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.

Jumble Tumble Crumble -- A Hodge Podge of Recent Scribblings (Worth a look, actually)

Friday 5/19

In many jobs you have to attend meetings. Some jobs require a lot of meetings. This is generally not a good thing. Actually probably never. I’ve been a teacher for decades, anyone outside the education racket would likely be shocked at how damn many meetings teachers have to attend. It’s a lot. This was much more so when I taught in public school. Staff meetings, faculty meetings, department meetings, team meetings, parent conferences and any committees you may be a part of, either by volunteering (sucker!) or by fiat. If you’re a union rep you’ve got yourself a whole other batch of meetings — in this case for a decidedly good cause.

Meetings can be necessary and productive, especially if they are specific and relate directly to the attendees. Did you know that a lot of meetings are held because they are scheduled and not because they are needed? Did you further know that meetings will sometimes fill a specified amount —an hour, for example — despite the fact that there is only half an hour’s worth of business to attend to?

As I write this I’m sitting in an hour long meeting that has yet to feature so much as one iota of information that is relevant to me. The sum of the presentations — by four different people, so far — could have been condensed into a two paragraph email or a five minute announcement. Yet here I am half listening on the off chance that something will be said that I need to know. I think leading a meeting is like teaching a class, you've got to know your audience and your presentation has to be given with as few words as possible. Also you need to read the room and adjust on the fly. The fact is that teachers are more likely to be presenting relevant material than the useless garbage you're subjected to in meetings.

Saturday 5/20
I watched The Long Voyage Home (1940) directed by John Ford. In my estimation its his most underrated film and it features my favorite John Wayne performance (not that I am generally enamored of Wayne's acting.) The film is beautifully shot with amazing shot composition and brilliant use of shadows and lighting. I'm hoping that the good folks at Criterion will release it someday soon. It deserves the full treatment.

Sunday 5/21

Someone said this about a friend: “he never has a bad word to say about anybody.”  

Fuck that guy. 

First of all he’s making the rest of us look bad. Secondly he’s making the rest of us look bad and third he’s making the rest of us look bad.

Get with the program, buddy, trashing people is a perfectly natural, sometimes healthy practice. Like most anything, overdoing it is bad for you but in moderation talking shit about other people is nothing to be ashamed of. Whattaya gonna do when there’s some jerk at work that everyone is having a go about during lunch? You’re gonna sit there while everyone else is running Sid down one side and up the other? What are you, one of those jerks who says, “aww, he’s a nice guy.” Ole Sid has been getting on people’s nerves for weeks, maybe months, maybe years with his haughty attitude, inappropriate remarks and selfishness, now you’re going to give with the old “he’s a nice guy, bit?” Gimme a break. By your use of the term anyone this side of a serial killer is a “nice guy.” Don’t let people off so easy.

Okay my tongue was spending considerable time in cheek with that last bit but I do doubt those goody two shoes who claim to never say anything bad, they're just not trying hard enough or they're brain dead.

Monday 5/22 

So what’s it like here fully encased in depression? For one thing it’s slow. Thoughts take their time formulating, speech comes as if I were sedated. Also it’s sad. Very, very sad. Yesterday and all the days before it seem wasted, tomorrow and all the days to follow look bleak. Today is dark and hopeless.

There’s no reason, no method, just….The dull ache of depression. If you've never had it, depression seems a simple thing to rid yourself. Shake it off. Occupy yourself. Make love. Drink. The words easier said then done come to mind. Distracting depression can be done. An episode of The Simpsons can do it. But that episode ends and you're right back encased in the pain.

Tuesday 5/23

Hospice. My friend’s wife was updating all concerned about Paul’s condition. I told the missus I was dreading the one that had the word hospice in it. Sunday there it was. Fifth word in. Jumped off the page like a blaring siren. Unmistakable. A deceptively pleasant sounding word. Hospice. After all it’s good people performing an important task with great compassion. But it meant that Paul, with whom I go back to freshman year of college, was going to die soon. Heavy heart is an apt way of describing that feeling. Mine felt like a brick.

He will be dead. You can say he passed or that we lost him but that will not alter the grim reality that his life will be no more. My good friend Kevin already died this year. There’s only so much a person can take.

(FUCKING PANCREATIC CANCER!)

Lot of messages on Paul’s Caring Bridge site. Apparently Paul is in a lot of thoughts and prayers as is his family. I don’t have prayers for him to be in but he’s prominent in my thoughts.

There are lessons to be learned like make each day special, live life to the fullest, appreciate every day, they are gifts. That’s the type of thing that sounds great but practically speaking is impossible. Some days just suck. Some days you’re busy. Many of my days I’m battling depression. But I can keep Paul in my heart and remember how he lived with such relish for life. I can learn I can draw inspiration. I’d rather he was cancer free.

Wednesday 5/24

Today on Paul's Caring Bridge site someone named Cindy wrote the following:
"Paul, I have been planning to call you to see how things are going. We miss you tremendously at work. It has been extremely busy- CWF is coming together, and I have been spending more time than I would like in Sacramento. I have been half expecting you to have this cancer thing licked by now, knowing your strength of mind and self discipline. Keep hanging in there. If anyone can conquer cancer, you can."

Poor Cindy is spending more time in Sacramento than she'd like to. The American tragedy that Dreiser didn't write about. But Paul learns that CWF is coming together. That'll be just the tonic for the man in hospice. She also suggests that if anyone "can conquer cancer" Paul can. She is evidently unclear on the concept of hospice. Ya know, some people are better off just sending their thoughts and prayers.

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.

Those Were The Days: Burglary, Booze and Drugs and Mooney's Garage Home

One of my best friends in high school was Mike Mooney -- people only ever called him Mooney. He’d been kicked out of his parents’ house, though not very far out. He lived in the converted garage in the backyard. It was actually better than his room in the house or any of the rooms any of us had in our homes. He even had a hot plate and a toilet. I don't remember exactly why he got the heave ho but it likely had to do with his preference for drugs over school.

We used to hang out at Mooney’s because it offered us maximum privacy. Mooney's parents had as little to do with him as possible so there was no risk of anyone walking in us. We were all around 16 and had recently become enamored of alcohol and drugs, including psychedelics. We would sometimes drop acid there and then head for Tilden Park in the Berkeley Hills.

The most nefarious of our activities was burglary. The rest of us were only accessories before and after the fact. Mooney did the dirty work. He would slip out of the garage and be gone for anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour and half. He was always successful and came back with liquor. He only once took anything else when there was a wad of cash sitting on a table that he felt was too tempting to resist. Our thieving friend also sometimes left a calling card in the form of a full toilet — provided that mother nature had called.

Being an idiot teenager I was able to rationalize Mooney’s escapades because it was booze he was heisting and often from people who had plenty to spare and maybe even so much that they wouldn’t miss what he took. My other friend, Mark Norman, and I did berate him for taking the cash but quickly forgot about it.

We would gladly imbibe whatever Mooney brought us. We had heard somewhere that mixing different kinds of alcohol was not recommend but we were young and invulnerable so didn’t worry about it. Usually the spirits accompanied the other drugs we took whether grass or acid, so we didn't drink too much anyway.

