“There he goes. One of God’s own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.”

-Hunter S. Thompson”Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”

He never quite seemed like he belonged to the same point in history that I occupied. I belonged to the tail end of the 20th century. 

He belonged in Greece, a contemporary of Sophocles or Aristophanes.

He belonged in a medieval monastery, some mad monk with his fingers covered in ink, cackling like a loon and soaking up every single bit of knowledge that magnificent brain of his could hold.

He belonged in the 19th century,  traveling with Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show. He belonged at Wounded Knee, a witness to barbarism.

He belonged in Shakespeare’s company. He belonged in a pub with George Bernard Shaw.

He belonged in Europe, 1945. A kid who had dropped out of high school to join Patton’s 3rd Army, a rifleman in the 76th Infantry, earning two Bronze Stars and witnessing things nobody should ever see, let alone someone of his age.

He belonged everywhere in time, and I am incredibly fortunate to have been there for a small portion of it.

The first time I stepped on a stage was as one of the “newsboys” in his production of “Gypsy”. Later when I was in college at Drake University, he directed me as Banquo in …. that play …. while trying his damdest to force theater history to take purchase in my befuddled brain. 

He was the first person to officially teach me about comedy, to give me a scholarly sense of the art, and its importance. For that alone, I will always love him. 

I still carry a goal of his. To create something so funny that the audience pukes. I’ll carry that torch for ya, my friend. 

He has an as yet unmeasurable effect on my writing.  Unless it’s crap. In that case I have forgotten something he said.

His sons, Eric and Wim, are my cherished friends to this day, and brilliant men in their own right. Cast parties at his house were simply works of debauched art, courtesy of his utterly remarkable wife, Linda.

I will always be learning from him. I heard his voice when I taught comedy writing at Second City. He stands over my shoulder, whispering encouragement as I write. His laugh is embedded in my mind, triggered whenever I create something apropos. God, I will miss hearing that laugh in person. 

Even at the end, the astounding grace with which he took leave of this stage, as beautifully relayed to us by Linda, contained such a breadth of wisdom that I will return to it for many years coming. When my time comes, I hope I remember. 

So, there he goes. One of God’s own prototypes. The Grand Guru of Lahore has taken a vow of silence. Our much admired, much needed, much loved William S E. Coleman has appointments elsewhere, and he has put them off as long as he could. 

Thank you, Doc, for your years of friendship,  your amazing knowledge and wisdom, your family, and your love. Say hello to Shaw, and look up the Marx Brothers for me.

My love goes with you.