No, It's Not Really Friday
Dec. 6th, 2007 06:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drpaisleybut I'm leaving for Boston in 6 hours for Smofcon, thanks to the largess of Pulsifer, and won't have access to my tunes, much less a computer tomorrow. So here's an early start to the weekend (with assistance from Siegfried, who is much larger than the pic to the right these days).
1) On Broadway, Neil Young
2) Thank You For Sending Me An Angel, Talking Heads
3) Somebody More Like You, Nickel Creek
4) Memo To Human Resources, TMBG
5) The West County, Béla Fleck & The Flecktones
6) Please Please Me, The Beatles
7) Sunday Bloody Sunday, U2
8) Paperbag Writer, Radiohead
9) (I'm Your) Hoochie Coochie Man, The Jimi Hendrix Experience (BBC Sessions)
10) Wouldn't It Be Nice (Stereo Mix), The Beach Boys
and some for second breakfast:
11) Big Daddy, Talking Heads
12) Me In Honey (Live), R.E.M.
13) The Galway Girl, Steve Earle
Can't come up with a good segue here, so onward. Three years ago at Smofcon in D.C., I was informed that my friend Mike Smalley had died in his sleep of a heart attack. He was 41 years old, and had suffered a major heart attack earlier in the fall. I had talked him at ConTraception a month earlier, and he had looked worn down. When Rohanna and I got home that Monday, Mike's housemate called me on behalf of his family, and asked me if I would preside at his funeral. In that moment, I realized the dark side of the $15 I had spent to be ordained in the Universal Life Church. But I couldn't say no, I wasn't going to let Mikey go with some yotz who didn't know him and wouldn't understand sending him off. I spent the next two days frantically trying to write something worthy of him.
Funeral Service for Mike Smalley
12/5/4
Prelude: “When I Go,” Dave Carter with Tracey Grammer
We have come together this morning, friends and family, to bear witness to the life of Michael Dale Smalley, whose fragile body finally gave up its attempts to contain his indomitable spirit on December 5th. We are here today, shocked and saddened by his sudden passing, less than a month after his 41st birthday. But beyond the anger, the grief and the sorrow, there is a bond that unites us all: the good fortune to have had Mike Smalley enrich our lives.
It is unfortunate that we cannot honor him today as he would have wished, but arranging for his body to be strapped into a tank leading a charge against an overwhelming enemy force was not feasible, and sending him to Valhalla in a burning Viking longboat sailing down the Kaw would have been frowned on by any number of small-minded bureaucrats. So we must be satisfied with celebrating the things that made Mike Smalley a good friend and a great person.
The first thing that comes to mind is loyalty. Mike was a life-long resident of Kansas City, Kansas, and immensely proud of that fact. He would defend his hometown against the slings and arrows of Johnson Countians without fail, undeterred by such minor details as logic and facts. That loyalty extended beyond place, to people as well. The love and respect he had for his parents and family was evident whenever he spoke of them. And if you were his friend, he was always there for you. Need help moving, a ride, a place to stay, somewhere to throw a party? Mikey would take care of it if he possibly could. His strength, both physical and emotional, was ever at the ready for his friends and family. At the visitation last night, Becky Rickart said she had told her co-workers, “It’s not often that a man comes into your life who’ll walk up to you, put his head on your shoulder, call you ‘Fearless Leader,’ and ask if you need anyone killed today. And mean it.” That’s our Mikey.
And there was his adherence to honor and principle. Once he had come to a position on a subject, he stuck to it no matter what the cost. Many’s the time I watched him pick every single bean out of a bowl of chili because he didn’t like beans, he wasn’t going to eat beans, and if it took half an hour to fish them all out, then that's what it took. My admiration for this single-minded dedication resulted in my developing a chili con carne recipe for him, and the genuine joy he expressed when I first brought a batch to a football party was wondrous to behold.
