MaybeACoordinator has passed away - Official Farewell Thread

[troph 24916]

Not to sound like I had no hope but I thought he was a week to two out from the end when his doctor said sure eat whatever you want.

I had a close friend die the same way, death’s door with liver failure and kidney damage then a reprieve and  shockingly so good the doctors sent him home told him to live life and I do think he had dialysis daily but absolutely no drinking and he did exactly that and didn’t drink - lots of talk about sobriety and how the party was over - and two weeks later back in the hospital and a week later gone. That last week there was what I truly believe to be fake talk from the hospital staff of a transplant that might come but it never was, I think the doctors knew the first go round he was gone and they let it run it’s course and tried to insulate the patient, his husband and the family from the horror. This isn’t something you can recover from when it’s that far gone. 8 hours a day of dialysis is hell and there’s no path to health from there.
 

I’m sorry MAC that life was that hard and that painful. I’m sorry if you had the gene. You deserved an easier lot in life. I have only compassion and yearning for more for you. Your writing touched me. Godspeed and may you find what you need my brother.  

[RDCanecutter 26512]

The GoFundMe notice doesn't make it sound like unhooking was MAC's idea. Remember the earlier one where it was his choice? Now it's the family's decision.

[Rimbo 26173]

3 hours ago, Brisketexan said:

Now we’re getting to the place where I get fucking pissed at him. Last conversation we had, I told him that he had to put the fucking bottle down. It was clear that he had no such intention.

I don’t understand addiction. I guess I’m blessed that I don’t. But I still get to be pissed off that it exists, and that it takes people from us. I’ve buried more people than I ever expected due to it….so, there we are.

Addiction is really, really hard to deal with. Alcohol addiction is particularly sinister, since it creates both physical and mental dependency; even if you can convince your brain to give it a pass, your body will fuck you up. Serious alcoholics can actually die if they stop drinking.

I'm glad you don't understand it, and I hope you never do.

[Pato del Muerto 52664]

The surge is real. Sounds like it’s happened and is over. 

[G650 14284]

Son of a bitch.

[Hornius Emeritus 12495]

RIP amigo.

[Jerry Callo 8759]

Latest update:

After a long hard fight in which he defied all doctor's predictions, John Nova Lomax passed away peacefully early this morning with his former wife, at his side. He was in no pain at the end and slipped peacefully away to another realm. Again, thanks so very much to all 400+ people who helped keep him going this long. Back with news as we figure out next steps.

 

[Rimbo 26173]

RIP, MAC. Best wishes to your family.

[Brisketexan 105478]

Just got the call. He’s gone.

[TwiceHorn 31646]

Oh bloody hell.  RIP John.  🤘

 

[mchookem 16434]

🤘

[NoName 16423]

RIP MaC

[Anastasis 23471]

Damn. May his memory be eternal. 

[DigglerontheHoof 21263]

Vaya con Dios

[Nuge 1992]

Rest in Peace and pain free.  

[G650 14284]

 

[Deej 77003]

Rest in peace.

[Brisketexan 105478]

 

John knew a SHITLOAD of big names in the biz. Shit, for a bit, we were trying to get Steve Earle to give him a talking to, because he’d listen to Steve.

[Chad Fuck 17829]

Rest in peace MAC. You’ll be missed.

[Celery Man 21021]

rest easy buddy. you made a bigger mark than most.

[Frank Drebin 5670]

Sad news.

[Cheeseweasel 26438]

RIP, MAC

[conVINCEd 21474]

RIP MaC.

 

[tomahawk dunk 341]

RIP MAC

[smoothlonghorn 85]

RIP MAC...may your family & friends find comfort in the time they had with you...and those battling demons find the strength to overcome. Hook 'Em 🤘

[Hornius Emeritus 12495]

Chronicle with a nice remembrance.

https://www.houstonchronicle.com/lifestyle/article/john-nova-lomax-writer-houston-texas-dies-18088579.php

[bborange 10140]

RIP

[Victor Lazlo 1780]

24 minutes ago, Hornius Emeritus said:

Chronicle with a nice remembrance.

https://www.houstonchronicle.com/lifestyle/article/john-nova-lomax-writer-houston-texas-dies-18088579.php

That’s well done. I found this paragraph to be particularly poignant:

“One doesn’t teeter and totter without gaining some sense of where the fulcrum rests. To know that place and still transfer weight to one side, for any or all of the reasons, is its own burden. One I hope has been lifted.”

