Not Another One! The World Reels as a Comedic Genius Leaves Us, RIP Catherine O'Hara

We’ve been hit pretty hard lately. The awful news resulting from having an idiot in the White House has been relentless. Two murders of innocent citizens by law enforcement is enough but there’s so much more. Adding to this has been a slate of celebrity deaths. True, famous people are always dying but Robert Redford, Diane Keaton and Rob Reiner (particularly owing to the nature of his death — patricide) were much beloved. Add to that today’s announcement of the passing of Catherine O’Hara and it’s clear just how badly we’re getting slapped around by the universe.

Catherine O’Hara was a real favorite of mine. Judging from social media I am not alone in having revered her brilliant comic talents. Schitt’s Creek was one of the greatest sitcoms of all time and she was, as Moira Rose, a good fifty per cent of it’s appeal. Surely Moira ranks among the very best TV characters of all time.

She also featured in Christopher Guests’s best comedies such as Waiting for Guffman, A Mighty Wind and Best in Show. Add to that her turn as the mother in the first two Home Alone films and you’ve got two or three great careers wrapped into one. But there was so much more starting with Second City Television where she starred beginning in 1976 aside the likes of John Candy, Martin Short, Harold Ramis, Andrea Martin and her erstwhile acting partner Eugene Levy. O’Hara and Levy appeared together for nearly fifty years culminating with Schitt’s Creek.

Most recently Mr. O’Hara appeared on Seth Rogen’s excellent comedy, The Studio. Every time she was on the show it was that much better. She made life that much better. As Rogen said we’re lucky to have lived in a world with Mr. O’Hara in it. This planet won’t be the same without her.

Diane Keaton One of a Kind, An Appreciation

Diane Keaton 1946-2025

Celebrity deaths hit us in different ways. Some don’t hit us at all because while we were aware of the person we might not have known much about their work or not liked what we did know. Such was the case for me with the deaths of people like Paul Walker and Kurt Cobain. 

The age of the decedent can also matter. The death of someone in their nineties is sad but feels inevitable, but someone who was in their twenties feels tragic.

Our feelings vary based on how much we knew of the person outside of their work. Sometimes we feel a connection to a celebrity perhaps because we’ve seen so much of their work or because we’ve “gotten to know” the person through articles, interviews, podcasts and the like.

Last month I was saddened enough by Robert Redford’s death to write about it on this blog. I’d been seeing him in films since I was a teenager and he was in several pictures that meant a lot to me. Besides, he was a good all-around chap whose politics aligned with mine.

But that pain was minimal compared to how I felt yesterday when I learned that Diane Keaton had died. In a post from April 2023 I wrote about my favorite actresses and named Ms. Keaton my favorite of the second half of the 20th century.

Last night the missus and I watched her Oscar-winning performance in Annie Hall (1977) Allen. (No idea how many times I've watched Annie Hall but it must be close to or over twenty). It was a brilliant performance and I’ve always been impressed that the Academy rewarded her for a role in a comedy. She brought such depth and humanity to the role, a genuineness and charming eccentricity and style. She was sexy, lovable, cute, nerdy, fun and wise all in one role. I remember a friend once complaining that she got an Oscar for essentially playing herself. And is that easy? Even for a professional actor? I don’t think so. Besides, despite their similarities, Diane Keaton and Annie Hall were not the same person.

Ms.Keaton brought a different vibe to another Woody Allen film, Manhattan. Here she was far more worldly, cynical, overbearing yet at times vulnerable. A woman searching for her true self and true love and stepping on toes along the way. Manhattan is an interesting movie because it’s a comedy with dramatic elements or a drama with comedic bits. Actors will tell you that doing the comedy bits is tougher. Diane Keaton was a master at it. She excelled in comedic roles for Allen in pictures like Play it Again, Sam, Sleeper, Love and Death and Manhattan Murder Mystery (a vastly underrated film). Yet she was also the wife of Mafia Boss Michael Corleone (Al Pacino) in The Godfather and The Godfather Part 2. She was never impressed with her performances in those films and felt she was miscast. I think most filmgoers disagree. I’d go so far to say that she was perfect for the part. Ms. Keaton captured the post World War II trustingly naive young wife. But she also embodied the woman who's seen enough, has her internal come to Jesus moment and splits.

Around the time she made Annie Hall Ms. Keaton was in a very different film, Looking For Mr. Goodbar (1970 R Brooks, is dark, psychological drama about a woman in a continual search for sexual partners. It's not an easy watch but through Ms. Keaton's performance it is accessible. The film was flawed but her performance was not.

