I wrote what follows on 17 August of this year as a Facebook post to memorialize an old friend who had recently died. Even though it was one of the more difficult things I've ever written, I was kind of proud of it and I hope he was too.
"And if I said
I really knew you well
What would your answer be?
If you were here today."
--Paul McCartney, "Here Today," 1982
I feel like I'm too young to have lost as many friends my own age as I have. But I guess, in hindsight, I'm not really that young anymore--some may even argue I never was. I probably should have written this last week, but I'm still trying to process it.
Zack was my best friend growing up. We actually met in pre-school at the age of 4. Immediately after, we were in different kindergarten classes and probably too young to realize we were even attending the same school. It wasn't until we were 6 and put in the same first grade class that we really connected. We became best friends and continued to be through high school. Through countless sleepovers, we became fixtures in each other's homes. We weren't really like the other kids in our class, which is what I think made us a good fit. We were both fascinated by dinosaurs and a little on the eccentric side--no doubt influenced by our fathers who were also good friends, as well as great eccentrics in their own right.
He was also, very likely, the smartest person I've ever known--certainly at that age. When so many of us were at least trying to pay attention in our classes, one could always count on Zack to have his nose buried in a book (usually a work of science fiction, of which he was particularly fond) instead of paying attention because he already seemed to know the course material and likely had his assignments already complete. It annoyed many of our classmates (not me--I was personally amused by it) as well as our teachers, because he not only appeared to be goofing off, but he would also usually turn in perfect assignments. I would say this was especially true in our science classes, for which he seemed to have a passion, but it was also true in our math and English classes. In hindsight, I understand how this could potentially rub some people the wrong way. Truth be told, I'm just not sure our teachers really knew what to do with him. More importantly, Zack didn't seem to care what anyone thought of him... an admirable trait at any age, but particularly as a teenager.
Fun story: A few months ago, I wrote in one of my weekly cinematic meditations about an English assignment in which we had to give a report about the last film we had seen. I gave my report on The Blues Brothers. Given the fact that our teacher gave me the impression that she thought she was teaching Sunday School, I started to go into a lot of BS about the religious symbolism I had gleaned from the film, which more than 30 years later, I actually buy into (you can read more about that in my "Film of the Week" post from 30 March). I remember that Zack took a novel approach--literally. While most students, when asked to give a book report, might watch the movie instead, Zack, when asked to give a movie report, actually read the novelization of the movie (in this case, Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home--and before you ask, that is the one with the whales) and gave his report on that.
At the end of our sophomore year, I don't think anyone was that surprised when Zack became part of the inaugural class of the Indiana Academy, a two-year program for gifted students on the campus of Ball State University in Muncie. I had also applied but, apparently, I wasn't worthy enough to be accepted--their loss. I no longer got to see Zack every day. He still came home for the holidays and maybe the occasional weekend, but it wasn't quite the same. And I'm not saying I didn't have a good time my junior and senior years of high school. It's not like I didn't have other friends, but, by and large, they were a bit more "normal"... whatever the hell that means. I often wonder how much more enjoyable those last two years would have been had Zack still been there--particularly our senior year. That year, I became the student equipment manager ("roadie") for the marching band. Our other friend, Matthew, was the drum major--I'd describe Matt as the "Third Stooge" in all of this, but it's kind of difficult to determine conclusively which of us was really the third one. Matt and Zack had been in band together since the seventh grade, but I had no discernible musical talent. I can only imagine how much fun the three of us would have had during those band trips. The one thing I genuinely feel robbed of was the chance to hear what I'm sure would have been a great valedictory speech.
Sadly, we lost touch after we went to college. We did manage to reconnect with each other via Facebook, but the reunion was short-lived as--I'm assuming--Zack found better ways of occupying his time... presumably by fishing.
I found myself thinking of Zack recently. To be specific, I thought of an exceptionally bad poem I had written in high school. On the surface, it was about a relationship, based loosely on our own, but if you took the last word of each line, it read, "There is absolutely no! symbolism in this poem whatsoever. I'm just being a smart ass." (I'm still very proud of that and I wish I knew what I did with it--sadly, I don't even remember its title, or even if it had one.) In thinking of that poem, I realized that it had been a few years since we'd communicated at all, and I suddenly found myself wondering about him and how he was doing. It was only a couple of days later that his sister, Chris-anna, informed me of his passing. I suddenly wished I had kept in touch more.
Shortly after my father died, I was talking to another dear friend who had also just lost her own father. I theorized that the best way to remember and honour those we've lost is to find some part of them that we admire and try to emulate that in our day to day lives. I got the distinct impression that not only did Zack rub some people the wrong way--as many eccentrics are wont to do--but he also seemed to relish doing so. As someone who has never particularly had the courage to do this myself (certainly not intentionally), I've always admired that about him. As I've gotten older, I admire him even more for it. As someone who has spent more than 25 years working with the general public, I can honestly say that some people need--even deserve--to be rubbed the wrong way. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke! Perhaps this will be how I personally honour Zack.
One of my fondest memories of Zack centers around a record his parents had when we were about 6 or 7 years old. In spite of the fact that this was a record made by presumably grown adults, there was a lot of 7-year-old humour attached to it which, weirdly, still resonates with me today. For a long time, if Zack wanted to make me laugh, all he had to do was look at me and say, "Wyatt Earp? He makes me burp." When I was in college, I randomly stumbled upon a CD of it in a record store. I couldn't resist buying it, and I'm still a fan of this artist today and his music frequently reminds me of Zack.
Lindley Armstrong "Spike" Jones was a jazz drummer who played in John Scott Trotter's Orchestra and was featured on a number of popular recordings of his day, most notably Bing Crosby's original recording of "White Christmas" and Hoagy Carmichael's 1942 recording of "Stardust." However, he found playing the same music every night in an orchestra boring and formed his own group known as The City Slickers making what today are considered "novelty" records. Their works featured a wide array of sound effects and slapstick humour, all the while spoofing classical music as well as the pop standards of the day. The arrangements and the musicianship were actually tighter and more precise than other non-novelty acts--they had to be. As Spike's son, Spike Jones Jr., said, "One of the things that people don't realize about Dad's kind of music, is when you replace a C-sharp with a gunshot, it has to be a C-sharp gunshot or it sounds awful." Spike's music became a staple on Dr. Demento's radio program in the 1970s, introducing him to new generations of listeners. I have no doubt he influenced the works of Peter Schickele/P.D.Q. Bach and "Weird Al" Yankovic.
In 1957 (or 1956, depending on which source you're citing), Spike released his first long-playing album. On it, he demonstrates the advantages of the new "high fidelity" recording technology, featuring new recordings of Spike Jones classics, as well as commentary from the maestro himself. In honour of one of my oldest friends, please enjoy Dinner Music for People Who Aren't Very Hungry: Spike Jones Demonstrates Your Hi-Fi.
Until next week, stay safe, be good to your neighbours, and please remember that if at first you don't succeed, then skydiving definitely isn't for you.
Yours in peace, love, and rock and roll!
The Reverend Will the Thrill
No comments:
Post a Comment