We were great ones for conversations often covering great philosophical concepts. Like most teenagers we had a greatly exaggerated sense of our understanding of and insights into life. By virtue of our drug use we reckoned that we’d risen to another level of consciousness. Most everyone else — grown ups in particular — were hopelessly square and took everything at face value. We, on the other hand, were as enlightened as rock stars, who in our estimation were the true great thinkers of the world. Within the lyrics of rock songs were the keys to understanding life. Rock songs were the portals to higher levels of awareness. We constantly strove to reach higher levels of awareness. Politics invariably entered our conversations as we railed against Nixon, Vietnam and social injustice of all kinds. But mostly we laughed and talked about girls and movies and sports. We were basically happy lads though racked with psychological pain that we were not prepared to admit to much less wrestle with. Both Mooney and I were seeing psychiatrists. In my case the benefits of analysis were minimized by my steadfast determination to put on a good show for the doctor by being as cool as I possibly could and betraying no vulnerabilities.

We did delve into a lot of personal issues during our debauches and this was certainly cathartic although mitigated somewhat by how damn high we got. And get high we did. For my part scholastic achievements, glory on the athletic fields and family relationships didn’t suffer (though one could argue that all three might have been better had I not indulged so much). I received mostly “A”s and was a soccer star and other than my schizophrenic mother, got along famously with family both immediate and extended.

One Saturday the soccer team Mark and I starred on won our league championship. The game was over by early afternoon so we headed over to Mooney’s. He had by this time accumulated several bottles of liquor. This was a rare occasion in that we had no drugs. Booze was not going to be the supplement but the main and only course. We decided to find a secluded spot in the hills and partake.

I recall taking large swigs of various types of liquor, primarily whiskey and vodka. My companions were more restrained. It was not long before I was stinking drunk and could neither stand nor see. I was blind drunk. Mark and Mooney had to lead me stumbling through the streets of Berkeley on a long trek back to my home. My father was away for the weekend and my mother was of sound body but not mind. After being deposited at the front door, mom put me to bed concluding that I had a nasty case of the flu. This notion was not diminished when the next morning I went on an extended vomiting spree.

On Monday I was fit as a fiddle again, I’ve always been able to rebound from illness and during my drinking days from hangovers. I saw Mark that day and he told me of a conversation that him and Mooney had as I lied there on the hill totally out of it. They had decided that if the three of us were stranded on an island I would be the first to die. It seemed an unnecessary remark to make, not to mention cruel, but teenage boys are not known for their tact. Within two years of that remark Mooney died of a drug overdose and a several years after that I spoke with Mark on the phone and his mind was all but gone from hundreds of acid trips. This former pacifist said he wanted to join the army so he’d have the chance to legally kill people. I don’t know what became of him but I doubt it was good.

Eventually, of course, I became more proficient at drinking, in large part because my beverage of choice became beer, which is far easier to handle. I would sometimes partake of scotch, brandy, wine with meals, martinis and other concoctions if the spirit or moment so moved me. I steered away from all drugs with the rather notable exception of cocaine which I indulged in given half a chance, or a quarter of one.

Drinking became a way of life for me, one that was all encompassing and threatening to destroy me. It was a miracle when the lightning struck and the realization came that I was an addict. Now nearly 30 years later I am miles away from perfect with no possibility of getting much closer — progress not perfection being the byword. I’m bi polar and struggle with depression but so long as I don’t yield to despair I manage well enough.

My times with Mark and Mooney and other assorted friends who sometimes joined us, remain an important memory for me, indeed one I cherish. Those were — at the risk of being obvious — formative years and for better and for worse shaped the person I’ve been ever since. I appreciate the headiness of those times and the ongoing efforts to make sense of the world. I’m forever sorry that fate was not kinder to my two companions and forever grateful that I’ve lived such a fulfilling and happy life highlighted by a successful marriage and two daughters who I love beyond all measure.

Good ole Mooney, good ole Mark. High times, fun times. Times.

Kevin: A Great and True Friend 1950-2017

Kevin (on the right) and I celebrating a Cal football victory last September.

Shit.

Kevin died. He was among the best friends I ever had and I will miss him for the rest of my life. At this writing I am zipping back and forth through various stages of grief -- with the exception of acceptance because that is simply a long way off for me. I’ve had enough.

My best friend died in 2002 leaving two step sons and his own son, a toddler at the time. My father died six years later and though he was 92 he had been in great health until a fluke fall. Another good friend and former co worker succumbed to pancreatic cancer in 2011. He had been a hale and hearty man who played and coached sports. My brother was taken in his sleep in 2012. Though he’d had health problems his death was a shock. Now Kevin, who also had endured heart problems but who recently seemed to be perfectly fine. He died in his sleep (just as did my brother). Several former students have also died in the past few years not to mention other relatives and acquaintances.

Life sucks.

I first saw Kevin in a drinking establishment that I was frequenting in the early 1980s. I always sat at a table either with a date, a friend or alone. Often there would be a four or five person contingent of loud, boisterous gay men congregating at the bar. They were clearly having a grand time and I couldn't help noticing their reveling and laughing. Several years later I was at a 12 step meeting when one of those gentlemen walked in. He was new and a bit nervous. Since I recognized him I had reason to strike up a conversation and assure him that he was in the right place. He appreciated me reaching out.

I didn’t see much more of him for the next few months until one faithful day. It was the morning of the annual Big Game (Cal vs. Stanford in football) and I had just boarded the train to Palo Alto. I was alone. All of the people I’d gone to football games with were still partaking copiously of alcohol so I had no one to go with. Just before the train pulled away someone asked if he could have the seat next to mine. It was Kevin. He’d not noticed it was me until I’d looked up and responded.

We chatted for the whole train ride. We had much in common, particularly our love of the University of California and its football team and our struggles to overcome addiction. We arranged to meet after the game and ride the train back to SF and the subway to Berkeley.

That was November 1989, I had one daughter at the time and another arrived 13 months later. My wife and children met Kevin a few times and he always, always, always asked about them. He clearly shared my pride in my offspring.

For 27 years I saw Kevin regularly at Cal football games, men’s basketball and women’s basketball games (in the off season we regularly met for coffee and two to three hour conversations). For the last 12 years we sat together at women’s games, spending as much time yakking as we did watching the games. Besides sports and addiction issues we chatted about music, TV, movies, travels, politics and family. Every year Kevin would go back to his native Hawaii to visit family. He spoke lovingly about the islands and his trips as well as his three siblings. I briefly met his youngest sister but felt as if I knew his family quite well. When his oldest sister called me last night with the news about Kevin, she told me how often they had heard about me. I was deeply touched to know that Kevin spoke of me to his family.

Last Friday night the Cal women hosted their first home game in three weeks. I was looking forward to the game and seeing Kevin and catching up. He wasn’t there. This was odd as he usually arrived very early and saved me a seat. He’d always email or text me if he was going to miss a game. I emailed Kevin that night and kept checking for responses through Sunday morning. None came. This was a particular concern because Kevin was always quick to reply to emails, especially now that he was retired. I went to Sunday’s game hoping he’d be there with an explanation for missing the game and not responding. He wasn’t. I texted him. I was worried. This was so unlike him.