One of her greatest roles was in Reds (1981), in which she played journalist and activist Louise Bryant opposite Warren Beatty’s John Reed. It was a demanding role in a long movie and she was excellent throughout more than holding her own opposite such powerhouses as Beatty, Jack Nicholson, Paul Sorvino, Maureen Stapleton. It’s difficult now to think of Louise Bryant without imagining Diane Keaton. She was the strong-willed feminist who could love deeply and earnestly amid the incredible political tumult that she was both reporting and influencing. 

Diane Keaton was a film star. Sure she was a terrific actress, yes she was beautiful. But more than that she seemed relatable and fun. Men would picture her in bed, but they could also imagine having a long chat in a cafe over coffee. Browsing in a bookstore with her. Laughing with her. Maybe that’s the key. Sure you’d want to make love to her, but you felt you could also look forward to long, loud belly laughs together. Beautiful but accessible. Sexy and funny. Diane Keaton defied labels. She was more her own person than ninety-nine percent of the actresses in Hollywood have ever been.

You could watch her opposite Woody Allen, Al Pacino, Warren Beatty and any other actor lucky enough to share the screen with her. One of a kind. She seemed perfect and it’s unimaginable that she’s no longer in this world. We are so much poorer for her absence.

The Memorial Service

The memorial service is by turns somber and joyful. While it is a celebration of a life well-lived it is also a reminder that the beloved family member and friend is gone from this world forever.

Hugs are exchanged, stories of the departed are shared, there are a few tears but also a few laughs. Some guests partake heartily of the snacks provided. There is also coffee and pastries. Some remark on the quality of the fare. Most everyone comments on the eulogies and how well they summed up the deceased and honored his life.

Inevitably conversations drift towards other topics. People catch up. Vacation plans are shared. Someone has bought a new house and is asked about it. A young woman tells of her admission to a top graduate program. A recent injury someone suffered is discussed and commiserated over.

Finally it is time to go. The hall has been reserved for an evening event. Some stay and help fold chairs, collect trash, wash dishes. Idle chatter accompanies the completing of these tasks.

The last of the attendees leave to find it has been a warm, sunny day. But the sun is fading and a breeze is cooling.

People go home. As individuals. As couples. As families. One person takes a bus. A couple call an Uber. Each are satisfied with the service they've just attended and relieved not to have been the one "honored." They are quite happy to be continuing with life. With all its stress and pain and discomforts and awkward moments there are offsetting joys and triumphs. It's grand to be part of it. To participate. To have agency. To think and breathe and feel. There is determination among many to use the deceased's exemplary life as an example and to make the most of whatever time they have left. There are thoughts of the fragility of life and how lucky we are to be here at all.

At home people change out of skirts and dress shirts into leisure wear. Most of the attendees prepare dinner though a few order out and one couple goes to their favorite restaurant. Two people don’t have dinner at all having supped enough at the memorial.

Most people store the program from the memorial with other of life’s mementos. But some will recycle it or have it laying around for a few days before disposing of it.

Most conversations are related to daily affairs. The deceased is beginning to be forgotten. Those closest to him will think of him often in the days ahead though less so with each passing day. He’ll be remembered on his birthdate and the anniversary of his death. He’ll be spoken of occasionally at family gatherings and when his visage is noted in photo albums. He’ll be missed at the first Thanksgiving and Christmas after his death. There’ll be a few people who talk of what he lovely sending off he got at the memorial service. 

We did him justice, they'll say proudly. Then move on.

The Effortless but Compelling Robert Redford -- RIP

Redford in Three Days of the Condor

Effortless. Robert Redford, whose death was announced yesterday,  was not a great actor but my goodness he was an effective one who was perfect in several iconic roles.

It’s impossible to imagine anyone else as The Sundance Kid, a role he was born to play in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. This side of Steve McQueen there’s been no one cooler on the big screen. Again opposite Paul Newman he was similarly well-suited to the role of Johnny Hooker in The Sting. In retrospect it seems a shame that Redford and Newman didn’t make more than two films together especially given their close friendship. 

Redford was also perfect as Bill McKay in The Candidate (a vastly underrated film). He was so good as the dashing young candidate for the U.S. Senate that you found yourself wishing Redford would run for office.

He also fit perfectly as Bob Woodward in All the President’s Men, surely the best of his films. He had the unenviable task of playing opposite Dustin Hoffman who embodied Carl Bernstein. He also shared screen time in that movie with Jason Robards, Martin Balsam and Jack Warden. Redford more than held his own. He always did.

For me his second best film was Three Days of the Condor a classic political paranoia film from the Seventies. His co-star was an in-her-prime Faye Duneway and they were a superb screen pairing. Condor called on Redford’s acting chops more than most films did and he was equal to the task.

