And when you do get to my age your thoughts all too often rebel. Unbidden and oblivious to restraint they wander into uncharted and unwelcome territories such as mortality, and what might have been, what could have been, and what—perhaps—should have been.
The latter came to mind this week when I learned of the passing of an old friend—one whom I had not seen for many years, but did, still, in his passing leave me with memories of years that are among the best of which I am blest.
He and I were half of a quartet of comedy writers and performers called Klik—three men, one woman. For a time we were semi-professional both as performers and as writers. And, yes, we were very very funny. We could get laughs from most anything: from the shooting of the High Noon singer because the waiting sheriff got bored with the song, to the cloth cap, rampant unionist slave who buried Julius Caesar and was not prepared to lend his ears. And then there was the classic Eskimo for Dinner sketch in which an eskimo shared a dining table with an aristocratic couple and ended with the “coupling” of the wife and eskimo.
You had to be there.
And I was there, with this man, this woman, and my “mad, bad and dangerous to know” Irish mate who were collectively Klik and for a time we so, so clicked. We wrote at night and we wrote drunk—well, two of us anyway. We often performed the same way. We watched McPhail and Gadsby and knew for sure we were better. We watched Monty Python and were not so sure. We had a good time. We gave a good time, The scripts are yellowing behind me as I write this.
Today the Irishman is gone, long gone, and as of this week so is The Man.
The Woman told me. She lives, still. And teaches art.
And back then, had we thought about it, had we wanted it, had we been sober enough to reach out and grab it, we could have been, perhaps should have been, making you laugh still.
Now, it is only me who hears the laughter.
RIP Kevin.
No comments:
Post a Comment