Last night my cell phone rang. Caller ID indicated that it was Kevin calling and for a second or two I was relieved and happy as I answered the phone. It was not him. His sister had found his cellphone, seen my text and was calling with the news I’d feared since Friday night.

Kevin could talk and talk and talk. He generally dominated our conversations. But he was interesting and always asked me questions and listened. Plus he was family. Those occasions he got on my nerves (which were few and far between) I let it go. Kevin was too much fun to hang out with to let a little thing interfere. And they were always little. Kevin and I never exchanged angry words and I was never upset with him.

I’ll miss our running jokes. I’ll miss our email exchanges (I would always sign off with a Go Bears! But he always out did me with a GO BEARS!!!). I’ll miss comparing the era we grew up in with today. I’ll miss sharing observations about Cal players and coaches. I’ll miss our poking innocent fun at strangers from afar. I’ll miss our frank discussions on alcoholism and sharing stories about our abuse and how we managed to survive. I’ll miss his rigorous honesty and his perspective and his compassion and his righteous indignation about some of the idiots in political power. He hated Donald Trump with a passion and not living through his presidency is the only blessing I can imagine about Kevin’s premature departure. I'll miss his reliability, his story telling, our sharing of reminisces and his warmth, kindness, dignity and hatred of Stanfurd.

I sometimes shared my writings with him and he always responded with compliments. Not everyone I know does that. I was most touched after sending him blog posts about our recent trip to New York. Twice he told me that my writing of that trip was so vivid he felt like he was there.

Kevin lived by himself and was celibate the entire time I knew him. But I never for a second felt that he was lonely. He knew how to enjoy the world and fill his life with pleasure. He was manager of the apartment he lived in and was always doing service for AA. Kevin’s heart problems started last Spring and in partial response he took Tai Chi, Hula and a dance class. He was also — in his own words — a chatty Kathy and knew people most everywhere he went. This was a richer man than most millionaires can ever expect to be.

As I mourn the loss of another person who was close to me, I take great comfort and even joy in having had the pleasure of spending so much time with him. While I struggle with grief and the void his departure creates in my life, I know that in the heavens there is a star shining ever brighter now -- for he is within it.

GO BEARS!!!

My Time at Willard Middle School Recalled on the Occasion of its 100th Birthday

Willlard's 1917 Graduating Class.

Yesterday I attended the 100th anniversary celebration for Willard Middle School in Berkeley where I labored happily for over two decades. At the event I was interviewed for an oral history project and the last question was about what moment I’ll never forget from my time at the school. Moment. One. There are hundreds, maybe thousands. But most of them cannot be seen in isolation as a single event. I mentioned, for example, my long friendship with a co-worker, an extraordinary person who was technically a school safety officer but in reality was so much more to the students and staff of the school. He was born Richard Brown but was always known as Grizz and he officially became Saad Muhammad after becoming a Muslim. I have yet to recover from his premature death in 2002. I worked with many extraordinary people at Willard, Grizz just happens to top the list.

I mentioned coaching three championship soccer teams two of which went unbeaten (one was also untied) but I could have included every team I coached and all the softball teams I coached as well. They were all special.  "Play hard, have fun," was my motto. I still miss coaching and the opportunity to build a team with common goals that worked as a single unit.

I mentioned memorable students like Andy Samberg who I would never have forgotten even if he hadn’t go on to have his own TV show and to appear in films. I could have mentioned dozens, many dozens, of other students like Sofia who I always remember whenever I watch the Simpsons and see Lisa Simpson. Sofia as a young teen was just like Lisa: smarter than adults, more knowledgable, involved in everything and yet possessed of a seemingly innate understanding of everything in pop culture. There were other classroom stars, at least one who is now a lawyer, two doctors, a professor, two engineers and I'm just getting started with the ones I know of.

There were a lot of other students who were not shining stars in the classroom. A lot of them who struggled and came from difficult home lives. But they showed up at school and despite not being intellectually blessed, worked their asses off and got passing grades and did even better in high school and beyond. Teachers love the kids who persevere through difficulties. There were also students who I remember for their problems with behavioral issues. These kids were often royal pains in the ass and some of them remained so and never changed and today are in prison, dead or heading toward one of these fates. But a lot of them were just being 13 year olds and couldn’t sit still or shut up or follow directions or they were constitutionally defiant, rude and mischievous. But many of those young men and women grew up fast in high school and it was (and still is) always a delight to see them as mature young people succeeding in life.

There were funny moments, scary moments, moments that pushed every possible button, countless frustrating moments and challenging moments and aha moments when someone or several people or even a whole class finally understood. It was the agony and ecstasy and thankfully there was a lot more of the latter.

There were moments of inspiration and desperation, calculation and stupefaction. There were insights and fist fights. There was never ever boredom (outside, of course, some of our staff or department meetings). There were colleagues. Many of whom were great educators who served as daily reminders to others such as myself to show up everyday and give the students the 100% effort they deserved. Colleagues shared and lent a helping hand and offered a shoulder to cry on and cajoled and argued and contradicted and laughed like hell. God we had a lot of laughs. They were needed. Teaching middle school kids -- pressures from parents and administrators notwithstanding -- could be, and usually was, mentally and emotionally taxing. Fortunately the staff at Willard knew how to party and they knew how to keep one another loose and they sure as hell knew how to have a good chuckle. It was a brotherhood and sisterhood. I can only guess how many fellow teachers I worked with (over 100) and there’s only one — thus less than one percent — who I think ill of (and brother, she deserves it).

The support staff was part of the family and was never looked on as anything other than our equals. Never mind their possible lack of education or the menial nature of their duties. They were fellow travelers. Administrators were another matter. They were vested with a lot of power and a few used it badly (one in particular) but no one ever doubted that their intentions were good.

I was always enormously proud to be part of the Willard staff. As today I’m proud to have served the school. I went through some rocky times for much of my tenure. I was coping with the ongoing and rare condition of acute panic disorder with consequent anxiety and occasional depression and worst of all with the side effects from various medications that were tried. The side effects caused all manner of problems including some bad moments, a few of which make me wince to this day. I never used my condition as excuse. Nor in fact ever mentioned it. It was a difficult enough situation for me to understand without sharing it with co-workers.  By my last two years the proper meds, sans side effects, were finally keeping me stable but that’s precisely when my beloved and seemingly indestructible father began to die followed immediately by my mother-in-law's passing.

I put everything I had into teaching because anything less would be a disservice to the students and my colleagues. But it came time for me to go in late Summer 2008. When I finally resigned it was like the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders. The relief was one of the greatest feelings of my life and the eight years since have been the happiest of my life. As much as I loved working at Willard it had begin eating away at me. I needed to leave.  I have a new teaching career now in the relatively tame world of ESL where I get to teach students from all over the world. After 20 years of middle school, teaching intelligent, motivated and unfailingly polite young adults is a breeze and I like a good breeze.

I do sometimes wonder what it would have been like at Willard if…but it was like that and yet I contributed to making Willard the special school it was and am happy for my time there and the richness and meaning it has contributed to my life. Leaving there earlier than I'd planned was far outweighed by having been there in the first place.