Redford made many other films better such as Hot Rock, Little Fauss and Big Halsy, Spy Game, Sneaker, The Natural, The Great Waldo Pepper,  Brubaker, Jeremiah Johnson, Barefoot in the Park and Downhill Racer. That’s not a bad list to go along with his best pictures: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Sting, The Candidate, All the President’s Men and Three Days of the Condor. (Fifteen films that ranged from good to great.)

Redford stepped comfortably into roles. He brought incredibly good looks, an effortless charm and intelligence. When he had to he could play dumb as he did as Sundance or naive as he did as Hooker. In both cases he let Newman be the “smart one.” He played it very smart in All the President’s, Condor, Spy Game and Sneaker. He played it cool in almost every role especially Downhill Racer in which he made downhill skiing look even cooler than it does in the Winter Olympics. 

Redford was a movie star in the truest sense of the word. He looked as good in a tux as he did as cowpoke or a CIA agent. His gait was easy. He was athletic enough without gym-built muscles. His voice was smooth and easy and when it was needed he could turn on a disarming smile.

It’s strange to think he’s no longer among us. For me he’s been around since high school. I suppose it was as Sundance that I first became aware of him. That role and that film were formative for me in my growing love of cinema. A few years later I was totally beguiled by The Sting and took people to see just to enjoy their reaction to the surprise ending. But of course it wouldn’t have been half the film without Newman and Redford. As a budding journalist I was inspired by him and Hoffman in All the President’s and was intrigued by Condor. I still am.

Redford never won an acting Oscar and I don’t think he was close to earning one. But he was still an important actor who’ll not soon be forgotten. You don't have to go all Marlon Brando as Stanley Kowalski to be effective on the big screen.

That he was politically aware and advocated for good causes makes him an admirable person in the bargain.

What a cool guy.

Writers Block, Musings on Death, Two Films and Loved Ones Gone

His Three Daughters

My latest struggles with writing cause me to wonder if it’s all over. Is my mind starting to fade? Is this the beginning of the end? I used to be able to put a thousand words on paper with ease. I could conjure a piece of fiction upon request. I could sit down for hours and write only stopping occasionally to stretch. Is that gone? Forever?

Here I search for a topic. Many flit through my brain through the course of a normal day. But they don’t alight and I can’t grasp them. 

Grasp.

Why do people say, exempli gratia, I’m going to grab lunch instead of I’m going to grasp lunch? It makes as much sense.

(There has been — unnoticeable to the reader — a long pause sense the preceding sentence. The writer again is unable to find the next line, or any line, the next thought, or any thought.)

Finally…..

I am preoccupied with death, specifically my own. (This, by the way, is no way to go through life, better to enjoy each day, one day at a time and all that.) In any event the last four movies I've seen have dealt with death to one degree or another, in fact two of them were specifically about coping with the death(s) of others. These two films were All of Us Strangers (Haigh)and His Three Daughters (Jacobs). Strangers I saw initially in January during its theatrical run and again Saturday via Hulu. Daughters is a brand spanking new release now on Netflix. Strangers is a difficult film to capsulize but suffice it to say it is the story of a man dealing with the death of his parents which occurred many years before when he was twelve. There’s another critical element to the story but discussing that would be a major spoiler. Mourning periods can last a few days, months, years or a lifetime. People process the deaths of loved ones in myriad ways. All of Us Strangers explores one person’s delayed means of coping and gaining a sense of closure. It's an unusual film in the best possible sense and is highlighted by a great performance by the brilliant Andrew Scott.

His Three Daughters is about a father at home in hospice surrounded by his three grown daughters who are ostensibly there to aid in his transition from the living. While Dad is the raison d'etre for their presence there is much more to the story than that. The sisters are not terribly close, there are old wounds, resentments and misunderstandings — a dying parent adds another layer of stress. The film has been -- aptly -- called a chamber piece. Most of it is set in a New York apartment and most of the screen time is occupied by the three daughters wonderfully realized by Carrie Coon, Elizabeth Olsen and Natasha Lyonne. None of them are acting, they are embodying characters in such a powerful way as to make a potentially depressing story enthralling.

When my mother died I was nonplussed. I’d had very little contact with her for the previous twenty-five years. She was a paranoid schizophrenic who’d made my childhood….not perfect. I shed no tears upon her passing.In the years that followed  I posthumously forgave her and grieved not her death but her life. God how I wish fate had been kinder to her and thus to me.

My father’s death was a different matter. It was slow and we had plenty of time to prepare. Sixteen years later I’m still processing it and dealing with feelings about him. I’ve written a lot about him and he will be the topic of a talk I’m giving at a Finnish Independence Day celebration in December. He is something of a hero to me though I recognize his flaws all too well. 

I’ve had to suffer the premature losses of most of my close friends, two of whom died within a few months of each other, both unexpectedly. It was not long after my only brother had died too.