And we would be remiss indeed if we did not take time to recall the intensity Mike brought to everything he did. Whether it was his encyclopedic knowledge of of German and Soviet tanks in World War II, the incredible detail of his model painting work, his bowling and darts playing, or the late-night Playstation sessions with the gang, Mike always did everything full out. No half-measures for him. Especially in his relationship with the Chiefs. No football party was complete without at least one diatribe on the incompetence of the officiating, the inherent evilness of the opponent (especially the hated Raiders) or the stupidity of the home team’s play calling, all delivered at window-shaking volume. But no matter how bad things got, he always believed they’d manage to pull it out in the end, and he’d be back the next week and the next season to cheer them on. His optimism always overcame his cynicism.
“In the Garden,” by C. Austin Miles, sung by Tim Keltner
(a number of Mike’s friends spoke of their memories of him at this point; I provided the final vignette)
One of my favorite memories of Mike is from a time a bunch of us decided to go to a Royals game, and to tailgate beforehand. Jeff Orth drove up from Joplin with his kids and one of their friends, all 6-8 years old. Jeff has many good qualities, but he is a Raiders fan. Mike had a great time with them before and during the game, more so than any of the rest of us realized. For, when the game was over and Jeff was heading back on the three-hour trip to Joplin, all three kids were in the back of the station wagon, serenading him with the chant Mikey had taught them, the chant that went “Raiders Suck! Raiders Suck!”
“Oh Danny Boy,” sung by Tim Keltner
We have come here today to celebrate, with tears and laughter, the life of Mike Smalley, to share with friends and family our memories of him and the joy he brought to our lives. The sorrow and pain we feel will slowly subside. But let us not forget that though his mortal shell is no longer a part of this world, Mike will always be with us, in our hearts. And, on Monday night, if you listen carefully to the wind, you just might catch a familiar voice at the edge of your hearing screaming “Are you blind? That was interference! Aw c’mon!” Mike has begun the next adventure, and I know I will meet him again someday, with a cigar and a beer, though hopefully of better quality than the stuff he preferred here.
Postlude: “Into the West,” sung by Annie Lennox
It's not something I want to do again, so let's all be careful out there, right?
So, onward, to Boston, and glory! Or at least something that smells like it.
1) On Broadway, Neil Young
2) Thank You For Sending Me An Angel, Talking Heads
3) Somebody More Like You, Nickel Creek
4) Memo To Human Resources, TMBG
5) The West County, Béla Fleck & The Flecktones
6) Please Please Me, The Beatles
7) Sunday Bloody Sunday, U2
8) Paperbag Writer, Radiohead
9) (I'm Your) Hoochie Coochie Man, The Jimi Hendrix Experience (BBC Sessions)
10) Wouldn't It Be Nice (Stereo Mix), The Beach Boys
and some for second breakfast:
11) Big Daddy, Talking Heads
12) Me In Honey (Live), R.E.M.
13) The Galway Girl, Steve Earle
Can't come up with a good segue here, so onward. Three years ago at Smofcon in D.C., I was informed that my friend Mike Smalley had died in his sleep of a heart attack. He was 41 years old, and had suffered a major heart attack earlier in the fall. I had talked him at ConTraception a month earlier, and he had looked worn down. When Rohanna and I got home that Monday, Mike's housemate called me on behalf of his family, and asked me if I would preside at his funeral. In that moment, I realized the dark side of the $15 I had spent to be ordained in the Universal Life Church. But I couldn't say no, I wasn't going to let Mikey go with some yotz who didn't know him and wouldn't understand sending him off. I spent the next two days frantically trying to write something worthy of him.
Funeral Service for Mike Smalley
12/5/4
Prelude: “When I Go,” Dave Carter with Tracey Grammer
We have come together this morning, friends and family, to bear witness to the life of Michael Dale Smalley, whose fragile body finally gave up its attempts to contain his indomitable spirit on December 5th. We are here today, shocked and saddened by his sudden passing, less than a month after his 41st birthday. But beyond the anger, the grief and the sorrow, there is a bond that unites us all: the good fortune to have had Mike Smalley enrich our lives.