Seeing colleagues from my days at Willard yesterday warmed my heart. It brought back many moments. More than that it brought back our shared experiences and the joy and dedication we gave to our school and its students. I was part of that. I was a public school teacher. I helped make a difference. I worked at an extraordinary school. That’s a goddamned good feeling.

A Friend Named Herb, Drinking, Smoking, Talking and a One Night Stand

I was over at Herb Parker’s house to watch an NFL game and have some drinks. Right after I arrived Herb emerged from the kitchen and empathically placed a fifth of whiskey on the coffee table. Then he went back to the kitchen to fetch a couple of glasses. We turned the game on and drank. There was no drinking game, none of this take a drink every time someone says such and so. We just poured and drank, poured and drank.

I was 23 and Herb a few years older. We were writers on the staff of an alternative newspaper. He was a highly intelligent man who was widely respected. Herb also had a reputation as a drunk and as someone who smoked weed like it was tobacco. I thought Herb was cool and was flattered that he took a shine to me. His invitation to join him for whiskey and football swelled me with pride. Now we were sitting there as equals swallowing glass after glass of Wild Turkey. We were also alternately chain smoking cigarettes and weed.

There was some attention paid to the game but mostly we talked about writing and women and politics and philosophy. If we’d been sober for all or most of it, it would have been a heady conversation. Herb didn’t bullshit. he had a sense of humor, yes, but there was no silliness, no games, no sarcasm in his talk. Whatever you talked about with Herb was treated seriously, even if you were stewed to the gills. Herb had assumed a quasi mentorship role with me. I was a prolific and popular reporter and he was forever giving me advice, most of it quite good. He also set an example of alcohol intake and drug use that added further fuel to my burning desire to get high.

It was a cold dreary day. Herb lived on a quiet street. There were no external sounds. All one could hear was the television and us talking. There was an eeriness to it. Like we were the only two people for miles and we were discussing the fate of mankind. Herb shared the house with his girlfriend and another chap, both of whom were out of town. I was juggling several women and feeling a commitment to none. I was a bit of a cad. You can scratch the bit of part. In any event I was unfailingly happy.

The game ended with whatever team we were rooting for having lost. It was of no great concern to us. But what was of concern was that the whiskey bottle was empty. We remedied that by drinking the few beers in the fridge. That took no time at all. There was no question but that the drinking had to continue and soon. We were two young men at the top of our game in terms of drinking. We got in Herb’s car.  He backed out of the driveway and onto the front lawn. In a second effort my companion over compensated and scraped the fence on the other side of the driveway. The third time was indeed a charm and we got the car out of the driveway though he nicked another car in the process. Herb said nothing about his mishaps and neither did I. It was none of my business. Then he hit a tree and then a lamppost. I felt some mild impatience that the initial stage of our trip was taking so long, but I was not at all concerned about us making our destination, which was, of course, a bar.

The car jerked a few times and stopped and I bounced around a bit but eventually Herb seemed to get the handle of it and the rest of our drive went off without a hitch. We entered a bar and ordered drinks. Our conversation continued although it was significantly more disjointed and incoherent. I finally thought to look around and noted that this was not a college bar but one frequented by town’s people, many of middle age. Herb did not like college bars, he liked bars for serious drinking.

Nonetheless I eventually espied two women who were about our age. They were sitting at a table accompanied only by a couple of beers. Herb reluctantly acquiesced to my suggestion that we pay these young ladies a call. We sat at their table without invitation. Up close I realized they were probably in their mid to late 30s. Like us they’d “had a few” before coming to the bar and were glad for our company. I turned on the charm as best I could given my condition.  The women were no great beauties — they were working class girls — but had clean handsome features, ample bosoms and gave off an air of practiced sexuality. These were no coy virgins.

We chatted and laughed for about 15 minutes before coming to the consensus that a good meal was in order and that we should enjoy it together. We discussed local eateries before one of the women, (I’ve never remembered her name) finally offered to cook at her place, which was just around the corner. This had been easy. I liked easy. I liked a challenge. I liked women however they came to me.

The woman’s fridge and cabinets were well stocked with all manner of booze so the drinking continued unabated while dinner was being prepared. Herb had paired off with the cook so he helped her in the kitchen while me and — I want to say Margaret — reclined on the sofa. It was only a matter of minutes before we were passionately necking and my hands had gained full access to the treasures that were beneath her clothing. It was Margaret who suggested that it would be better to make love now rather than to try on a full stomach later. I concurred. We found a spare bedroom, disrobed completely and proceeded to screw. I’d known Margaret for about an hour. There’d been no talk of mutual attraction, no flirting to speak of, no clues or hints or suggestions that we’d wind up kissing, let alone making love. It was all so matter of fact. Not even spontaneous, more like we were fulfilling a prescribed action.

We finished our coupling right about the time Herb bellowed from the kitchen that dinner was ready.

It was a huge meal though I can’t remember what it consisted of. I do recall that it was delicious and the food was copious. Upon its completion we repaired to the living room for after dinner drinks. We’d been enjoying them for about half an hour and I was anxious for another bout with Margaret when the phone rang. The other woman took the call in the kitchen. She emerged after a few minutes and announced that her and Margaret’s husbands were coming home early from their hunting trip and in the interest of our health, Herb and I should scram.

It was only then that I noticed Margaret’s wedding ring and that the decor of the house suggested a man lived there. Indeed the other woman said her son was with hubby and her daughter was over at a friend’s house. I don’t know if Margaret had children or not, I hoped I hadn’t added to her brood.

Stunned but sated Herb and I stumbled out the door and, forgetting where his car was, walked to our respective homes.

The next day I saw Herb at the newspaper office. He admitted to having a bit of hangover. So did I.

“Fun day yesterday, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“I’ve had worse,” he replied laconically.

 I went back to my desk feeling like I had life by the balls.

"We're Dixie and Dean!" Vague Memory of one Night's Debauchery

This is all pretty vague I mean its a story about a time in which I was pretty drunk but I’ve got the main outlines right for sure.

I’m not even sure exactly when it was but I had to have been between 20 and 22. It was one of my visits — maybe more like pilgrimages — to see my cousin Steven. I say cousin but that’s kind of a stretch. We were like fifth cousins a couple of times removed. He was four years older than me and a hero and role model. He was also the first openly gay person I ever knew. Steven was brilliant, funny, imaginative and a raging alcoholic. He had more personality than ten normal people combined and rock star good looks. When Steven entered a room it lit up. This isn’t just my opinion either. Everyone who knew him felt the same. From when I first met him at age 15 and he got me drunk for the first time in my life, I was over the moon that such a cool guy liked me.

Whenever I was in the Bay Area and had a chance I would head over to Marin County to visit Steven. (He was never once, to my knowledge, ever called Steve.)  Of course this meant a night or two of pure debauchery and unbridled fun and continuous laughter. Sometimes I brought whatever woman I was dating at the time and they were always impressed with Steven but their presence inhibited the extended bacchanalia. On this occasion I came alone so the sky was not the limit but the starting point.