I miss them all and it’s interesting to note how frequently they and my father appear in my dreams, always alive and well. It’s impossible to accept the permanence of the death of a loved one. It’s natural that we talk and hope of seeing them on the other side.

A former student of mine, who I see from time to time because he’s best friends with one of my nephews, suffered the death of his son last Christmas Day. The day before the boy was to turn six-years-old. That’s an unimaginable type of pain, probably the worst there is. Life is so cruel that the internal question why most constantly be asked, if never answered. 

But we the living owe it to ourselves to cherish everyday as best we can. That’s quite simple in principle but for someone such as myself who suffers from occasional bouts of horrid depression it’s not manageable. I guess one has to do the best they can.

Well I’ve at least given lie to the notion that my writing is dead. I’ve completed this later in the day after starting in the morning but it still constitutes a decent bit of writing, particularly given that I taught a class, graded papers and planned a lesson in the interim. I’ve also been wracked by depression. Completing this helps. Thanks to anyone who read this far.

Remembering Steven, A Bright Shining Light That Passed Through My Life

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”  -- from On the Road by Jack Kerouac.

I was reminded of this when someone mentioned Orange Julius:

Steven, who was a very distant cousin and good friend and mentor (in the fields of alcohol and drug intake) along with a friend of his from Finland (Matti) were staying with me for a few weeks in the summer of 1972 at my parent’s place in Berkeley. We were prone to long evenings of debauchery and had just enjoyed one despite the fact that Steven had an early morning class at Cal.

Steven returned from the class noonish and told us the following: “I was sitting in the Orange Julius before class drinking a coffee. I was totally spaced out staring into the void in the throes of a vicious hangover. Someone came up to me and said: ‘it’s far out that you’re tripping, man, but try not to be so obvious about it.’” Steven then fell into paroxysms of laughter as did Matti and I.

I’ve always cherished that story. It’s so very reflective of Steven who was so singular a personality that I made him a character in my latest novel. He had a huge impact on my life starting the day I met him when I was fifteen  (he was just short of twenty, incredibly old to me at the time) he introduced me to alcohol that day. Steven (never, ever Steve) was the first openly gay man that I ever knew. I grew up in a very different time in which homosexuality was not discussed as anything other than a perversion. It wasn’t so much that I and my peers grew up homophobic but more a matter of queerness not even being acknowledged. Learning that Steve was gay — which happened a few years into our friendship — made homosexuality seem not just acceptable but somehow exotic and interesting — though nothing I wanted to experiment with.

To say that Steven had a facility for languages would be a massive understatement. He learned Finnish — starting with zero words — in a few months. And he was soon fluent. Not surprisingly he got an undergraduate degree in linguistics. I don’t know whether he completed a post graduate degree but he easily could have with minimal application.

Toward the end of his life Steven was a homeless advocate. I know little of those years. I lost contact with him when I “settled down” and got sober, married and entrenched in a teaching career. I don’t know whether his drinking continued apace but he was only 43 when he died, perhaps of AIDS.

Back to the day I met him. I was at a large July 4th gathering in Marin County at which there were many Finns including a few of my cousins. I was seated at a large table on a lawn with two of my cousins desperately bored when Steven appeared (the fete was, after all, at his once and future home). It was as if Mick Jagger had entered the room. Though not a conventionally handsome man he had the presence of a rock star. Charisma oozed from his pores. Noting that we were drinking lemonade, Steven produced a bottle of vodka and proceeded to spike our drinks. 

My first experience with intoxication was something of a case of love at first sight — or sip. The experience was enhanced by Steven who possessed a ribald sense of humor. He was instantly impressed by my ready wit and perspicacity. Steven was further impressed that I could sing along to Springtime For Hitler from the film, The Producers.

Over the next ten years I saw Steven sporadically often visiting him in Marin, sometimes bringing along a current girlfriend. The July 4th gatherings continued but moved to Mendocino. There was a small community of Finns dominating a tiny town inland from
Mendocino called Comptche. We regularly visited there and Steven was often there as one of the residents was an aunt. 

The parties in Mendocino were wild, sprawling affairs with oceans of booze and large barbecues. I managed a number of sexual conquests there, except when showing up already with  a girl. When not satisfying my carnal desires I was in revelry with Steven and others.

There have been few things in my life that have indulged my ego more than the fact that Steven liked me so much. In addition to my wild and imaginative sense of humor he appreciated my ability to drink throughout the night and remain ambulatory and with the power of speech (if somewhat slurred). We were peas in a pod — one flooded with liquor.

Steven was a party waiting to happen. So was I. Between us we put Dionysus to shame.

I suppose given that I am a recovering alcoholic one might claim that Steven was a bad influence. Poppycock. First of all I would have embarked on a nearly twenty-year drinking career even if I’d never met the man. Steven provided me with some of my favorite memories of my late teens and early twenties. 

