Loss

Margie stumbled upon it this morning, though she normally doesn't go through the obituaries. But she said "Oh My God," read it quickly, then handed it to me.

Paul died of colon cancer on Friday. He was 52.

Over the course of my lifetime, he was probably one of the top 12 friends I've ever had. It was likely the most explosive friendship, with him cutting off communication with me on three different occasions. But he became my best friend at the radio station, helped me as a struggling guitarist, and made it possible for us to have a killer band at our wedding reception. He sang on "I Will," our first dance that night. There are a lot of good memories with Paul, as he was a kind person, but he could also turn on a dime, depending on his mental state.

I'll talk more about him later in a good light, because kind memories should be kept in mind. We were no longer speaking, once again because he misunderstood me. I could've argued with him over it, but once it was apparent that my aggression would've been counterproductive to his recovery, I said good-bye. But I really wanted to see him again. Not in a casket, which is how I'll see him on Tuesday.

Michael, Cyrus, Joe, Grady, Chris, Brett, Roger, Zim (maybe), Bryant, Scott, Adam, Paul, Digger, Margie, Glenn. These are the names of the people that were great friends of mine at some point.

Michael Haettenschweiler lived next door when I was very young, and I remember calling his house but getting in trouble for doing it. His dad wore sandals when no one else did. They moved to Europe.

Cyrus Rivetna lived a block away, and he and I were best friends for four years or so. Steve Carlson talked him into no longer being my friend. (Steve is extremely successful now, something I wish I had never discovered.) Cyrus accepted by Facebook friend request months ago but we have yet to speak a word to each other. From what I gather, Cyrus is an architect and single and lives in Chicago.

Joe Richard was also a good friend of mine, from grades 3-8, but it faded during the high school years because we went to different schools. He was not a great student, but was funny and we got along very well, somehow. We did contact each other a year ago or so. He's married and childless, I think, and we e-mailed a desire to have a double date, but that's gone nowhere.

Grady Zuver and I had an on-again, off-again friendship when we lived in the same subdivision, but were great friends during our high school years. Then we had a falling out during college and didn't speak again until shortly before my wedding, which he and his Irish wife attended. He now has one or two kids and lives downstate. I don't think we'll see each other again, though I hope I'm wrong.

Chris Curtin was brought over to my new house by his mom, as they lived three doors down. We've been great friends since. Chris was my best man, and I don't know if I'll be his, but I hope to find out someday. Kip (as I call him) lives about 15 minutes away and comes over occasionally for fun with my wife and I, as they get along very well. But not too well.

Brett Ratner was a "cool kid" in my mind, and thanks to his need for math help and our combined love of music, we became good friends. It faded during college. We reunited for one night in 1999, when he came to my girlfriend's party. We split up the next week; he started dating her the day after that. Didn't speak to him again until a year ago, but have had a few lunches with him and hope to continue some sort of contact with him, though I feel that it's currently strained for some reason. Brett's divorced with no kids and lives in Chicago.

For a football player, Roger Sewell was a guy with surprising intelligence and extremely funny, and apart from the May fight we'd have for three consecutive years, we got along quite well. He married his college girlfriend and has two children, living close by. But we don't get together, as much as I'd like. I don't speak with most of them anymore, but one always leaves the door open to rekindle a friendship. Scott and Paul's windows are now closed forever.

Zim (David Zimmerman) was never a great friend but a good acquaintance, as a roommate and math classmate in college. Not a lot of depth or loyalty with him, however, and he had no qualms about dating my college girlfriend Pam as soon as she was done with me. He's married (though not to Pam) with at least one kid, and I think he has a doctorate degree. Another reminder of how everyone around me has done better than me, or so it feels way too often.I have absolutely no desire to speak with Zim again.

Bryant Toby was ten years older than me but still in my Freshman Orientation class in college, and I've always been able to listen to him for hours. A real thinker, I've enjoyed great discussions from him every so often since I was half this age. He married his college girlfriend and has one son, and lives in a very far suburb. Though he did come see my band a while back, we talk just enough to stay in touch, but never enough to be good friends again.

Scott was the weird-looking guy that somehow got all the girls. He dropped out of high school, was in prison, and would swallow the chaw run-off when necessary. Strange friends we were, but he helped me find my wild side. He took me out for my 21st. He loved to say "I'll sleep when I'm dead." Our friendship ended when he re-formed our softball team, but without me on it. The last time I saw him, he was working at a liquor store, overweight and out of shape, with skin that looked as if he had continued to drink his tobacco remains. Scott died of a massive heart attack in 2003 or 2004. He didn't make it to 35.

Adam was a twin of a better high school friend of mine, John. While John, Doug and Chris would play sports with me, Adam would play computer and fantasy games. But we became better friends in our twenties and he stood at my wedding, but our friendship faded once he married and had a son. He lives in Batavia, where we all went to high school, but can't find the time to get together, unless we're willing to go there to a party when dozens of kids (or so it feels) are running around.

I've discussed Paul already. We spent too much time together in the '90s to not have him listed here. For what it's worth, Paul was in the band that played Adam's wedding reception, along with me, Paulito and Digger.

Digger's real name is Dave Gudjonis. I met him through Mensa and he deserves to be there. He's married with two beautiful girls, but a big part of him is still single. He's one of three guys who started playing bass because of my suggestion to do so. (Nathan MacDicken now plays bass in a rockabilly band in Pennsylvania. Dave Carr hopefully gave it up entirely.) Digger's still one of my closest friends, and when the phone rings, it's probably him.

Margie is my wife and probably the greatest friend I've ever had. I don't feel the need to sing her praises here because I spent a lot of my time doing just that. She lives very close to me and is married but has no children. Yet.

Glenn Bowden taught math at Fairfax High School with me, and though I barely knew him during my stressful first year of teaching, he gave me a Mattel Classic Football game out of the blue. We became better friends every year at Fairfax, went on a bunch of man-dates, and even played music together as Gulp before he moved to Tennessee, where his wife could get a job at the college level. They have two small children and are the best friends Margie and I have had as a couple. But apart from their visit last year, we rarely speak anymore. Of all the past friends, I probably miss Glenn the most. Why don't I call him to tell him that? Nothing can be done about it, that's why. He's 500 miles away and absorbed with his kids, and I don't like talking on the phone.

I've tried to reunite with lots of these people, and the results haven't been very good. Once a friend is gone, they're likely gone for good reasons and are likely gone forever. But I still like to think that all of them are reasonable happy and living.

It's hitting me now that Paul is really dead. Ironically, Paul had only one possession of mine: a book entitled "The Walrus Was Paul," which discussed the "Paul is Dead" conspiracy regarding the Beatles in the late '60s.

I'm at a loss how to end this entry. Who cares. Things don't have to end well. They end anyway.