Steven had two friends named Dick and Dan who I’d once met at a party. They were a couple and one or both was quite wealthy. The first time I saw Steven after briefly meeting them I asked about the two but as I was already under the influence and botched the job. “How are Dixie and Dean?” I asked (there was a legendary British footballer named Dixie Dean). My malapropism elicited gales of laughter from Steven it also led to a running gag in which one of us would say: “I’m Dixie!” and the other “I’m Dean!” and then we’d both exclaim “We’re Dixie and Dean!” followed, of course, by more yuks.

On this occasion Steven and I started by “fueling up” at his abode and then went to a favorite watering hole that was a large bar nestled in a very heavily wooded area. We mixed silly antics with serious discussions of philosophy, politics and culture all of which was augmented by large quantities of booze. Eventually this rustic setting wouldn’t suffice for us and we decided to take our revelry on the road. This we did. Our last stop was at the majestic home of the aforementioned Dick and Dan, aka Dixie and Dean. Here my memories are especially hazy so much so that I can only unequivocally say that Steven ended up going upstairs and slumbering (and whatever else) with our two hosts while I snoozed on a sofa in a den.

It should be of no surprise at all that I awoke with an epic hangover. Mini jack hammers were being operated inside my brain and sand had somehow been poured into my bloodstream. The only thing mitigating my suffering was that I remained a little bit high. As I became more and more conscious I realized what a dandy spread the two Ds had. It was damn near a mansion. I took in the high ceilings and classy artwork and  modern furniture with great wonder. But I also increasingly felt the effects of the eve’s drunken spree. Lo and behold a quick glance outside the glass sliding doors revealed that there was a swimming pool in their massive backyard (along with a spectacular rose garden). I had never tried leaping into a pool to ease the pain of a hangover before but this was just the occasion for it. Absent a bathing suit I stripped bare and ran towards the pool. Without the slightest hesitation I dove into the water. The effect was bracing. I had the twin sensations of feeling wonderful and horrible at the same time. The decision to go into the pool was a wise one for my hangover’s sake but this was too painful a morning after for a simple swim to cure.

I splashed around for a bit until I noticed someone at the side of the pool watching me frolic. It was either Dan or Dick or Dixie or Dean I couldn’t possibly say at the time, let alone know lo these many decades later. He may well have been enjoying the sight of a cute naked young man in his pool and I was somewhat aware of that but really didn’t care. Mainly because he was holding something that I had not thought of needing. A towel. “You’ll probably need this,” he trilled in a saccharine voice. I thanked him and got out and followed him into the kitchen which also looked out onto the yard. The blessed man then proceeded to make both an omelet and bloody marys. I was delighted by both.

That’s where my memory about that particular visit ends. I could fictionalize a longer version, but I rather like this one. 

Gerald

Found this photo on the internet, Gerald looked very much like this man.

There were a lot of stories about Gerald. I never heard Gerald tell any of them and when they were brought up he balked at commenting. The stories all centered around his prowess on the basketball court. One of them was that he got a try out with the Chicago Bulls and nearly made the team.

When I met Gerald in the early 1980s he was just past his prime. He claimed to be in his early 30s though he looked a lot older. Living on the streets and being a drug addict will do that to you. His dark black skin was stretched tightly over his skinny body. His eyes were milky white pools with black dots in them. His hair was unkempt but his clothes were a step above the normal attire of a homeless person. He dressed more like someone who was cleaning out the garage than a mendicant.

The stories about Gerald were a little difficult to believe given his physical state. Plus in bars there are always exaggerated stories about people and their past deeds. Bars are where people hang out who only have past accomplishments to talk about with nothing much going on in the present. There too are some in bars who have future glory to regale people with, again because the here and now is devoid of anything worth mentioning. There were stories about me and what I’d done, some of which were true. I know because I had spread them. So when people talked about Gerald’s former talents it was both interesting and just more bar bullshit.

But one day a group of us actually left the bar on a Saturday afternoon and meandered down to the basketball courts. Gerald joined us. I conspired to be on his team. I was in pretty decent shape for a bar denizen and had always been a good basketball player, so I figured I could “carry” him against the pot bellied out of shape mugs we’d be playing against.

The game started with me inbounding to Gerald. Someone was guarding him pretty tightly. Gerald seemed to elevate from a standing position to three feet of the ground in the wink of an eye. The ball rolled off his finger tips and through the hoop. Nothing but net. The other team took out the ball and Gerald stole it effortlessly and zipped a pass to me in the same motion. He was like that for the next ten minutes, doing what no one else could and ever so quickly. If he was like this now, how must he have been a dozen years ago when he was not only not using but was in shape?

Gerald begged off from playing anymore. He made his excuses and left. We all agreed that his departure was really because he didn’t want to show us up anymore and he was — already — physically spent. I concluded from Gerald’s display that the stories about him probably were true.

I got to be friends with Gerald, mostly because he was so damn fun to talk too. In a bar there’s no more appreciated ability than the gift of gab. Gerald needed it because he never had a cent on him. I or someone else was always buying for him. I used to carry change or $1 bill in one pocket and called it Gerald money. If I didn’t see him in the bar it was likely I’d encounter him on the streets and when I did he’d hit me up for money. I couldn’t say no. Once when I gave him a buck he asked if I couldn’t spare a bit more. This is simply not done when panhandling from a friend or acquaintance. You take what you’re given and are thankful for it. But this was Gerald, a man who was about as far down on your luck as you can get but always smiled, always had a story to tell, always laughed and was always upbeat. I dug into my wallet and pulled out another couple of bucks. He shook my hand.

Gerald would always shake my or anyone else’s hand upon greeting us and when given money. On two separate occasions his hand was bloody. I never knew why nor did I say anything.

I was a copyeditor at a big accounting firm at the time. One day I was given the firm’s tickets for a Warriors game. Needless to say they were excellent seats just a few rows from the floor smack in center court. I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d rather take or who would appreciate it more than Gerald. He was delighted to go.

There were a few looks our way when we took our seats. It was not at all unusual that an African American should be sitting in the pricey section, but Gerald’s appearance suggested someone down and out. I’ve attended a lot of sports events with a lot of different people and going to an NBA game with Gerald is among my favorite experiences. Sure he had some unique insights into the game, but more than that he was a wit and our senses of humor matched perfectly. We chatted and chuckled through most of the game. Gerald appreciated me taking him to the game and thanked me profusely. I said I hoped we could do it again sometime and meant it.

In the coming months I saw less and less of Gerald at the bar and eventually he didn’t come in at all. More worrisome was that not long after that I stopped seeing him on the streets. I asked everyone who’d ever talked to Gerald at the bar if they knew his whereabouts and no one had a clue. I thought to ask some of the people on the streets but was uncomfortable doing so. I’m not sure why, it wouldn’t have done any harm. People come and go on the streets. Gerald had been around for around six months. No one pays much attention.

A few years later I stopped frequenting the bar and stopped drinking. I’ve never missed booze nor the bar scene nor any of my old drinking partners. Just about the only person I think of from those days with any affection is Gerald. He was a warm, gentle man who’d had a great talent. More than that he was clearly quite intelligent as his conversational skills and humor demonstrated. Of course I have no idea what became of him but the odds are that it was not good. Some things in life are just damn sad.

