For Bob
By "A friend"

We gather to honor the memory of a man who believed himself flawed by nature with an incapacity to love, who felt that his own nature set him inconsolably outside the warmth of the human family.
I believe otherwise, and I offer as evidence not only the presence and grief here of his natural family but his greater family of friends. Our diversity and numbers suggests we are here because of a bond shared not with each other but with someone who elicited love in a way he did not know.
If I sound here like I am addressing a debating society rather than a gathering of mourners, it is probably because the issue was an occasional point of contention between us. Circumstances have unhappily provided me with the opportunity for the last word, but I have too much respect for my fellow debater’s intellect and self-knowledge to claim it.
Besides, some of you may disagree with me. I hope so, because any gathering in the name of Robert Allen Burns would be false to his memory if it did not include—besides anecdotes and fond memories and recollected witticisms—some spirited disagreement.

Who knew his middle name was “Allen?” Most of us just called him “Bob,” sometimes “Robert,” often—his own preference—“Burns.” On the phone, his first words to me were always, “This is Burns,” I guess so I wouldn’t mistake him with some other “Bob.”
As if I could. As if any of us could mistake that feisty personality, that fountain of wit, that jack of a thousand trades, that publisher, poster artist, author, auteur, mad inventor, raconteur, rambling boy, pebble in the shoe, compulsive contrarian, genius sui generis for anyone else on earth.
There was no one like him. Even those who only knew him a little knew this. And this singularity was fortunate because while one Bob was just right, two Bobs would have been over-population, perhaps even an energy of critical mass – that could have blown us all to Kingdom Come.
Bob himself did not believe in a kingdom to come, or in any kind of afterlife, which is consistent with the intensity he gave this one.
Bob burned with life, though sometimes, especially in these last years, his flame burned darkly, but his vital spark was too bright to ever burn out – at least not until his time of choosing.
I find I have wandered into an inevitable metaphor. Those of you who have seen the “Burns Family Tree”—not his real family, but that chart of such relatives as “Severe Burns” and “Side Burns” and “Baby Burns”—will know what I mean. And now that I am tangled in Punland—Bob’s own turf—I need to get out quickly because even with him safely deceased I am no match for those quips that even now are rising in your memories. To say that Bob’s puns were memorable is to say that Shakespeare wrote good plays. They were instant, artful, always apropos, never needed explaining and were seemingly effortless.
I will go further, I think they were not only effortless, but unstoppable. I think it would have required effort for Bob not to think of them. He had a mind that brimmed with verbal and mechanical invention. He was no more capable of containing its works than a forest can stop growing trees.

Bob and I lived parallel lives for most of our years, aware each other existed but otherwise strangers. This despite the fact that we went to the same high school, that my sister Pat was friends with his brother Fred, that my brother David was friends with his brother Ross, or that as adults we lived only blocks from each other. That mutual inattention was corrected when I was assigned to write a magazine article on a local character. I was told he was a film maker and onetime art director of a notorious cult movie, and would make good copy.
I called, introduced myself and arranged to meet him at his house. I don’t know what I expected of his residence, perhaps something appropriately eerie. Well, of course there was an animal skull and maybe a blade or two, but these were easily overlooked in a house that was full of whimsy and lively offbeat décor and so many collectibles and found objects that it was like a full-scale replica of a Joseph Cornell box. I had never been in a place quite like it.
Its owner, however, seemed a more or less everyday sort, in fact a little disappointingly so. I remarked on this and he laughed and said that although he had done a number of interesting things, he was himself pretty ordinary.
He told me this as he took me into the “Rondo Room,” which was filled with files and memorabilia and framed posters of Rondo Hatton, a minor movie character actor whose disfigured face earned him a livelihood playing creeps in long-forgotten B-films of the forties. Bob informed me without apparent irony that he was the world’s foremost authority on Rondo Hatton.
So much for “ordinary.”