[RDCanecutter 26512]

1 hour ago, Brisketexan said:

John knew a SHITLOAD of big names in the biz. Shit, for a bit, we were trying to get Steve Earle to give him a talking to, because he’d listen to Steve.

John Nova told me that when he was a kid, Steve Earle attempted to teach him to shoot, but concluded that the kid would never be an outlaw. Also, that the guns mentioned in Devil's Right Hand were from Earle's collection.

[Brisketexan 105478]

Chronicle with a nice remembrance.
https://www.houstonchronicle.com/lifestyle/article/john-nova-lomax-writer-houston-texas-dies-18088579.php

Can you copy and paste? Not a subscriber.

[DalTxHornFan 3121]

19 minutes ago, Brisketexan said:

Can you copy and paste? Not a subscriber.

https://web.archive.org/web/20230522201729/https://www.houstonchronicle.com/lifestyle/article/john-nova-lomax-writer-houston-texas-dies-18088579.php

John Nova Lomax, who documented Houston and Texas stories for decades, dies at 53

 

Harriet Lomax

 

ANDREW DANSBY

May 22, 2023Updated: May 22, 2023 2:10 p.m.

 

Comments

 

In a city where sidewalks are often a decorative formality, John Nova Lomax walked hundreds of miles of them. He journeyed for his Sole of Houston series of stories in which he and musician David Beebe ventured to all corners of our city, stopping in places most of us blitz past in our vehicles, to present a more panoramic view of this sprawling urban area. 

In a go-go town, Lomax coveted a slower and reflective pace. He told Houston stories that otherwise would have gone untold, a Sig Byrd for the 21st century. Within the state, his work appeared in the Houston Press, Texas Monthly, Houstonia and Texas Highways, offering a perspective that balanced reverence and skepticism.

His connection to the city felt natural, symbiotic and whole. He understood Houston’s history, its eccentricities, its excesses and its deficiencies.

 

MORE ON JOHN NOVA LOMAX: Folklore is the family tradition with 'Lomax on Lomax'

Lomax wrote books on dive bars and crime in Houston. His writing over the past 20 years was an outgrowth of the family business. Lomax was a seventh-generation Texan. He was also a fourth-generation documentarian in a family of famed folklorists, musicologists and writers.

Lomax died early on May 22, according to family. He was 53.

 

writer John Nova Lomax credit: Craig D. LindseyCraig D. Lindsey

Whether covering crime or culture, streets or songs, Lomax overturned all stones. He flipped those in his own life, too. His “Of Unknown Origin,” a 2013 story for Houstonia, was a devastating piece of writing and reportage about a defining mystery at the center of his own life: the volatile life and early death of his mother.

 

“At various times she will be addicted to codeine and heroin and methadone,” he wrote in the story’s introduction. “To support her drug habits she will enlist her third-grade son in ever more brazen shoplifting schemes, and then almost kill him after drunkenly setting fire to his bedroom. She will stab her husband and lose her children to foster care, and the darkness won’t end until her body is torn to pieces by a car on Interstate 40, as she’s trying to dash across it in the wee hours of a November morning.”

She left a space in his life that never got filled, but his attempts to do so — to make sense of our cultural doings — were treasures for readers and friends. He possessed a pressing curiosity about the machinations of people and culture. He also felt deeply. At times, it allowed him to tell others’ stories of struggles. His writing always appeared effortless, even when it carried some toll.

His investigative inclination sent Lomax in search of Doug Supernaw, an early ‘90s country superstar who grew up in the Houston area. Supernaw’s career derailed and his health followed. Lomax’s attempts to track down the singer required patience and days spent staking out a bar he heard the singer frequented. The story of Supernaw’s rise and fall earned him a prestigious Deems Taylor Award from ASCAP.

He didn’t always have to search for the stories. Sometimes they found him.

In his book “Houston’s Best Dive Bars,” he described driving to his home at the time, a motel near the Medical Center, when he was approached by former professional basketball player Marvin “Bad News” Barnes. Barnes then led him to the parking lots of several malls to rendezvous with various people of undetermined connection. They eventually settled into Big John’s Sports Bar at Barnes' insistence. In nine paragraphs, Lomax managed to tell an epic after-hours story about promise unrealized, of a life full of detours and dead ends and double backs.

Like his famed family, he had a nose for brilliant music made under the radar. Lomax was one of the first, if not the first, writers to laud the gifts of The Woodlands singer-songwriter Hayes Carll. He helped draw attention to the local blues guitar giant Little Joe Washington, who enjoyed a surge in demand for his music in his last years.