Recalling a One-of-a-Kind Friend, Ed Burns (Not the Famous One) Who Embodied Many Types in One Fascinating Persona

He was called an inside out oreo cookie -- pasty white on the outside but culturally African American on the inside. He was also a Chicano who spoke fluent Spanish. He was a cowboy who loved country and western music and wore a cowboy hat. He was politically a radical. He was an ex Marine who when I last saw him had re-enlisted. He read poetry and literary fiction. He drank beer copiously. He was soccer goalie on his college team. He had one testicle. He didn’t just march to the beat of a different drummer, he followed an entire percussion section. His name was just plain old Ed Burns and he was one of the most unique characters I’ve ever known and one of the best friends I ever had.

I knew Ed vaguely before college. We played for a short time on the same soccer team. He looked like a pretty square dude and your first impression of him would be that he was an ordinary joe who was more likely to be pumping gas and fixing trucks than anything else. I can still hear his voice. It was uninflected and fairly flat, a little high pitched. I’d have guessed he was from Oklahoma. Ed was a likable sort but seemingly dull as dishwater. He was anything but.

A few years later he came to Chico State where I was variously matriculating and partying, he was the backup goalkeeper on the soccer team. It was then I got to know him. Ed was good time waiting to happen. Every party he showed up at was more fun for his presence. Every bar he walked into got a little livelier and more interesting. Every conversation he had could go into any number of directions. He would extoll the Black Panthers and discuss soul music. He would then talk baseball. Then Latino heroes. Then the US Marine Corps. Then he’d just laugh. Ed loved to laugh. His was a delightful cackle, more like a child’s laugh. Ed was the least boring person I ever met.

We once hitchhiked all the way from Chico to Orange Country to attend a wedding. It’s an entire story in and of itself. I wouldn’t have thumbed such a long way with anyone else. We actually got dropped off by a truck driver in the heart of Compton at night. We called our friends and asked them to pick us up there. It was a long haul for them and so we sat, again, at night, at a bus stop, the only white people around. Ed had a greater sense of the possible dangers than I did and was clearly nervous. Several suspicious cars offered us rides that we politely turned down. When our friends arrived after nearly an hour, they begged us to get in the car quickly because they wanted to get the hell out of there.

Ed was a party animal and an intellectual who could hold opposing political views in his mind at the same time and understand both. He was not dogmatic or an ideologue. Most of all Ed was an enthusiast who pursued life with vigor. But he was also troubled. Ed was of so many types, so rich in character that he could never settle into life. He lacked direction and focus. Thus he was unable to settle on a major in college. He wanted to learn about and do everything so the notion of a single field of study, a single pursuit, was totally unappealing. For all that Ed did and thought and cared about he was also sad. I don’t remember what his home life had been. I just knew that he’d grown up fairly poor in Richmond in an unstable home. Ed had to fend for himself at an early age. He could never manage a long term successful romantic relationship. For all Ed’s vitality he was shy around women and clearly had some insecurities.

It took me years to understand why he went back to the Marines before finishing college. Ed had always spoken of the Corps as an awful experience. This despite his appreciation for the Marines which came despite his predominantly left wing political views. I finally realized that Ed needed the structure of the marines. Outside the service he couldn’t function effectively. There was too much freedom and he had too many directions to go. He needed stability and structure and the marines gave him that. Perhaps his second tour gave Ed time to find himself, to settle on one overriding passion. Maybe he just hid out there. I don't know. Life is like that. There's a lot we don't ever get to know.

Ed was in some ways a creature of his times. He grew up in the Sixties and was heavily influenced by political and social movements and the ethnic groups he was surrounded by. He was a potpourri, adopting what he liked of this and what he liked of that and what he liked of those things over there and these things here. Mostly he appreciated people and absorbed what they knew and listened to their perspectives. Ed Burns thought for himself but he partied with everyone.

It’s been over 35 years since I last heard from or of Ed and I haven’t the foggiest notion what became of him. I’ve tried to google him but with such a common name, and one shared with a famous actor at that, it is next to impossible to dig up anything that is conclusively about him, not everyone leaves a cyber trail like I do. I’m ridiculously easy to find. there is currently no one on the planet who shares my name and I have a blog with my email address on it. I couldn’t be easier to track down. I look forward to continuing to hear from you long lost friends and associates and co-workers and classmates and teammates, especially you, Ed.

I hope that Ed used has used his intellect and found a focus in life. He would have made a good partner for someone and been a good father. I’m pretty sure that he needed counseling and I hope he got it. I hope he is happy and still making others around him happy. The world needs more Eds. But not too many, we wouldn't his type to be common place.

For my part I wish that I could have stayed in touch with Ed. He was special. To quote Jack Kerouac: “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.” That was Ed to a tee.

Not a Normal Norman My Great Childhood and Teenage Friend the Unforgettable Mark Norman

That's Mark on the left and Mooney on the right.

(Sprinkled throughout this post are excerpts from a quite lengthy letter I received from Mark in 1973. They are in italics.)

He was the president of the Norman Nut Club. I in turn was that club’s vice president and the president of the Hourula Tramp Club with him serving as my vice president. We boasted no other members to either organization. His name was Mark Norman and for my most of my childhood he was my best friend.

Mark was older than me by exactly four days. We met while in kindergarten and instantly became friends. A little over ten years later we were taking LSD together. We were also teammates on a soccer team that won the California State Championship for 16 years and under teams.

By the way, did I tell you Mooney died? Good old anus-liver Mooney snuck out and died. Now he's in paradise (as the Bible says) having a good time, I'm stuck on Earth.)

I have always been a — let us say — unconventional person and this includes when I was mere lad. If anything Mark was more unconventional than I was. We were precocious in our skepticism and defiance of authority. Some of this was likely born of our being quite intelligent but we also viewed the world as if it was slightly off kilter. And as if we were too. We were questioning modern conventions as second graders. We also looked at our classmates as hopelessly out of it. They were conforming and fast tracking to adulthood. Mark and I were headed in other directions. It's no wonder we later took to drugs, we needed a vehicle for our journey.

Once we threw dirt clods and rocks into a mailbox. A cop spotted us. Once we staged a fake fight on someone’s front yard, a resident came out to stop us. We refused to join the school's traffic patrol because it was hopelessly square.

We fell in love with The Beatles at the same time. We’d play their music and I’d pretend to be Paul and he’d be Ringo. We played war board games. Mark was much better than me. I trained him to be a goalie and he ended up being quite good and joined my team. In our mid and later teens we looked at our teammates as stereotypical jocks and viewed ourselves as enlightened beings. We weren't really arrogant, it's more we thought ourselves blessed with the gift of uniqueness. Not better, just different.

We were both massive underachievers throughout school, although Mark took it to an extreme and dropped out of high school while I went on to college and hatful of degrees and certificates. I dropped acid about half a dozen times. Mark dropped one hundred times. He did not believe in half measures.

Jesus freaks don't know what Jesus was. He was telepathic, clairvoyant, could levitate himself and was from another world. He was well acquainted with spaceships.

