Remembering Paul McLaughlin: 1967-2009

Death feels like a snipped thread; it echoes with the shocked silence following the collapse of a tree. Suddenly, there is this absence, the memory of a space once filled.


Paul McLaughlin was my friend. It seems funny to write that about a man I spoke to once, and only briefly, over the past 25 years, but it is true nonetheless. For Paul had that effect on people; I'm sure he has many such friends, and some probably closer and more qualified than I to write about him. But I remember him fondly, and when I heard of his sudden passing, I felt moved to record a few of these fond memories. Paul... made me laugh. And I find myself wondering if it is any coincidence that the word "laugh" is in his name.


I first met Paul when we attended Horner Junior High in our hometown of Fremont. I cannot recall how we first became acquainted, but I'm sure he must have said something funny. I remember being at ease around Paul. In the tumultuous years of junior high and high school where bonds were forged and broken like alliances between warring nations, Paul was a steady friend.


At Horner, there were these bins where students were instructed to dump their lunch scraps. I don't remember why we were supposed to do this. The end result were bins full of sandwich crusts and other leftovers that the seagulls would greedily battle over. I'm not sure how it started, but Paul had an ongoing joke about those bins. When I'd ask, "What are you doing for lunch today, Paul?", he'd sigh, a look of sincere chagrin spreading across his face, and say, "It's lunch with the seagulls again for me. Wish me luck!" For some reason, I found the image of him battling it out with the seagulls for a few scraps of sandwiches absolutely hilarious. It never failed to get a laugh.


Another ongoing joke we had was Snuffles the Mouse. Snuffles was a cartoon character and Paul could do an imitation of him that was spot on. Perhaps it was too good. Regrettably, I became something of a pest, requesting that Snuffles make an appearance any time we crossed paths. "Hey, Paul. Paul! Do Snuffles the Mouse!" I'm surprised he humored me for as long as he did. Later, when we were in high school, I remember asking him to do it again, for old times sake, but he didn't even crack a smile. "No," he replied, "I don't do Snuffles anymore." I don't know now if this was due to the joke having worn a little thin or if by this time he was already diagnosed with the disease that would eventually claim his life. In either case, it would seem that Snuffles was permanently retired.


Probably I spoke to Paul at the 10 year reunion, but my memory betrays me and I cannot recall what we spoke about or if we spoke at all. My last clear memory of Paul was a chance meeting at a mall, probably Newpark, because I remember an escalator. It must have been after graduation, because I remember there being an air of surprise and finality about it, an unexpected meeting of two friends about to go separate ways. Our conversation was brief, likely filled with vague and hazy plans about our respective futures. As he stepped onto the escalator, I couldn't resist a parting shot. "Hey, Paul! Do Snuffles!" He grimaced and rolled his eyes, but as he turned away, I think I caught the hint of a smile. Then the escalator carried him up and away from me and into the fog.


I hope you had a good life, Paul. I hope you had time to pursue your dreams and maybe even catch one or two. And I hope, in the end, there was someone there to hold your hand.




"So put a candle in the window and a kiss upon his lips
As the dish outside the window fills with rain
Just like a stranger with the weeds in your heart
And pay the fiddler off 'til I come back again

Oh it's time time time, and it's time time time
And it's time time time that you love
And it's time time time"

~Tom Waits

*****

I finally have the answer... 42!

A Babel Fish would be very handy for finding all the answers, but if I'm going to dream, I might as well dream big...

*****

41 Days til the Burn

Happy Anniversary, Moon!

I was 1 1/2 at the time of the moon landing, so I don't really remember it, but I remember watching the documentary "Moon Shot" in 1994 and weeping like it was happening for the first time. We need more noble efforts like this one, instead of endless, stupid conflicts. So that's my wish for today: A revived space program with scheduled trips to the Moon, Mars, and beyond...

47 Days til the Burn

Moving Pains

For a good portion of the earlier part of this week, I was helping my friends R~ & M~ move into their new apartment. I haven't moved in about five years, which is about the longest time I've been in any one place since I was living with my parents. I tallied up the number of times I have moved in my life and came up with 19. Nineteen! Can you imagine? Granted, one of those moves was before the age of four which I can barely remember, but that means that I have moved 18 times since the age of 18, the second big move of my life. Thirteen of those moves were with my ex-husband. I will forego explanations here, but this fact will become more relevant as I go on.


As we were packing up the old apartment earlier this week, my friend R~ collapsed in the kitchen and grumbled something about having to do "80% of the work." Now to be fair, it is true that he and his buddy were spending a tremendous effort lugging heavy, awkwardly-shaped pieces of furniture down the stairs and placing them, tetris-like, into the moving van, and all in the heat of California in July. So I don't blame him entirely for voicing this sentiment. On the other hand, my friend M~, his wife, was responsible for packing up the kitchen, which is an equally Herculean task in its own way. By the time I had arrived there on Tuesday, M~ had already completed about half the job, and it took her and I together most of the afternoon and some of the next morning to complete the rest. I remembered, as I was packing, that this is a familiar pattern: the kitchen is always the last to be packed and the last to be unpacked, at least in my experience. So I found myself feeling a little nettled by his attitude.


But his comment brought back memories-- or not memories exactly, but more a resonance with many such moves and many such arguments. It got me thinking. So I'm going to propose a theory here which I hope won't get me accused of being sexist or solipsistic. Just remember that I am basing my theory on my personal experience of 13 moves with the opposite gender and what little I know of human nature in nearly 42 years of existence.


When it comes to moving, men think in terms of division of labor. I do this. You do that. It's a 50-50 split until someone starts slacking, and then immediately the male mind starts calculating the percentage. Now it's 60-40, now it's 80-20, etc.


In contrast, I think women look at moving as a community effort. We all work together and do what needs doing until the job is done. Packing for a woman is not a simple task. It is not a driven, linear task. Each item pulled from a cupboard or drawer (other than maybe the cereal boxes) is a potential emotional memory gravity well. You pull that old sugar bowl out from the back of the cupboard and wipe the dust off, and, oh, this was grandma's, remember? Or, you remember when we got this on that trip to... and so on. Packing for a woman is a constant battle with emotional currents. I would argue that it requires just as much effort to stay on task as it would to swim in a straight line across a raging river.


In terms of sheer volume, R~ may be right. Maybe he and the men he had helping him did move 80% of the apartment. But I don't think it's an accurate assessment, nor do I think it's a fair one. We're looking at apples and oranges here. We can't set up a scale and weigh furniture against kitchen appliances and fragile household items. And if we did, it would take the wisdom of Anubis to determine the difference.


In the end, I think R~ was searching for validation and perhaps a little well-deserved praise. I wish I had had the presence of mind to do so at the time. Packing a kitchen is a tedious, wearisome task, but one far more within the bounds of my capabilities than moving heavy furniture. Perhaps instead of justifying the delays in the kitchen packing, I should have praised his hard work and his contribution to the moving effort. But, then again, perhaps I was wiser to let R~ and M~ work things out on their own, as husbands and wives have done since the first people moved out from their caves.






57 Days til the Burn