In this regard, he was carrying on a family tradition. Lomax was the great-grandson of the legendary folklorist John Avery Lomax and the great-nephew of folklorists Alan Lomax and Bess Lomax Hawes. His grandfather, John Lomax Jr., was co-founder of the Houston Folklore Society. His father John Lomax III, wrote for the underground Houston publication Space City! , before shifting to a career managing Townes Van Zandt, Rocky Hill and Steve Earle. 

A Houston native, Lomax spent part of his childhood in Nashville. He was attuned to and intrigued by regional rites and rituals. He carried a perpetual interest in place and enjoyed burrowing into the soil to understand the twisted roots of a town or a community.

Lomax loved musicians like Kevin “Shinyribs” Russell, those whose music expressed something particular to a geographic region. But he wasn’t such a homer that he couldn’t admit one of the great Houston songs was written by a Commonwealther, Virginia native Scott Miller, who compressed the epic and strange life of Sam Houston into three minutes with “Say Ho.” 

Perhaps it was innate, perhaps it’s because he grew up with Houston’s sports teams, that Lomax loved oddballs and underdogs. He had no time for the Houston Texans — with an antiseptic name and pandering colors — but was often seen in Oiler blue.

He loved grackles and possums. I feel like he could convince anybody — maybe not Mick Jagger — that Townes Van Zandt’s “Dead Flowers” is a more effective commentary on class and resignation than the Rolling Stones' recording of their own song.

He playfully documented abandoned sofas, a photo series he called the Street Couches of Houston. The practice proved humorous. But the variety of couches, backdrops and accompanying detritus created a deeper mood than a shallow chuckle. These photos featured some affection for things left behind. Together, they possess a sad beauty.

Like a broken mirror pieced back together, Lomax reflected a fragmented city back to itself. 

Having hopefully dodged dereliction of duty, I’ll pivot here to where he stops being Lomax and becomes my friend, John, who in the span of minutes could wax rhapsodic about the individual artistries of Z-Ro, Sam Houston, Weldon “Juke Boy” Bonner and Billy “White Shoes” Johnson. He would joyfully seek a correlation (but no causation) between the name “Crystal” and the local crime blotter.

He found intrigue in my Kentucky roots: the music, the literature, the beverages. He never showed up to a Kentucky Derby viewing at my home without a quality bottle of bourbon and some other totem he’d found like a worn copy of Hugh Rodman’s “Yarns of a Kentucky Admiral.”

One Kentucky Derby Day years ago, he sat on my patio soaking up too much sun on his face. I asked what size hat he needed. “Irish,” he replied.

Sometimes when I felt adrift, he wasn’t the calm captain offering passage back to shore. But he was an exceptional pirate. I say this knowing full well that piracy is not a zero-sum endeavor. In foggier moments, I convinced myself John only hurt himself, but I know that to not be true. 

I bought an extra Clem Snide ticket for him this year — a band we discussed with some regularity — thinking he’d rally after a health scare last year. It still feels like a circuit left incomplete.

One doesn’t teeter and totter without gaining some sense of where the fulcrum rests. To know that place and still transfer weight to one side, for any or all of the reasons, is its own burden. One I hope has been lifted. 

He leaves behind family and friends and a city that knows itself better for his having worked here. But in a go-go city that sends the old out to make space for the new, I know there’ll be no shortage of abandoned couches on the city sidewalks any time I travel from one place to another. They’ll feel different now. A wave from a friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Written By

Andrew Dansby

Reach Andrew on

Andrew Dansby covers culture and entertainment, both local and national, for the Houston Chronicle. He came to the Chronicle in 2004 from Rolling Stone, where he spent five years writing about music. He’d previously spent five years in book publishing, working with George R.R. Martin’s editor on the first two books in the series that would become TV’s "Game of Thrones. He misspent a year in the film industry, involved in three "major" motion pictures you've never seen. He’s written for Rolling Stone, American Songwriter, Texas Music, Playboy and other publications.

Andrew dislikes monkeys, dolphins and the outdoors.

Edited May 22, 2023 by DalTxHornFan

[Goredho 17453]

Sad news.

Anytime I hear about someone dying from addiction, I am always struck with a sense of there but for the grace of God go I.  My peers and I from high school and college all dabbled in substance abuse of one kind or another.  Some of us moved on with it just being youthful recklessness. Some of us became addicts.  Some of us were eventually killed by it.