We often had crushes on the same girls but were both too shy to act on them. I start dated and lost my virginity. I don’t know that Mark ever did. Once while very high Mark said: “I want to ball a dude someday.” I don’t know that he ever did. I kind of doubt it.

Mark liked Star Trek and I preferred sit coms. Mark read fantasy novels and sci fi, I read Mark Twain and John Steinbeck. But we liked the same kind of music and movies. We saw a lot of films together. From Jerry Lewis movies when we were little to If...(1968) as teenagers.

I started reading Rampa books, then became telepathic and then spent 1 to 1 1/2 years cutting my drug intake to zero.

I was always short and Mark was always tall. We were both blonde. I was (and am) 100% Finnish. Mark was 25% Finnish. I spoke the language but he didn’t. When we were young his family had a black maid. His mother was young. His dad looked like the father in the Dennis the Menace TV show. His parents divorced and his mother quickly remarried. His step father’s name was Marvin. I think Mark and his younger siblings (a brother and a sister) were a little scared of Marvin. Although he did ride a Harley which they thought was pretty cool.

Mark lived in a big house that was fun to play in but for some reason we spent 90% at my place. My family got used to Mark being around. They probably thought he was weird but harmless.

Cats are superior to humans all animals know more than humans about truth and life. We work machines, have false religions, and think animals are dumb. Shit, we're the dumb ones.

We were once playing tackle football and Mark broke Georges Bouldin’s arm. He didn't know his own strength. I'm not sure he knew his own intellect which was at least the equal of mine.

The whole time we knew each other Mark and I talked constantly. We understood each other and he could see through me when I was bullshitting him. It was hard for me to lie to Mark for this reason, not that I had much cause to. He was also more even tempered and rational than me.

I scored the winning goal in the state championship. Mark was in goal. I ran to him and we grabbed hands and he said “you did it.” Other teammates hugged me. Mark was not into it. I doubt we ever embraced. Besides soccer glory we also went to anti war demonstrations and were tear gassed. Mark took many more risks than I did and gleefully joined those who through rocks at cops. I don't know that it was so much a matter of political conviction for him as a sense that all structures were inherently corrupt and the police were the personification of that corruption.

It may seem to you to be cliched but mountain wandering is indeed paradise on Earth.
That's all I think about...mountains to come...what life on Earth really is...physical pain (apprehensively)...How poorly I'm doing...Drug damage (horrible)...Death, (ahh how I await that sweet door)...how dumb humans are (me too)....War...how good it is to be telepathic.

As teenagers we added another friend named Mike Mooney. Mike was smart and funny but tragic. He was the one person we both got along with well enough to make our duo into a trio. We would drop acid with Mike and wander around Tilden Park. We also would hang out in a shack behind Mike’s house. His parents had exiled him there. Mike would go out into the neighborhood and burglarize houses taking only liquor. He never touched cash. Mark and I would wait in the shack and then partake with Mooney when he got back.

Mooney and I had an up and down relationship but Mark would affect reconciliations. One Saturday after our team won a big match Mark and I and Mooney took some stolen booze into the woods and commenced to guzzling, mixing all variety of the hard stuff. My future as an alcoholic was on full display. I soon vomited profusely then passed out and was literally blind drunk. Mooney and Mark had to lead me home. Mark later told me that while I was passed out Mooney and he had agreed that if the three of us were stranded on an island I would be the first to die. Two years later Mooney died of an overdose and Mark, by his own admission was in the process of frying his brains on drugs.

I talk to dead people all the time they insult me and I wish I were up there with them gawking at the shadow people on Earth.

Once I went off to college that was the end of my relationship with Mark. There were letters exchanged but I never saw him again. I got the letter excerpted here from him two years after last seeing him. (I hadn't seen it in decades until a couple of days ago.) Eight years after the letter I talked to him on the phone. He sounded way, way out there. He wanted to get together but he sounded so fucking strange that I couldn’t stand the thought. His brother had gone into the army and his sister had a brief career as a professional tennis player. I don't know what happened with his folks.

Since the advent of the internet I’ve tried to track Mark down a few times. The closest I came was yesterday. It seems he’s living in San Juan Capistranto. That’s as much as I could discover. I suddenly find that I want to contact him, speak to him or exchange emails. We were massive influences on one another. We grew up together and whatever we became is owed in small part to each other. I don’t know that we were soul mates but certainly blood brothers.

Here is more! I wonder how you'll take this letter? (like a disease) Norris and I are going to go crazy in the Mountains. We'll even get to 14,496 feet if we don't murder each other earlier (I'm bringing a knife just in case)

I hope that he’s had an enjoyable, productive life and that drug usage didn’t actually do permanent damage. For all I know he had less of problem with drugs and booze than I did, which would be saying a lot because my story is a long one.

Weird and wonderful as he was, Mark kept me on an even keel. If I went off the deep end with opinions or stories or plans he could bring me back to reality. Well maybe not exactly reality, but closer to whatever truth was. He was also damn fun to be with. Mark had a zest for life an enthusiasm for tackling it and seeing what it was all about. There’s no question but that he was a very intelligent person. Most of all he had a spirit. Damn I was lucky to know him.

Anwyay, (again) come by some day, but remember I am a heroin addict so I may be incoherent, but don't worry, I sure don't smoke dope anymore. I just hang around, milling about, looking for the riot that'll never come, hoping that I can get some dough for my Summer trip passing out occasionally from the sheer excitement of living and waiting forlornly for a space ship to pick me up and put me somewhere else. Yes, yes it sure is fun.
Well, I think I'll go back to sleep.

You Sometimes Find Out the Damnedest and Saddest Things When You Google A Former Acquaintance -- Remembering Justin

A photo I found on the internet that Justin took.

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down

We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game
-- From The Circle Game by Joni Mitchell

The first person I ever babysat is dead. I googled Justin the other day for the first time only to discover that he died last December.

In the mid Seventies I was living with Becky in Chico. I was 21 and she was 19. We moved in together less than a week after meeting. Our relationship lasted almost exactly a year. About the only things we had in common were hearty appetites for sex and alcohol which we enjoyed indulging together. I’m embarrassed to say that she left me and not the other way. Becky did not possess a towering intellect or indeed any intellect at all. We clearly had no future together and I was the last person to recognize that.

I was going to college and she was working at a fast food restaurant. Becky got friendly with one of her co-workers a married woman named Robin. She was married to Bill and they had a three year old named Justin.

We babysat Justin a few times. He was a cute, precocious kid and I enjoyed his company. The feeling seemed mutual. When Becky split I remained friends with Bill, Robin and Justin. Bill and I had a fair amount in common and although Robin seemed a bit snooty she was okay. Justin I liked a lot as I mentioned before.

I ended up — as we said in those days — crashing at their apartment for a Summer so naturally we all grew close. The downside to this was that they were born again Christians. It was odd because fundamentalist Christianity didn’t seem to mesh with their personalities or lifestyle. Bill regularly attended the Assembly of God church and church related functions. It will foreshadow future events to say that Robin was more about talking the talk than walking the walk when it came to the church. For about a month or so I got caught up in the whole Jesus saves deal as I detailed in an earlier blog post. This was actually quite funny because I was an all star sinner at the time and thus my brief flirtation with religion was unmitigated hypocrisy.

