We all know folks that beat to their own drum. Highly intelligent, multi-talented, far-reaching creatives that are well-versed in all manners of good stuff; people who can riff on whatever subject indefinitely but only do so in spurts when they feel like it. They imitate normalcy with ease while skirting conformity in the most pleasing ways. They don’t need to fit in, but do fit with the right crew everywhere they end up. I find these souls to be the opposite of boring. I find their existence fascinating and a source of great comfort.

My Old Friend was one of those souls.

I think many other old friends and acquaintances would describe him as a character. A bit of a loner, even. Although he was regularly in attendance and approachable, he kept relatively quiet at first. He nodded a lot, played along, and went with the flow wherever the flow was going. The longer I knew him the less this was true but it was his go-to mode on many occasions over the years. He was observant, consistently on the peripheral, before this overtly quirky and magnetic personality shone through. There was a tier to knowing the real version of My Old Friend and once you leveled-up in his world, your world was instantly better.

For a long time I was the only girl he kept regular company within our high school circle of friends. He didn’t have to legitimately befriend me; we were tied together by our shared closeness to others in the group. But we did click and I was grateful to him and for him on more occasions than I can count. We didn’t just witness each other’s formative years, we shared experiences that shaped who we’d become as adults in the world and referenced those highlights for decades afterwards.

There were lows we shared too but if you knew My Old Friend to be your friend, then you knew he kept those lows to himself. He was incredibly loyal and discreet. He did things that needed doing and kept other people’s struggles private. Rarely did he ever ask for anything in return. Nor did he ask permission to do right by people. He never asked if I needed him to watch guard while I peed in a dark alley or pitch-black clearing in the woods, or if I wanted him to reach back for me when we pushed through crowded bars and packed gatherings in our early 20’s. He just did those things. He was aware of me and made me feel seen. He’d ask me if I was okay when I wasn’t. Walk me home at night when no one else would. There was an understated gentlemanly quality to him that I was privy to at an early age that left an impression on me; I felt like I belonged to My Old Friend in a way that made me feel safe. As the years tallied up, I watched other people come into his world and receive the same treatment, which didn’t subtract from its specialness. It just proved that was part of his essence; he had an inherent keenness for vulnerability and knew how to act accordingly.

He was more than just a character. He was overrun with it; good humor, charm, and inclusiveness exuded from his pores. He was a man that balanced silliness with substance and I mourn for his little guys that won’t get to continue learning from him. I knew he’d be a good dad but I didn’t know he’d be so tender and sweet until I saw it first hand. When he talked or texted about his boys, he radiated actual warmth from afar. My hope for his beautiful young sons is that everyone that ever knew My Old Friend finds a way to keep him alive for them. That collectively we pinpoint as many instances where My Old Friend impacted our lives and pass that onto them. Because regardless of how distant our connections to him had grown over time, his influence was permanent. He was a friend for life and thinking about him as past tense feels so wrong. Knowing that the thing he’d miss most in the world was raising his kids in his own image hurts. He knew how to love people and zero in on being a hero undercover.

I’d never claim that my friendship with My Old Friend was deep. It was built on the many lives one lives between being a kid and becoming an adult. We shared history, friends, and values. On one of our last run-ins we concurred that we had turned into grown-ups in spite of ourselves. We’d become losers who shared occasional baby photos and random updates about life, mixed-in with inappropriate slang and old inside jokes. Sometimes I’d troll him online through job listing sites and sometimes he’d check in on me and my various health issues referring to each as ‘another secret boob job I didn’t need’. He was a ridiculous person that I could always be myself with and my admiration for that brand of authenticity set a high bar for friends that came later in life.

As I gathered up as many old photos and memories of My Old Friend this past week, there were so many instances of him being wonderfully weird. I felt pangs from the laughter that came from being around him at his best. The sound of his laughs were Seinfeld in stature; all real and spectacular. His laughs were epic and infectious. They served as a calling card that I know everyone can still hear in his absence.

Having lost people dear to me in recent years, I get how in mourning you want more than just the laughs though. You want to see your grief reflected back in words that describe all the best sides of the deceased. You want their memory to be bigger than the sum of your sadness and you want to know their end is not the end of your love for them; that happy days inspired by them will still come around even when that person is gone. You especially want to hear how they mattered most to every person that knew them so you can hold onto more than just your final days with them.