I don’t know what adjective best suits him. Many are required. Unique doesn’t suffice. I’ve used singular and it’s okay. Hilarious. Genius. Brilliant. Loquacious. Charming. Certainly flamboyant. Sometimes prissy and a little prickly. Insightful. Occasionally silly. Well-read. For me he was inspirational. He made me want to be smarter. He made me want to enjoy life to the fullest. He made me want to revel in what was special about me. To be true to my nature. 

I should add that Steven was — like the rest of us — far from perfect. He suffered occasional depression (I don’t know if it was as bad as mine). I know that despite loving, long-term relationships he fought against his own true nature and tried to be “cured” of homosexuality. I’ll never understand this. But he enriched my life and did the same for those around him. He never said anything dull or expected. He was an exploding star.

Anytime I hear a reference to Orange Julius, I think of him. Extraordinary chap. 

I Learn of the Death of a Former Comrade and Share Regrets

Mark was a singer too. Photo courtesy of the N&R

Another lesson learned too late.

When I knew Mark McKinnon he was in his mid and late twenties. Mark was six feet five inches tall, muscular and looked even bigger with his long blonde hair and beard. His body was not sculpted like a body builder but lean and hard. We were writers for the Wildcat, the student newspaper at Chico State University. Mark was a few years older than me and a couple of decades wiser. He was always, kind, generous and thoughtful and had robust sense of humor. Like most of us in that time and place he had a fondness for getting high but he was generally able to show restraint and I never saw him wasted.

I believe Mark had been a baseball star in high school. I saw him hit monster home runs in softball games. He could have been physically imposing but that wasn’t his style. He was too nice a bloke. Befitting his size he had a deep rich voice that would have been good for voice over work or narration.

On hot days Mark generally went shirtless and wore shorts. He couldn't very blend into a crowd.

For a time Mark ran the Associated Students film series. This was back in the days before streaming, DVDs or even VCRs. If you wanted to watch an old film you had to wait for it to show up on television, where it would be constantly interrupted by commercials. You couldn’t record anything then so whenever it was on was when you watched it. The AS film series would allow you to see a classic film or two every weekend sans commercials. My wife and my first movie date was to see The Thin Man at the series. Anyway Mark was a classic film buff — rather a necessity for the job. He would write a preview for whatever film he was showing in the Wildcat. One weekend he had Duck Soup. Knowing I was a Marx Brothers aficionado, he let me do a guest write-up.

Mark and I were at the Wildcat went it went into negotiations to go independent, free from the strictures of the university. This was in the shadow of the Sixties and there was still an air of rebelliousness on college campuses. Coming from Berkeley and being a veteran of campus riots (I suppose I earned a purple heart for having been tear gassed) I was all about sticking it to the man but more than that people like Mark and myself were idealists who saw the desperate need for the community to have an independent newspaper, that unlike the town's daily, told some hard truths and did some series digging.

Along with a dozen or so others, Mark and I were co-founders of the Chico News & Review which is still extant today. Those were heady times and I had great affection for most of my comrades, Mark and Bob Speer in particular. They were like big brothers to me and I doubt either ever had any idea how influential they were in my life or how much I admired them. I remember Bob (who ultimately served on the N&R for decades) with great admiration and affection. Both Bob and Mark were quintessentially nice people. They were never snarky, only gently teased and were always thoughtful. 

The biggest regret of my life — which still pains me today — was leaving the N&R after two years to take a position with the Cal State Students Association. It was a job I was ill-suited for and sent me into a spiral of excess drug and alcohol use and wandering the country taking menial jobs only righting myself six years later.

By then I’d lost touch with everyone at the N&R, including Mark. I probably last saw him in 1979. I googled him once a few years ago and saw that he was teaching at Butte College (just as I was — and still am — a teacher). I meant to write to him but put it off. That was a big mistake. I googled Mark again his morning already mentally composing an email to him. But before I could find an email address I saw his obituary. He’d died six weeks ago at 71 of cancer. Among his survivors was his wife Wendy who I remember Mark dating.

As obituaries do, it highlighted what a marvelous person he was.  But there were no embellishments or exaggerations, you could tell that he was genuinely loved. I’m sorry that I never saw him in the past forty plus years and sorrier yet that I didn’t email him after googling him. I could have told Mark how fondly I remembered him and what a sweet and positive impact he’d had on me. I wish I’d gotten to know Mark better and I wish I’d met more people like him in my life. I would have liked to update him on my life -- I know he would have been interested -- and heard more about his. 