I don’t know why any of us wound up in any of those groups.  We all started as kids or young adults imbued with a sense of invincibility and a desire to test the limits of control imposed by our upbringing.  Somewhere along the way, some of us unknowingly crossed a rubicon to where it became a life long struggle.

Rest in peace, MAC.  I’’m glad the demon of addiction no longer has its claws in you.

[BearSchlong 8133]

That’s well done. I found this paragraph to be particularly poignant:
“One doesn’t teeter and totter without gaining some sense of where the fulcrum rests. To know that place and still transfer weight to one side, for any or all of the reasons, is its own burden. One I hope has been lifted.”

As a recovered (not cured) alcoholic, that’s one of the most powerful things I’ve ever read.

[Scary Stranger 1715]

Damn.  RIP.

[BearSchlong 8133]

This is also a helluva good read -

[Bozo_Casanova 26613]

Sometimes talent can enable addiction and illness just as surely as a loving family or well meaning friends. I didn't know him but we had a few friends in common and met a few times. Oddly, I never put it together until after the fact that the "John" I met was John Nova Lomax, who I thought was a brilliant writer and a great reporter. I also didn't know he was @MaybeACoordinator, whose posts I liked and whose avatar I enjoyed very much.  What a talent he was.

It's no consolation to @Brisketexan or John's many friends, but I think his published work will stick with us for a long while and maybe grow over time, I think. To be pored over, anthologized, referred to and laughed at, and with.  As maddening as I know it was to watch him destroy himself, in a way he'll outlive us all, like Auden said about Yeats and others, that:

'Time that is intolerant
Of the brave and innocent,
And indifferent in a week
To a beautiful physique,

Worships language and forgives
Everyone by whom it lives;
Pardons cowardice, conceit
Lays its honours at their feet.

Time that with this strange excuse
Pardoned Kipling and his views,
And will pardon Paul Claudel,
Pardons him for writing well.'

Ironically, Auden excised those three Stanzas from the poem. And yet, memorable writing has a way of sticking around regardless of the author's intentions, good or ill 

Edited May 22, 2023 by Bozo_Casanova

[tx 3 putt 77650]

1 hour ago, BearSchlong said:

This is also a helluva good read -
 

 

Damn that’s a great read 

[Patricio Swayze 17058]

Wow. I had no idea. 
 

I think it was on the old site I was pretty critical of Lomax. I didn’t agree with all of his opinions, but he certainly had some ones that I agreed with and his legacy (and extension of his family) can not be overstated. 
 

RIP

[Scheiss Meister 8416]

Rest well and free, MAC.

[Deej 77003]

[hookemATL 11941]

RIP. Peace and love to John, and his family and friends. 

[Post Oak 20310]

 

 

[cactusflinthead 27609]

I just read the email.

Rest well bro.

Gone too soon 

[40acredropout 2908]

On 5/9/2023 at 2:27 PM, MonkeyDoughnut said:

Gonna be missed around these parts.

Didn't know him but he was quite the story teller. As we near Mother's Day, a story he wrote a decade ago about his mother that gives you some great insight into his life:

https://www.houstoniamag.com/news-and-city-life/2013/07/of-unknown-origin-july-2013

 

Damn.  Rest in peace, John.

This article shows him being dealt a pretty fucking shitty hand.  Most of us can't imagine the weight of that burden.  Doesn't absolve him of responsibility for his actions but I can start to understand how we are here.

His brilliance is obvious and I can only imagine what he overcame to have the impact that he did.  My heartfelt condolences to all of you who were lucky enough to know him.

My submission to the playlist: 

That Wrecking Ball by Watchhouse (formerly Mandolin Orange)

I've taken to leaning these past few days
A little too heavy on my walking cane
Cause I'm afraid she's swinging my way
That wrecking ball

Now with all my ducks in a row
With one pull I could let them go
Not to lose, just to show
I could catch them all
But every man bears a burden
His own beast by the horns
That he hides from the world
When he's young and strong
Looking over his shoulders
Half tattered and torn
Still standing tall

But every year rolls on like a runaway train
Every beast grows stronger as the pendulum swings
To and fro, and on she goes
That wrecking ball

I've just seen that rock of ages
I've just held my savior's hand
We danced on the water
With my head on her shoulders
She swore to never let me fall

And wouldn't time seem so kindly
If every bright eyed girl could be more like you
And shelter me me
From that wrecking ball
That wrecking ball

 

Edited May 24, 2023 by 40acredropout

[FORTY NINE TO ZERO 2652]

The man passed on a greater legacy than most.