I can easily throw down written snapshots of when My Old Friend taught me to play Rummy at the old house on Albany or when I found a pint glass that read “MAY CONTAIN MONONUCLEOSIS” a good decade after he scribbled variations of that warning on scraps of tape that he affixed to everything he touched in college for a period of time. But after talking to his family and hearing how profound their sadness is, I recognized I can offer a little more than my simple condolences. I can give them written proof of the many sides I saw of My Old Friend that stayed with me all these years. He co-starred in many small moments that added up to a really good life. And as heartbreaking as it’s been to hear of his passing, I’m so grateful for his place in my heart.

My Old Friend was a good friend to me and I will miss him.

In the weeks following the death of My Old Friend, the grief hasn’t much lessened, nor has the shock of his sudden death. His services were some of the most somber I’ve ever seen as it was evident he had so much life left to live. He left a trail of other old friends I’d long moved on from but reunited with that day to pay our respects. It was a family-packed gathering with children strewn about and so many stories of how My Old Friend brought happiness to each of our lives.

There was an underlying theme when the dark clouds of that day lifted and we went on our separate ways. My Old Friend was fluent in the language of music and any tune that came from him translated to him caring about you. He shared often his enthusiasm for a good tune and sound files of things he produced. He was a muse for many even if he didn’t know how much him putting himself out there meant to other musicians honing their craft. So his oldest friend and cousin lassoed that energy. He repurposed his grief into something that truly honors the creative spirit of My Old Friend.

A YouTube channel dedicated to good people sharing their musical talents with the world. Specifically one that My Old Friend would have contributed to regularly if he was still with us. I knew him as a trumpeter, a piano man, a bass slapper, and a digital mix-master of sorts. A collective favorite though was when he’d sidle up to the microphone and summon old Satchmo; a solo he sang that welcomed all into his wonderful world.

Here I invite any music types that read me or just happen to dig the vibe of keeping My Old Friend alive for everyone that loved him, to check out the channel. You’ll even find my youngest wailing on the drums in more than one clip…

Please consider taking a beat out of your day to check the page out. It’s a one-minute click, where you’re welcome to watch, wander about, like/share/subscribe. Writing is an art form that thrives on readership in the same regard as musicians live out loud for their listeners.

“Music is life itself.”
Louis Armstrong (1901-1971) 

©B. Butler, 2025. All rights reserved.

We are technically 14 for another couple weeks. But honestly, who’s counting? We welcome all the accolades and yes, we’re basically 5’11” – thanks for noticing.

However we measured last weekend when others kept saying stuff like “you’ve gotta be at least 6ft tall or I’m shrinking!” and I hate to be the bearer of bad news but… ya shrunk.

We are at max sarcasm usage to date. We dish it and expect it from others, but we don’t always grasp what’s being said back at us on the first go round. We are figuring out that language is a weapon not everyone understands how to use and question: why is everyone so dumb and can’t keep up with us?

We form opinions now. Hard-won revelations that others are open to. Friends and peers hear what we’re saying but we’ll be damned if many adults give a shit unless we step to their level of critique. And still how many of them just dismiss us? It screams criminal; unjust AF.

We are fueled by teenage earnestness and moral righteousness. But we also demonstrate such a capacity for empathy and open-mindedness it’s inspiring to those closest to us. We don’t get why they are so wowed by that shit; it’s embarrassing – keep doing it though – yet we feel something like pride that we squirrel away from the kids at school.

We’re constantly like, why’s this such a big deal? It doesn’t matter…

So stupid. Nobody cares…

Yeah, we can do it but why waste our time? Just relax…

Leave me alone, I’m fine!

We are stone-cold expressions of resentment for the tiniest of infractions that in hindsight, when all the screaming and fighting and taking away of our PS5 again are over with, we feel shitty and sad about how we acted. We want a do over and we don’t want you mad at us.

We are still just a kid. We’re sorry. We remain sweet and cuddly and please don’t end our favorite parts of childhood yet. We don’t want to admit we still love some of that little kid stuff but you know that and that’s ALL that needs to know that.

We like our parents. Love, yeah. Annoyed by, yesh. But we like being with each of them separately for reasons we don’t need to share here. We want our privacy respected and we appreciate Mom gets it and just hints at things that make us feel seen. And for the last time, we DO like our brother, okay? We love him – we love everyone! Give us a break already!

We’ve got serious rizz. No cap. The sigma, but under wraps. LMFAO and so many more acronyms that slap. We think in memes and love a clutch gif in response. We’ve memorized every line from Brooklyn 99 and idolize the comedic mind of Mike Birbiglia. Essentially we’ve collected all the coolest qualities of our favorite real and fictional characters and repurposed them into our personality to the benefit of everyone we come in contact with.