If you’re thinking of contacting someone you haven’t heard from in a long time, don’t hesitate.  Don’t think you might be bothering them. Don’t think it’s not a good time. Don’t think they might not remember you so fondly. Don’t think. Just bloody well do it. You'd hate to reach a day when it was too late and you were saddled with a regret. Trust me on this one.

Thank You and Farewell Max von Sydow

No one appears in more of the 240 films I own on DVD than Max Van Sydow. I can watch him in:
The Seventh Seal (1957)
Wild Strawberries (1957)
The Magician (1958)
The Virgin Spring (1960)
Through a Glass Darkly (1961)
Winter Light (1963)
Shame (1968)
The Passion of Anna (1969)
The Emigrants (1971)
The New Land (1972)
The Exorcist (1973)
Three Days of the Condor (1975)
Hannah and Her Sisters (1986)
Europa (1991)*
Shutter Isand (2010)
*Narrator

That's 15 films and in most he was in a starring role. Of course he benefited greatly from having started his career being a regular in Ingmar Bergman's films, but one could argue that his performances were part of what helped make Bergman films so special.  The Seventh Seal is generally regarded as one of the greatest films of all time and von Sydow gives a towering performance that demonstrated his acting depth and presaged his brilliant career. Despite regularly appearing in Bergman films, he was not typecast. A knight in one film, a suicidal young husband in another, a magician, a doctor, a farmer, a priest, a spy, a doctor, an artist. Acerbic and angry in one film, weak and fallible in another.

Von Sydow had that rich, low voice (listen to his haunting narration in Europa) and was tall in way that he could gangly and awkward or bold and dangerous. Of course his face was cinematic. Handsome in a classical art sort of way.

My favorite performances of his...well, I've painted myself into a corner here for picking one or two or even just three seems impossible. But I'll go ahead and say his breakthrough role as the ill-fated knight in The Seventh Seal is one of them but I also admired his work in Shame as the weak ex violinist trying to navigate his war-torn homeland. He was also brilliant as the angry and isolated artist Frederick in Woody Allen's Hannah and Her Sisters.

We often say of departed heroes that "they don't make 'em like him anymore." I sure as hell don't see another Von Sydow waiting in the wings. A generational talent.

Memorial Services are Discussed, Particularly One Attended Today

It’s hard to get a memorial service right. I’ve been to a lot lately, two this year alone for good friends.  I was at one for a friend about six years ago that was nearly perfect. One feature of a good service is that there’s no “open mic” at the end in which anyone in attendance can come up and say a few words. That can drag on forever and some of the people I’ve heard in such situations barely knew the deceased, ramble incoherently, merely repeat what others have said or are up there to hear the sound of their own voices. A good memorial service creates an atmosphere in which the dearly departed is celebrated and mourned (emphasis on the former) and tedium does not set in.

I want to a memorial service today and they had an open share at the end but limited it to just a few people. Two were welcome additions and the other was not. The overall service was fine. It was well attended and reasonably well organized. It served to remind me what a great person Paul was and how lucky I was to have been his friend for four decades. It also — and this is inevitable — made me miss him and wish I’d been a better friend. (I wrote about Paul shortly after learning his pancreatic cancer had reach the the-end-is-near stage.)

The first speaker during the service was a disaster. Here’s a sign someone is going to be a poor speaker: they start by telling you that they’re “not very good at this sort of thing.” Then they prove it. The poor guy went on way to long telling pointless stories and sharing uninteresting facts (we could have got by without knowing what bands Paul liked listening to in the '80s). He also had a terrible speaking voice. Not his fault but it only served to acerbate this meandering talk.

A few subsequent speakers were darn good. They included humor in their remarks and kept their comments brief. A few others could have been done without but at least spared us being overly long as the first chap was.

I generally think about the deceased during a memorial service and the times we had together and the impact we had on one another’s lives. But I also can’t help but think about my own memorial service. I’m determined to earn a good one, one in which people can say nice things and genuinely mean them. If not, what the hell, I’ll be dead anyway.

There was a reception afterwards as is usually the case. Post memorial receptions are a lot like retirement or birthday parties, people mingle around chatting and make reference to the honoree but inevitably go on to other topics. It’s only natural. This was a potluck reception. I shy away from potluck food finding it can cause havoc with the digestive system.

I caught up with a few people I’d hadn’t seen in ages, most of whom I probably will never see again. One kept talking about how great his life was these days to the extent that I wasn’t sure if I should believe him or that I should at least question his motives on insisting he was living the good life. There was another person who I hadn’t seen in close to ten years who I was looking forward to exchanging pleasantries with.  We shook hands and exchanged, “good to see ya"s. Then he made comment on my purple tie which I was wearing with a black shirt — suitable to the occasion — as the backdrop. He cracked wise about me being Catholic. Fair enough. We were interrupted and when resuming conversation I asked about his daughter. After a brief update he poked fun at the Buddhist prayer beads I wear. That was in lieu of asking about my children or my doings or my opinion on reforming the Julian calendar. So that answered my question about what he’s been doing the past few years  — turning into an asshole.