Another thing going on with Bill and Robin was that they were perpetually broke. They would regularly write bad checks to buy groceries. Of course they were convinced that the power of prayer would rescue them from poverty. I had plenty of drinking and smoking money but nothing else to spare so was of little help. A good friend of Robin’s once visited from Ohio and gave them a loan and later my brother did too. My brother and Bill met in Berkeley when the two of us came down for a visit and because fast friends owing to their mutual friendship with Jesus.

Eventually I became involved in the school newspaper and then its transition into an independent paper and also with finishing my degree and also with chasing women and drinking and using drugs. I had little time for Bill and Robin and Justin. Anyway Robin was becoming increasingly aloof and her disapproval of me was obvious. I could do without her false piety.

I didn’t see much of them for about a year when I heard somehow that Bill had managed to send Robin on a European vacation. Alone. I mentioned this in passing to my brother and he hit the roof. Bill had never repaid the loan he gave and here he was sending his wife on an expensive vacation. My brother wrote a letter and trusted me to give it to Bill. I never peaked it but was quite certain he let Bill have it.

I tracked Bill down and found that he was working at a cemetery. I gave him my brother’s letter. He read it as if he fully agreed with my brother’s sentiments. I always knew Bill to be an honorable fellow despite his less than forthright financial dealings. I always liked him too.

It was then that Bill told me about Robin. She had met a man on some sort of cruise during her European vacation, a rich older chap, and they had fallen in love and she was going to divorce Bill and marry this rich guy. I was shocked but not surprised. I had always doubted Robin’s integrity. As I noted earlier she talked a good game but couldn’t back at it up by so much as going to church on Sundays.

Bill seemed more angry than anything else. He had spent some time with Robin after she came back and lowered the boom. He said that for that short time “they were never closer.” Which I took to mean there was some pretty serious sex between them. Bill met the guy who cuckolded him too. He had told Bill that he knew it was true love between himself in Robin because he “could see it in her eyes.” Bill repeated this and scoffed. He clearly thought it was a load of bullshit.

Anyway he had Justin who was about five by now and was not letting Robin get her mitts on him.

It was another two years before I saw Bill and Justin again. Bill had a very pretty girlfriend and seemed quite happy. Justin was still very cute and was clearly going to grow into handsome young man. Bill said that Robin had tried a couple of time to have Justin visit her but Bill didn’t trust that he’d ever see his son again if that happened and thus refused. Bill was a good dad.

That was 1980 and I haven’t seen nor heard from Bill since. I googled him but his name is too common. Justin I managed to find and there he was just a few months deceased.

There were scant details. He lived in Hawaii where services were held. I know it was him because his father was listed as William and his mother as Robin. Bill lived in San Diego and Robin in Switzerland. There was nothing about cause of death. Somehow this was extremely frustrating to me. It makes a big difference to me whether a person died of drug overdose, or cancer, or in a car accident or suicide, or heart attack.

Justin was 42 years old married and had a daughter. Among those who survived him were a brother in California who must have been another child of Bill’s and a sister from Switzerland who must have been Robin’s.

I couldn’t find a whole lot about him other than that he took some very nice photos like the one above. There were a few hints about Justin but not enough to form a clear picture of who he had been, what kind of life he led. I sure hope Justin enjoyed his 42 years.

Justin did have a twitter account. For his bio he had just written: “Beautiful family, living in paradise, with good friends, good food, good beer...what else is there?”

The Burney Boy or Remembering an Old Friend From the Backwoods

Beautiful downtown Burney.

You're sailing softly through the sun
in a broken stone age dawn.
You fly so high.
I get a strange magic,
oh, what a strange magic,
oh, it's a strange magic.
-- From Strange Magic by Electric Light Orchestra

I had a roommate in college for two years named Dennis. He was from a small logging town in the far north of California called Burney. Dennis and I were great friends for a time sharing a fondness for consuming large quantities of alcohol. We went on a few road trips together, one to San Francisco for a Doobie Brothers concert. This trip included a stop at a strip club which I got into with a fake ID. We also made one trip to his hometown. On the way we stopped by the side of the road to relieve ourselves. I saw my first porcupine and being inebriated decided to pet it. Dennis discouraged the notion most vehemently and I thought better of it.

As I recall Dennis did not have a particular happy home life growing up and was out of the house before finishing high school. He was determined to shed himself of very small town Burney. He had done work logging from an early age and was determined to escape that life. This made a college degree of vital importance to him. Dennis had a fondness for women, which was not unusual for a college student, but he was what one could "successful" with the ladies, which not all college boys are. In truth most of his girlfriends were also from Burney and they were invariably younger than him. No matter, Dennis never was without female companionship when he wanted it.

Dennis and I had long chats on all variety of topics. I had just emerged from the Berkeley of the Sixties which was about as different from Burney as can be imagined. At least within the same state. There was something about our very different experiences that caused us to be intrigued by one another. Dennis and I would talk and drink and literally howl at the moon together. He chewed tobacco and I chain smoked Winstons. Both of us enjoyed a hearty laugh and we could crack each other up, not to mention other people.

But we grew apart. Quickly. Dennis had a temper and was not averse to engaging in fisticuffs. I was a sensitive lad and bristled at his extreme moods. I got into journalism and a new set of friends. Dennis focused…well, I’m not sure. I rarely saw him after he moved out of the house we had shared. I got an angry, threatening phone call from him when I was slow in changing a bill over to my name. That put the final period on our friendship. I only saw him once in passing after that and he didn't acknowledge me.

It’s been at least 36 years since I’ve seen then but I think about him from time to time. I still have many sayings and expressions I picked up from him including: “I’m going to brush my tooth,” “That feels better than a pre-party fart,” and something he said about the size of his manhood, “I may not be able to satisfy ‘em but I can tickle ‘em to death.”

I recently googled Dennis (how did people ever find out about old friends, classmates, co-workers, ex girlfriends, etc. before the internet?). There wasn’t much. Indeed all I could find was that he was living in Burney. Damn that felt sad. I also saw an obituary for a woman who died in 2004 from “respiratory complications arising from esophageal carcinoma” at age 41. Among the named survivors were Dennis who was listed as the deceased's fiance.

It’s been almost 11 years since the woman died but I still felt bad for Dennis. I also felt bad that he was still in Burney, though I suppose I shouldn’t. He may be very happy there. I can’t know his full story. Maybe he didn’t go back to logging. Maybe he did and found that he was happier logging than anything else. Maybe he found another love and is living happily with her.

Lots of maybes.

I wish I’d parted on good terms with Dennis. We had a friendship that was like a romance that flames very hot for short time. I guess you could say it was passionate.  Perhaps it ended so abruptly because our differences were insurmountable our we did the growing apart that is usually spoken of regarding romances. It's strange how so many people will pass through our lives and be so important to us for so short a time. Many of them we will always think of, if briefly, no matter how many years go by.

Whenever I think of Dennis it's fondly. Sure hope he’s happy.