Sparky was no prince. He hit his wife regularly, drank far too much, and sexually harassed any female over...approximately thirteen-years-old, depending on the body's maturation. What complicates the situation for most people that know him: Sparky was a veteran.
Vietnam veterans living in south Brooklyn could be characterized as a curiously elitist circle, a historically neglected brotherhood. These guys actually know each other and respect a different set of standards for acceptable behavior. The bond can transcend generations.
Like most human experiences, funerals are becoming exponentially public. Formerly considered too sacred, religious, or intimate to broadcast or "share;" funeral as event is victim to the same celebrity delusion as a plate of ethnically celebratory food.
There were zero photos taken at Sparky's funeral. Here's why:
As the story goes, a total of 11 individuals made an appearance at the unsavory character's farewell party. My buddy (and source) was present, accompanied by his elegant and patient wife. No one was putting on airs of being sad for losing Sparky. They'd all known each other in one way or another since they were old enough to remember. The widow looked like she had cried that day, but was not presently expressing deep mourning.
It was, what it was. He wasn't a nice guy. If you wanted to say something nice about him, you could mention he had a sense of humor, albeit dark.