I checked in with a few more people, all of whom greeted me warmly and I them. Then the missus and I gave hugs and chatted briefly with Paul’s widow, as sweet and wonderful a woman as ever worked the earth. That was enough for me, time to head home.

During the service someone shared a quote from Maya Angelou. I here paraphrase it: people will not remember you for what you said or what you did, but how you made them feel.

While one person today made me feel irritated and disappointed, the focus of the day’s memorial was a man who, for most of our time together — dating back to freshman year in college — made me  happy. Now I'm trying hold on to how happy he often made me and let go of how sad his death is. RIP Paul Tjogas.

Tribute to a Friend

Paul on the left with the author circa 1986.

“You have noticed that the truth comes into this world with two faces. One is sad with suffering, and the other laughs; but it is the same face, laughing or weeping. When people are already in despair, maybe the laughing face is better for them; and when they feel too good and are too sure of being safe, maybe the weeping face is better for them to see.” 
-- Black Elk from Black Elk Speaks: Being the Life Story of a Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux

Freshmen year in the dorms 1971 at Chico State there was this gangly geeky looking guy. He was tall, slender, face pocked from acne. He wore plain glasses and clothing so ordinary it was darn near weird. He had short dark hair and walked with a stoop. His name was Paul Tjogas and I’d never seen a nerdier looking guy in my life. He was especially nerdy given the time period as this was when most everyone in their late teens and early twenties felt free to wear whatever — usually colorful — clothes caught their fancy and let their hair down, figuratively and literally.  Not Paul, though. His roommates once gave me a peek into his chest of drawers and closet. Everything was lined up neatly in order and this included white undershirts, no one was wearing white undershirts then. Well, except for Paul.

One of my first “encounters” with Paul was while walking down the halls of the dorm. Someone said my name. I looked around and Paul was the only person I saw, walking a good 15 yards behind me with his head down. There was no indication that he’d said my name but if not him, who? This was a weird trick of Paul’s. Saying a person’s name and pretending he hadn’t. I never quite saw the point of it but then again if you weren’t the target it could be amusing.

I became friends with one of Paul’s roommates and with Paul himself shortly thereafter. No, I wouldn’t have predicted that I, coming from Berkeley in the Sixties, already a veteran of anti-war demonstrations and LSD trips, would befriend someone who seemed to be the straightest, squarest, white male on the planet. But Paul defied all expectations. He was never what he seemed.

Yes, we were both athletes (Paul was a runner and I was a soccer player) and sports fans and we liked the same teams (SF Giants and 49ers) but our friendship was and has always remained about much more than sports.

Paul won me over when he expressed admiration for 17 year old Jonathan Jackson who brazenly took a judge and others hostage in an effort to negotiate the freedom of the Soledad Brothers. It was a doomed mission and arguably a bad idea but Paul was impressed by young man’s display of courage. Indeed Paul may have looked the young republican but his political views were nearer to my New Left philosophy than to conservatism.

By the end of our freshman year Paul and I were buddies. Like all my close friends I was attracted to Paul for two main reasons: he loved life and he marched to the beat of a different and very hip drummer. Here was a man who, far from succumbing to cynicism as many of us then did, maintained an infectious enthusiasm for life. Paul also was gifted with a strong work ethic which accounts for academic achievements and long and successful career in engineering. Paul didn’t just hit the books, he beat them to a pulp; yet he managed to fill his free time with the kind of silly nonsense college males have long been notorious for. Paul and the Durham Boys were a highlight of Chico’s annual Pioneer Week parade.

We were roommates twice in college so I was witness to the long hours he spent sequestered with textbooks, t squares, pencils, paper (graph and lined) and notebooks. But I also enjoyed shenanigans with him a few of which I would blush to make public. Suffice to say we were were rowdy, randy lads with senses of humors that veered between sarcastic, slapstick, bawdy, surreal and outrageous. We also embraced irony. Paul and I hosted what we called the Donald DeFreeze (Cinque) Memorial kegger in “honor” of the slain SLA leader. We didn’t really admire Cinque at all, it was just funnier than naming a party for a real hero or — god forbid — just calling it a party or kegger.

Approaching his mid twenties Paul metamorphosed, his acne was clearing up, his hair was growing to a more natural length. But around the fairer sex he remained painfully shy. A girlfriend of mine at the time and I took it upon ourselves to set him up with a likely lass. This worked out so well that the Paul and the woman eventually married. Then again they subsequently divorced. In any event I take partial credit for getting Paul active in the game of love. His continued participation bore fruit with his second marriage which remains a raving success to this day. A person like Paul deserves a happy marriage and his second eventually led to two beautiful children who today excel as athletes, students and people. How could Paul produce anything less?

