouldn't offend our tender women folk.

I was 50 before I intruded on Frank's daft dotage and defied the long odds of ever finding a genetic link, a genuine affinity for another member of my family. In a family where the highest form of praise is, "You Asshole!", Frank's uncouth existence was not acknowledged.

My first gig as a general assignment reporter - bunking from a hot pillow motel with syphilitic faucets, paper thin walls, and fellow "tenants" I recognized from council meetings - covered Thorne Central and I didn't fucking know it.

So this, Cousin Frank, is long overdue thanks for helping me distract my sphincter long enough to pee all those many years ago.

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