I eased my way out of the Rondo room and sat down, back to the wall, turned on my tape recorder and asked Bob to tell me about himself. He did and, sometime later, after I’d run out of tape, we made our farewells. I said I’d be back in touch with other questions as they came up. He said fine; we said goodbye.
Later that evening, Bob called me to provide some extra information, things about his life and career that we had missed. I made notes and thanked him.
A couple of days later, he called again with some more afterthoughts. One or the other of us suggested a second interview, which took place that afternoon, where he helpfully filled in some missing gaps (gaps that frankly I’d not yet noticed).
He called a day later with some other recollected anecdotes.
He came by the day after with more particulars. We went out to lunch, where he expanded on various events.
He called again that night with some things he had forgotten to mention.
This went on for nineteen years.

I will be candid, I loved Bob Burns, but…! And if there is anyone here who can say “I loved Bob Burns” and not add “but,” I will only say you simply had not yet spent enough time with him.
I finished my article and gave it the inevitable spin of the macabre by titling it Bob Burns’ House of Horrors, where I compared Bob’s multifaceted career and personality to one of those movie house with rows of doors, some leading to parlors, some to libraries and some, well, some that should be opened only at your own risk.
Bob was going through a phase where he was trying to shed his reputation of being what I lightly called “the Pharaoh of Fear,” so he was entitled to be annoyed with me, but if he was, he kept it to himself. And since in my experience he never kept his annoyances to himself, I think he was pleased.

So here we are now, not far from the last of the three wonderful houses that Bob built, or rather re-built, each into something uniquely Burnsian. A year ago he did the same for Margaret and myself. Our new home needed serious
renovation—an expanded kitchen, a home-office, lots of stuff. We needed twice as much work as we could afford. And Bob, fortunately for us, was available.
The three of us made a show of haggling over price but that was really never much of an issue. All those years of set work on budget movies had made Bob the kind of contractor who routinely went under budget.
He did his usual amazing, meticulous job and he was consistently charming company except toward the end of the day when he was tired. He was reliable, responsible, considerate. He was patient with our indecision and our sometimes contradictory instructions.
I wrote this eulogy in a place I always wanted, a lovely writer’s cabin converted from a ramshackle tool shed. I love it. I love the man who built it for me. And he built it with love. Maybe not love for me, maybe just love of the work, because one of Bob’s defining characteristics is that he loved his work, whatever was the work of the day.
He would dispute this. He would say he did all kinds of work he didn’t love. Fair enough, but if one definition of love is paying attention—and I think it is—Bob paid careful attention to everything he did.
Now, largely because of Bob, Margaret and I have a wonderful house renovated on the cheap. There were, of course, trade-offs. As anyone who has worked with Bob knows, he was endlessly inventive in solving problems – of all kinds, but once he arrived at a solution, it was as difficult to change his course as it is to make a train jump the track.
Difficult but not impossible. Margaret would make him a sandwich, pour him a glass of apple juice and the two of them would discuss changes and tweaks in design until a happy compromise was reached.
A sandwich and a glass of apple juice. He was not an unreasonable man. In fact I think Bob thought of himself as a person of strict reason. He had imagination, talent, taste, judgment, boldness—he knew he had them, and he had a fair notion of just how much of each he had—but ahead of all these attributes I think he felt his greatest and most valuable quality was logic, rationality.
Bob had little patience with the unseen or intangible. “Is there a God? Is there a heaven? Are there UFOs? Is there Bigfoot? Fine. Show me the evidence.” This was sometimes exasperating since he was as rigid on Reason as a guide to conduct as the 19th Century social utopian Jeremy Bentham.
Sometimes evidence is less than evident to the skeptical mind and while Bob was a skeptic, he was no cynic. He believed that things could be made better, that people could change. He was no Vulcan, no Mr. Spock. He was not someone who sat at his ease to watch the human race run its mad course. If there is someone here who has not benefited from one of Bob’s casual kindnesses, his inclination to help for no better reason than it would be helpful… if there is someone here like that, all I can say is Bob had just not yet gotten around to you.
Bob never made much of this. He had a strict moral code, at least for himself, and he observed it as a matter of course. Vagabond friends stayed in his house, ate his bread. He took feral kittens from the humane society, fed and petted them until they were accustomed to human contact and could be adopted by those of us with less patience for dumb creatures.
Dead no more than a week and already I’m conferring a halo on Santos Roberto de Seguin! All right, I overreach. We’re not talking about St. Francis. Birds did not light on his fingers… well, come to think of it, I did see a parrot do that once and he clearly adored Bob.
Oh, all right, maybe he was St. Francis, but he wasn’t Mother Theresa. All I mean is he was human scale: he was self-centered, obstinate, a bad listener, sometimes unfairly scathing in his opinions on movies (sometimes those that other people loved), and unable to answer a question until he’d finished a thought, no matter how long it took. I could go on. How I could go on!
But never mind. We all know about Bob’s eccentricities. He was famous for them. “Eccentric” was the first word most of us used to describe him. That was a little unfair, certainly imprecise, since it conjures up some sort of daffy, harmless type with an umbrella and a British accent.
Bob was not an eccentric, at least in that sense, and not in any sense by choice. He was simply original. If something made sense to him, he did it the way everyone else did. If it didn’t, he did it his way. We should all have such imagination; we should all have such nerve.
No we shouldn’t. It is our conventionality that keeps our social order in order, and allows the opportunity for sports of nature such as St. Francis and Jeremy Bentham and Bob Burns who in their unpredictable ways improve our lives and our society.