My two turns as a roommate of Paul’s were a delight. He was as responsible as I was irresponsible, as clean and neat as I was sloppy and as reliable as I was flaky. Of course while he was setting a course for career success I was perfecting my drinking and womanizing skills neither, of which do I put to use anymore.

Paul graduated and immediately got a job in Southern California and eventually earned his MA. I stayed in Chico and drank but also started a career in journalism. Over a seven year period we did not see each other and our only contact was one phone call around the time the 49ers won their first Super Bowl. But a few years after that Paul re-located to the Bay Area as I had a year before. We immediately got together and it was like we’d never parted. We knew and understood one another so well that we were more like family than just ole college buddies. I loved the guy.

A few years after returning Paul and first wife realized that happily ever after did not apply to their relationship. This is always a difficult time for a man and I was more than happy to help Paul through it. He actually rebounded quite quickly and went straightaway into the dating scene. This is always problematical once you enter your 30s and I listened to Paul’s war stories, offering whatever hope I could. Meanwhile I had stumbled into marriage with the woman of my dream’s and we had two daughters. I gave Paul the honorary title of Godfather to both of them. This was more an homage to the film and less to religion. He earned the title. I actually bragged to people about how nice my friend Paul was to my daughter’s. Once after a Giant game I lamented that I couldn’t quite afford the Giant’s teddy bear I wanted to give my oldest. So Paul bought it for.

Paul was a frequent visitor to our abode in his bachelor days. I once told oldest daughter that this regular guest was the governor of California and being a toddler she believed her dear old dad. Thus Paul was, for a time, referred to around our place as the governor.

We regularly attended sports events together particularly Giants’ games. The team is Paul’s great love and the two make a great couple because they are both classy as hell. Paul has always possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of sports, particularly in regard to his favorite teams. Going to games with Paul is like being with a walking talking reference book. But it’s also like going with Jerry Seinfeld. I’m a bit of wit myself so even during the most dreary defeats Paul and I could chuckle, guffaw and snicker our way through. You couldn’t go to a game with Paul and not have fun. Of course it wasn’t just giggles, Paul and I have explored all manner of topics such as politics, films, family and history. Paul can talk, but he can also listen.

When Paul met Deb it was a great source of happiness for me. It was clear from the beginning that here was a couple destined for one another. Paul did not gush sentimentally about her, he just matter-of-factly explained why they worked together. Not as romantic maybe but a better sign for the future. I was honored to be part of the wedding party and just being at the wedding was an early highlight in my daughters’ lives.

Paul’s children, Darryl and Chloe have proved what I long suspected and that is that Paul had all the makings of an all star father. His patience and love have guaranteed that his off spring would do Paul proud.

Bu Paul shares a common characteristic with all people I’ve ever met: he’s not perfect. I could omit reference to his shortcomings but that would render this writing meaningless hagiography and deprive of it of a crucial point.

So sure, Paul has his imperfections (I hasten to add they are few in number and none are serious). Over the years with me he became self absorbed and omitted me from our conversations. I often felt that I was sitting through a monologue rather than participating in a dialogue. As my career changed Paul showed little curiosity in my new doings. Often when I made observations or offered opinions Paul would gratuitously contradict me. People have been guilty of far worse. I finally tired of feeling like a second class citizen and let Paul know it in no uncertain terms. Did I look Paul square in the eye and articulate my grievances? No I wrote an email and my tone did not leave open the possibility of reconciliation. I can be and have been a grade A idiot. To Paul’s great credit he responded most graciously and acknowledged his behavior. I then spent several years having second thoughts about what I’d done. And not trying to rectify it.

It is true that I am bipolar. Generally speaking this causes periods of bottom feeding depression. It can also cause me to be impulsive and stubborn and to get stuck in situations. No excuses though, I own what I did. I have learned an important life lesson that I want to here pass along: if you have enjoyed a long term friendship, you have participated in a great gift of life, don’t squander it. If issues arise between you and your friend, resolve them openly and honestly and try to maintain contact. Friends are far too valuable to toss aside.

I finally reached out to Paul after years in an effort to make amends. It was shortly thereafter that I discovered  that he finds himself in a physical struggle. It’s the kind of thing he doesn’t deserve to be saddled with but that he is just tough enough a customer to handle.

I wish I’d been there for him from the beginning of that struggle and I hope he knows I’m with him in spirit now and that I regret those years of playing the aggrieved. When you spend years building a strong friendship there's no sense in abandoning it.

Paul deserves all the love and respect I can provide. He’s a damn good friend because he’s a goddamned good person.