It is unfortunate that we cannot honor him today as he would have wished, but arranging for his body to be strapped into a tank leading a charge against an overwhelming enemy force was not feasible, and sending him to Valhalla in a burning Viking longboat sailing down the Kaw would have been frowned on by any number of small-minded bureaucrats. So we must be satisfied with celebrating the things that made Mike Smalley a good friend and a great person.
The first thing that comes to mind is loyalty. Mike was a life-long resident of Kansas City, Kansas, and immensely proud of that fact. He would defend his hometown against the slings and arrows of Johnson Countians without fail, undeterred by such minor details as logic and facts. That loyalty extended beyond place, to people as well. The love and respect he had for his parents and family was evident whenever he spoke of them. And if you were his friend, he was always there for you. Need help moving, a ride, a place to stay, somewhere to throw a party? Mikey would take care of it if he possibly could. His strength, both physical and emotional, was ever at the ready for his friends and family. At the visitation last night, Becky Rickart said she had told her co-workers, “It’s not often that a man comes into your life who’ll walk up to you, put his head on your shoulder, call you ‘Fearless Leader,’ and ask if you need anyone killed today. And mean it.” That’s our Mikey.
And there was his adherence to honor and principle. Once he had come to a position on a subject, he stuck to it no matter what the cost. Many’s the time I watched him pick every single bean out of a bowl of chili because he didn’t like beans, he wasn’t going to eat beans, and if it took half an hour to fish them all out, then that's what it took. My admiration for this single-minded dedication resulted in my developing a chili con carne recipe for him, and the genuine joy he expressed when I first brought a batch to a football party was wondrous to behold.
And we would be remiss indeed if we did not take time to recall the intensity Mike brought to everything he did. Whether it was his encyclopedic knowledge of of German and Soviet tanks in World War II, the incredible detail of his model painting work, his bowling and darts playing, or the late-night Playstation sessions with the gang, Mike always did everything full out. No half-measures for him. Especially in his relationship with the Chiefs. No football party was complete without at least one diatribe on the incompetence of the officiating, the inherent evilness of the opponent (especially the hated Raiders) or the stupidity of the home team’s play calling, all delivered at window-shaking volume. But no matter how bad things got, he always believed they’d manage to pull it out in the end, and he’d be back the next week and the next season to cheer them on. His optimism always overcame his cynicism.
“In the Garden,” by C. Austin Miles, sung by Tim Keltner
(a number of Mike’s friends spoke of their memories of him at this point; I provided the final vignette)
One of my favorite memories of Mike is from a time a bunch of us decided to go to a Royals game, and to tailgate beforehand. Jeff Orth drove up from Joplin with his kids and one of their friends, all 6-8 years old. Jeff has many good qualities, but he is a Raiders fan. Mike had a great time with them before and during the game, more so than any of the rest of us realized. For, when the game was over and Jeff was heading back on the three-hour trip to Joplin, all three kids were in the back of the station wagon, serenading him with the chant Mikey had taught them, the chant that went “Raiders Suck! Raiders Suck!”
“Oh Danny Boy,” sung by Tim Keltner
We have come here today to celebrate, with tears and laughter, the life of Mike Smalley, to share with friends and family our memories of him and the joy he brought to our lives. The sorrow and pain we feel will slowly subside. But let us not forget that though his mortal shell is no longer a part of this world, Mike will always be with us, in our hearts. And, on Monday night, if you listen carefully to the wind, you just might catch a familiar voice at the edge of your hearing screaming “Are you blind? That was interference! Aw c’mon!” Mike has begun the next adventure, and I know I will meet him again someday, with a cigar and a beer, though hopefully of better quality than the stuff he preferred here.
Postlude: “Into the West,” sung by Annie Lennox
It's not something I want to do again, so let's all be careful out there, right?
So, onward, to Boston, and glory! Or at least something that smells like it.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-06 02:20 pm (UTC)You're a good friend, Doc, and a good man. But don't worry, I'll keep that to myself. Would hate to piss you off by letting that get around.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-06 06:14 pm (UTC)