His ability to put into words the plight/life of blue collar Houston /Gulf Coast was remarkable. 

hopefully he realized that before he left and it brought him comfort.

 

 

 

[burntorangebongos 10752]

He wrecked his body but never his spirit. He was a gem with a serious flaw but pretty brilliant, nonetheless. Flawed perfection is what he was. RIP 

[troph 24916]

9 hours ago, Brisketexan said:

John knew a SHITLOAD of big names in the biz. Shit, for a bit, we were trying to get Steve Earle to give him a talking to, because he’d listen to Steve.

Steve Earle knows more than I could ever imagine about loss.

[Pam Cummings 9689]

Damn, RIP, friend. For any of us who have tragically watched a person we care for drink themselves to death, this hurts.

[Brisketexan 105478]

10 hours ago, troph said:

Steve Earle knows more than I could ever imagine about loss.

Indeed.  Among the surreal experiences in my life was the series of conversations some months back with one of John's dear friends and John's ex.  We were trying to think of some way to get through to him, and we discussed at length getting Steve involved.  I remember as I hung up one night, I told my wife "well, add 'trying to figure out if we should get Steve Earle to perform an intervention for a friend' to the list of shit I never thought I'd do."  In the end, we discussed the fact that Steve had already talked to John.  A lot.  And his ex suggested "he didn't listen to Steve before, he won't listen to him now."  And she was right.

Don't know why this one hit me so hard, but last night, when I got home from a whirlwind trip, I cried.  I got the call from my wife when the news of John's death hit while I was on the road.  I did what I had to do and worked the rest of the day.  But as I got inside the peace and quiet of my home, it all washed over me.

John and I weren't big buddies in high school -- we were friendly enough, but his best friend didn't really care for me, so we didn't run around together that much.  We got to be friends later in life; we shared interests, and John was a smart observer who loved sharing his latest realization with me (sometimes his realizations were crap, and I told him so, and usually we'd get a chuckle out of it).  Sometimes text messages, sometimes long phone calls, but always interesting.  At times, he shared some deeply personal things about his private life; not the dramatic things that he wrote about so well, but some of the ordinary losses and pain that exist as punctuation in most people's lives.  They seem mundane in their clinical description; they happen to so many, but they are no less profound, and can be turning points in life.  Some of them served as such in his life, and not for the better.  But him telling me about them helped me understand him more.  Of course I won't share any of those particulars, as they're not mine to share.  But I did realize and appreciate that he felt safe telling me those things.

The last time I saw him in person was summer before last.  We spent a week down at Surfside, he was living relatively nearby.  He'd kind of discovered that area after long talks with me about that part of the coast.  He came and met us on the beach, sat down in the shade of our canopy and shot the shit for quite a while.  He looked like hell.  But age is a bear, and we knew he'd done some hard living, even setting aside the booze.  This was about 2 months after my mother died (who John had met as well in his time down there, as they had a beach house in the area - and John and my mother related to each other quite easily, as she too was a child of alcoholics and wretched tragedy).  He said something that really meant a lot to me: "I've really come to think of this place as Brisket family country.  Every time I'm at this beach, I think about your folks, and how y'all just sort of seem to belong here."  John didn't know it, but my parents' intent is -- once my father passes as well -- for their ashes to be mixed together and scattered in the surf, there off of Follett's island.  John observed a truth about my family that we hadn't even shared with any outsiders; he just knew it, by eye, experience, and a soul that was gifted at picking up on such things.

I - and quite a few others - tried to help John in the past year, as his decline became acute.  By and large, he wouldn't have it.  And last night, I beat myself up about it, from about 5 different directions.  I beat myself up because of my fucking ego and savior complex and bullshit belief that "maybe I can get through to him when nobody else can," which led me to keep trying to get through.  I beat myself up because, for someone with a fucking savior complex, I've proven that I can't fucking save anyone (I've tried to help more than one addict who was dear to me; every one of them is now in the ground.  Looking at the data, the worst thing in the world for you would be for Brisket to try to help you beat addiction).  I beat myself up because I didn't make enough of my time with him; there were phone calls I didn't return, or calls I cut short because of work.  Then I beat myself up for beating myself up and making any of this about myself in my own head.  It's not, and that's an egotistical and arrogant thing to do, ESPECIALLY with respect to someone like John, in whose life I was just a minor character.

