His game was blackjack. His drink was Chardonnay. His spot was the Oxford Inn. At least, it was  his spot on Tuesdays. On Wednesdays, you could find him at The Master's in Madison Heights, but not for dinner. No, on Wednesdays he always had dinner at Mon Jin Lau. Always straightforward and often quite frank, his notorious social schedule was probably the most complicated aspect of his personality.

William, Bill, or even Billy, which he hated, although it's probably most appropriate, given his sometimes, let us call it, youthful nature, was a man who was equally at home bellying up to the bar and holding court with friends and strangers alike, as he was pampering himself with manicures, pedicures, and massages. He was always so carefully styled, so well-dressed, and so charming. He was an adoring husband, a playful and loving father, a generous and affectionate grandfather, and a devoted friend and business partner.

He was a man's man and also, a ladies' man. He was the consummate businessman of yesteryear: skilled and commanding in the office by day, and also, at the strip clubs by night.  He was the kind of man whose confidence, professional talent, and personable nature led him into business for himself and the company he built alongside his best friend, his career-long partner, and his second wife Dave, which now grosses about $8 million annually. Not so bad for a boy who graduated from Berkley High School, just down the street. No, not bad at all for the boy who went on to proudly graduate from Oakland University. But then again, many would say Bill did lead a rather charmed life.

Enter, Barbara Prudhomme. She was chic, blonde, and beautiful, and she was absolutely the love of Bill's life. We should all be so lucky to meet the love of our lives at age 17, while still in high school. Barb and Bill dated during his senior year and through college, until they wed. They made a glamourous pair: her cool grace and elegance, and his twinkling, charismatic nature. Together, they raised a daughter and a son, of whom they were so very, very proud, and whom they loved above all else, even each other. Together, they made home a special place, where they nurtured a deep affection, friendship, and respect between their children, which continues to this day. One would often find Barbara, like a classic film star, red lips, manicured nails, holding a cigarette just so, laughing loudly at Bill's jokes and stories, or chiding him gently for some sort of foolish, outlandish behavior or another. And he, always teasing, always joking, always, for lack of a single word, up to something. They were, of course, only for each other. He never fully recovered from Barbara's death. There was a distinct shift in his character as he suffered losing her, his bride. He gave up. He grieved. And although he regained himself, he wasn't complete.

He did find tremendous joy in his grandchildren, Madeline and Samantha. With them, he found himself to be a tender, doting grandfather, spoiling them, treating them, and catering to their whims. He loved them so much that even allowed them to call him Grandpa Billy. Yet, Bill always delighted children, whether they be his own or others. Although at times maddening, his juvenile disposition was perfectly suited to connecting with kids. He loved to surprise his own children, sometimes sneaking them away for a day of fun at the gun range and the movies, instead of taking them to school, or just coming home at the end of the day with some little amazement or curiosity just for them. He loved surprises. He created these extraordinary moments for the extraordinary people in his life. However, we must be clear, Bill was also responsible for an awful lot of torment, particularly to his children. They were mercilessly subject to his constant teasing, as was most everyone else whom he knew. Although, quite simply, teasing was his primary instrument of affection. And his humor always prevailed, in every situation. For instance, he was firm about educating children in some finer adult pursuits, such as gambling. And, he didn't mind pocketing their allowance when he beat them at blackjack. 

He was the kind of man who made you feel like you were the most interesting person in the world. He was genuine and attentive, even with children. Always an excellent conversationalist, Bill could engage with anyone. He had a penchant for asking questions. He was so inquisitive. And it was precisely this personal nature, which made him so gregarious. 

His stories, big, bold and beautiful, soared so high that they rivaled the mighty Sequoias. He told tall tales, taller tales, and also, the tallest tales. He tamed lions, gambled away millions, and raced cars, he flew to the moon and back. His could out-Knievel Evel Knievel. He was a captain of the Great Lakes and a hunter-extraordinaire, a slayer of bear-like beasts. But such is the character of an exceptional storyteller, a man who could regale his dearest companions and delight strangers equally. As his obituary states, he turned down a teaching position at Harvard and could often be found, tending to his money tree.

Truth be told, he could often be found at one of his favorite bars, at the casino, or at a strip club. He often surmised that he was ready to retire so he could spend more quality time with his grandkids and, also, with strippers. It should come as no shock to anyone here, that when asked if Bill had any favorite quotations, proverbs, or perhaps a mantra, his family's response was: "He liked to say, show me your titties."

Bill was also a world traveler and had visited five continents, and hundreds of countries in Europe, Asia, and North America. Often, he traveled for business, but sometimes for pleasure. While vacationing, he enjoyed lolling on beaches, visiting forts, and investigating cemeteries. Bill even entertained the idea of purchasing a van that could hold a bed so that he could tour the United States. Upon his death, he had planned a trip to Thailand. And, because Bill is Bill, his family wasn't sure if he was going to Thailand as a tourist or if he was planning on bringing home a new wife. Honestly, it really could have gone either way.

Bill made his life into what so many of us desire. He was a prince among men, who, together with his brilliant, shining queen, burned so brightly and so intensely that in his absence, there is indeed darkness. 

But, we are wrong about legacy. It's not what you leave behind. It's not about what you gift others. It's not even about who remains to rekindle the fire of your spirit. Legacy is how you live. It's what you do with your life, what you do with the always too-short time we have. Legacy is the laughter we hear today, the joy in celebrating a life, the unexpected smile, and the gentle warmth which hugs our hearts when we remember each other. This is the stuff of a life well-lived. This is why we are here. This is what makes us great, the joy we elicit after we are gone. And as we look around this room, as we hold hands in comfort, as we listen to each other speak, we all are Bill's legacy. 

He does not live in darkness. He does not live in our hearts. Do not hold him too close. Do not keep him hidden away inside. Speak his name. Tell his tales. Laugh with him. Laugh at him. Bill lives in our mirth. He lives in our mischief. He lives in our wit. He lives in our delight. Do not forget who he is. Do not find him in your tears. Do not find him in your grief. Find him in your happiness. And keep him there, keep him alive and do not, do not, ever let him die.