How odd then that someone whom to so many was so remarkable should have felt he was a failure in life’s greatest test – and I mean “test” whether we are speaking of life as a moral exam or a biological hurdle: the desire, the urge, the need, the imperative to love and to be loved.
That is a harsh judgment, but it’s Bob’s and not mine. Is this the time to raise it? I think so. Because it was very much a part of who Bob was. Bob was not simply a wry wit, a bawdy Puckish elf, an Austintatious character, an eccentric or occasional crank – although he was all of these too.
Nor was he, as I often thought of him, the colorful supporting character that enlivened the movie of my life. Bob—like all of us—was the star of his own movie, fully-fleshed out, fully realized. (And in his movie, we were supporting characters.)
Original as he might be, Bob was still a human being who felt those poles of joy and pain that we all do, though sadly—in his later years—joy was increasingly crowded out by personal pain. Sometimes he kept this to himself; sometimes he didn’t. And sometimes frankly, I found his sorrows wearisome. I wondered privately how much of them were his own doing: his insistence on unrealistic standards, his unwillingness to compromise, his inability to be other than Bob.
And it was an inability. He couldn’t choose who he was because he was who he was. What Bob was not… was ordinary. He had less choice in who he was than those of us who are lucky enough to be ordinary. Professional counseling would have been no use to him. Prozac wouldn’t have fixed him up. He wasn’t an ugly duckling who just needed to grow into a swan. He wasn’t a duck. He wasn’t a swan. He was his own creature and there was no other like him, which is why he was lonely.
Most of us, like it or not, can be replaced. There are others as smart, as talented, as kind, as empathetic, as graceful, as beautiful, as good with their hands, as whatever as we are.
There are lots of people as talented as Bob was: as witty, as good-hearted, as logical. It’s a big world; there are lots of people more so. But in my life, only Bob had the particular mixture of elements that made him so unlike anyone else.