In the end, I'm just sad.  I enjoyed becoming his friend.  I was looking forward to continuing to be his friend, and to hearing and reading more of his pointed and well-crafted thoughts on all manner of things.  He helped me be more comfortable with my Houston roots, with being a child of SETX and oilfield trash and the flashiness and trashiness and authenticity of the Texas Gulf Coast.  I know he did the same, and more, for countless other folks.  And now we've lost him.  This universe is a cruel bitch.

Edited May 23, 2023 by Brisketexan

[Gourmand 7774]

46 minutes ago, Brisketexan said:

Indeed.  Among the surreal experiences in my life was the series of conversations some months back with one of John's dear friends and John's ex.  We were trying to think of some way to get through to him, and we discussed at length getting Steve involved.  I remember as I hung up one night, I told my wife "well, add 'trying to figure out if we should get Steve Earle to perform an intervention for a friend' to the list of shit I never thought I'd do."  In the end, we discussed the fact that Steve had already talked to John.  A lot.  And his ex suggested "he didn't listen to Steve before, he won't listen to him now."  And she was right.

Don't know why this one hit me so hard, but last night, when I got home from a whirlwind trip, I cried.  I got the call from my wife when the news of John's death hit while I was on the road.  I did what I had to do and worked the rest of the day.  But as I got inside the peace and quiet of my home, it all washed over me.

John and I weren't big buddies in high school -- we were friendly enough, but his best friend didn't really care for me, so we didn't run around together that much.  We got to be friends later in life; we shared interests, and John was a smart observer who loved sharing his latest realization with me (sometimes his realizations were crap, and I told him so, and usually we'd get a chuckle out of it).  Sometimes text messages, sometimes long phone calls, but always interesting.  At times, he shared some deeply personal things about his private life; not the dramatic things that he wrote about so well, but some of the ordinary losses and pain that exist as punctuation in most people's lives.  They seem mundane in their clinical description; they happen to so many, but they are no less profound, and can be turning points in life.  Some of them served as such in his life, and not for the better.  But him telling me about them helped me understand him more.  Of course I won't share any of those particulars, as they're not mine to share.  But I did realize and appreciate that he felt safe telling me those things.

The last time I saw him in person was summer before last.  We spent a week down at Surfside, he was living relatively nearby.  He'd kind of discovered that area after long talks with me about that part of the coast.  He came and met us on the beach, sat down in the shade of our canopy and shot the shit for quite a while.  He looked like hell.  But age is a bear, and we knew he'd done some hard living, even setting aside the booze.  This was about 2 months after my mother died (who John had met as well in his time down there, as they had a beach house in the area - and John and my mother related to each other quite easily, as she too was a child of alcoholics and wretched tragedy).  He said something that really meant a lot to me: "I've really come to think of this place as Brisket family country.  Every time I'm at this beach, I think about your folks, and how y'all just sort of seem to belong here."  John didn't know it, but my parents' intent is -- once my father passes as well -- for their ashes to be mixed together and scattered in the surf, there off of Follett's island.  John observed a truth about my family that we hadn't even shared with any outsiders; he just knew it, by eye, experience, and a soul that was gifted at picking up on such things.

I - and quite a few others - tried to help John in the past year, as his decline became acute.  By and large, he wouldn't have it.  And last night, I beat myself up about it, from about 5 different directions.  I beat myself up because of my fucking ego and savior complex and bullshit belief that "maybe I can get through to him when nobody else can," which led me to keep trying to get through.  I beat myself up because, for someone with a fucking savior complex, I've proven that I can't fucking save anyone (I've tried to help more than one addict who was dear to me; every one of them is now in the ground.  Looking at the data, the worst thing in the world for you would be for Brisket to try to help you beat addiction).  I beat myself up because I didn't make enough of my time with him; there were phone calls I didn't return, or calls I cut short because of work.  Then I beat myself up for beating myself up and making any of this about myself in my own head.  It's not, and that's an egotistical and arrogant thing to do, ESPECIALLY with respect to someone like John, in whose life I was just a minor character.

In the end, I'm just sad.  I enjoyed becoming his friend.  I was looking forward to continuing to be his friend, and to hearing and reading more of his pointed and well-crafted thoughts on all manner of things.  He helped me be more comfortable with my Houston roots, with being a child of SETX and oilfield trash and the flashiness and trashiness and authenticity of the Texas Gulf Coast.  I know he did the same, and more, for countless other folks.  And now we've lost him.  This universe is a cruel bitch.

Beautiful words, brisket. Thanks for sharing.