If Bob was not Puck, neither was he Edgar Allen Poe. His career in creepshows was largely a matter of chance, not choice. What he did choose was to end his own life, but he did so not from any infatuation with death. All of you know this and I say it only because I dread the myth-mongering that sometimes makes cult figures—and Bob was one—into figures of the occult.
No, Bob’s decision was a matter of cold logic. Bob did nothing unconsidered and I’m sure he made his choice based on what more he could anticipate from a painful and foreshortened life.
That done, he set about putting his affairs in order: settled his estate, decided what would go to whom, dictated a will, jotted goodbye notes, posted his “farewell address to the troops” on his website, and so on. I’m sure he did this with his usual bustling energy and attention to detail.
And I’m sure he knew too well the pain his death would give his family and friends. I’m sure he took as much care as he could to soften that blow.
Speaking for myself, I wish he had given those of us who cared for him the opportunity to let him know how much he would be missed. Given his condition, that may not have been practical, but it was uncharacteristically selfish.
If that sounds bitter, it’s because I am. I am bitter and angry and grief-stricken that death has taken away from me a cherished friend without so much as a fucking “by-your-leave.”
Maybe my anger is out of place on an occasion such as this, but Bob was my friend and one of the privileges of friendship is anger. I loved Bob too much not to be angry at his loss, not to feel pain at his pain. I will not praise his manner of death, nor will I fault it. It was his right, and it is not mine to render judgment on it.
I will not praise it, I will not fault it and I certainly will not romanticize it. For Bob, a death with dignity, at a time of his own choosing, in the privacy of his home was the best choice in a field of bad choices. But the price Bob paid for a private death, a death with dignity, was a lonely one: no blurring field of faces, no muffled sobs or clutching hands, none of the usual comforts.
I wish for Bob there had been other choices, better ones. I wish Bob had achieved the professional success that he so deserved. I wish he had known love, or at least known that he knew it. I wish I had been as good a friend to him as he was to me. I wish there was no such thing as cancer.
I wish – I wish words could make things right, and that we could all go home thinking somehow everything is for the best. But things aren’t right. There’s not a new star in the heavens tonight. There is just a great big hole in the world where my friend used to be.
Since Bob did not believe in the hereafter, I will not insult him by saying that I believe in it for him. I will not say that he is watching us now and chuckling along at our anecdotes. I will not say that I will meet him again someday in a better world.
Maybe I will. I can’t say for sure I won’t. I don’t know. Neither did Bob.

I said something earlier about parallel lives. You know, science says there is no heaven. But it says there are parallel universes. These are universes where everything that didn’t happen in this universe does happen in another. And vice-versa. There are apparently millions of them, billions of them.
Frankly, heaven seems a little easier to believe in, doesn’t it?
Never mind, I don’t believe in heaven, but I do believe in science and, as I said, science says that there are parallel universes, and therefore somewhere there is a parallel universe where Bob is still with us.
Stop and think about that for a moment. Imagine a place that science says really exists where Bob is still with us, and where we are still with him. I wish I was there now.
And since such a place exists, why not another place (we’re talking about billions of universes) where Bob is famous and celebrated for all his wonderful weird movies, which incidentally are in this place absolute blockbusters!
And even better, then there must be another universe where we’re all still here, in this place, today – to celebrate Bob’s wedding to the only person on earth who’s just as weird as he is, but who’s young and beautiful and crazy about Bob and he’s crazy about her because he finally knows what it’s like to love and be loved – and the only bad thing about all of this is he’s gone a little ordinary on us. A little less weird. Almost normal.
But that’s all right because there’s yet another, best universe of all where Bob’s beautiful bride is embarrassingly pregnant with a boy who will be born two and a half months from now. A Virgo!
He’ll be named Robert Rondo Burns. And so torch of weirdness is passed!
And in this last universe that I’m talking about, we’re all at the wedding—here, now—and Bob’s grinning like a shit-eating possum and the bride is lovely and veiled and modest (at least as much as anyone six and a half months pregnant can be) and the bride’s mother is crying and Margaret and I are crying and so are the rest of us, those of us who aren’t laughing and cheering because we’re all so damn happy for Bob!
HEY, BOB!
I know you can’t hear me in that other universe, but I just want to say that’s not religion! That’s not metaphysics! That’s not science fiction! That’s science! And science is logical, Bob. So it’s all true.
Oh, and also happy honeymoon!
And while I’m at it, let me go on record—just in case there’s an audio leak from one parallel universe to another—that all your friends here in this universe are as happy for you as we are there in that universe…

But we still miss you. Here. Terribly. Terribly so, Bob.

Goodbye from the troops. Rest in peace, Bob.