We wonder what’s the point? What’s our purpose? Are we good enough? When will we know, and how? And who will be our friends? And will we have a girlfriend, or girlfriends? And will we fall in love? Be loved for real? And will we be happy when we’re old?

We think about our future like chapters in a book – or no, like in the movies separated into phases of the greatest life ever lived! We want to be important and make a difference. We want to make the world better but don’t know how yet. We think – nay – we BELIEVE we’ll figure it out though. To which our parents say, cool, cool, cool, no doubt, no doubt, no doubt.

We are dreaming big and flattered that she calls us the living embodiment of her dreams. We can all agree it’s been a helluva 15 years so far… and maybe this time next year we’ll be discussing not just our exemplary height and many other notable highlights, but also our superior driving skills?

©B. Butler, 2024. All rights reserved.

My insides screamed shhhh! Every train of thought that screeched in was in direct conflict with the task at hand.

I felt overwhelmed overwhelmed overwhelmed overwhelmed.

So.

Full.

Stop.

Step back.

Turn the volume down and just don’t think about…

BE BLANK.

Shrug.

Sleep.

Exist.

Let the feelings in and let the other worlds I live in lie dormant for a day or two. Everybody else in question will survive, and more importantly, so will I.

©B. Butler, 2024. All rights reserved.

I didn’t wake up sick but I’m going to bed that way. Juxtaposed I wake up well again and remain so for a much anticipated river-dyeing show in the morning.

I need to see this in person as opposed to how we lived it last year; a mere highlight in last year’s hospital life, can also be a colorful highlight in just regular life this go around.

Fingers, toes, and all applicable appendages-crossed please, folks.

That every memorable experience that comes our way can be viewed less we’re still so sad, more look at us LIVING like you wanted us to.

Here we are doing our best, trying to honor you, Dad.

©B. Butler, 2024. All rights reserved.

Start by moving the toy display table, the fidget stand, and the insanely expensive hand puppets. Unlock the brakes on each bank of bookcases in the middle aisle and roll them out of the way – 2 to the left, 1 next to card display, 1 in the YA aisle, and 1 sideways to create our in-store event space.

Grab the 3 long tables from behind the staff door and 40 chairs from the basement; preferably with help, seeing as I’m weak-armed and clumsy and need not fug up my first time co-hosting an author-signing at the bookshop.

Although I’ve worked a few of these to date, it’s always been support staff; set-up listed above, or stock checker, ticket line shepherd, QR code scan-master. I’m good at writing names for post-it personalization and flapping the title page for the author to autograph. I’ve played amateur, phone-photog for fans, direction-giver of public restrooms in the area, and super raffle-ticket seller at our big, annual children’s literature breakfast.

A couple other booksellers and I are the main event for our quarterly “Book Club Happy Hour”, but that’s just book-talking new titles that we read in advance of publication to 50-60 women that really dig on reading what’s a’buzz. TBH, it feels the same as being in front of a classroom or leading a PD sesh way back when I was still teaching, but with mocktails, a spread of treats, and real talking what’s happenin’ in-print.

Acting as actual host for an author is intimidating though. Even small scale, local writers come through with riders we must fulfill. Most are easy – sneaking in family or an old friend without paying admission. Requests above my pay grade but small stakes for me to screw up too much when I’m the face of the company shebang.

Tonight’s author was a shoe-in for me to take on, having written 4 children’s books in the past decade and launching their releases in our store for titles in the years prior. This week she had not 1, but 2 books come out and considering that was news to me, I choked on doing the intro, letting my manager take the lead instead.

My prep was set for one book, not both, and in all these things I’ve witnessed to date, my contribution was a joke. I hadn’t read the books and winging it felt like a poor plan for success. So when the out was given, I grabbed it. Happily downgrading myself to co-host, tackling the backend of the event. I transitioned the post presentation with a generous thanks for everyone in attendance, gave the signing-line instruction, and paused for applause while the author gets settled in. I stayed on as liaison on-site until the last guest left for the night.

Maybe I didn’t nail it this time but that’s fine. I work on a team that sometimes clicks into routine like family. It’s comforting especially when going in dark. My team caught me, took the lead, lit up our literary guest and didn’t fault me for still being a rookie in this game.

©B. Butler, 2024. All rights reserved.

I have 2 business days off a week and I try to utilize every free second on those days to focus on catchup and prep; same as every other mother I know who tells me so… followed up by a sigh, and then usually some sentiment like “it could be worse” or “I’m not complaining though…”

But it’s okay to complain.

It’s great to feel irate with all the clutter and minutiae littering every fucking surface of your house! If it bungles up the headspace and makes you feel crazed – go ahead and complain your goddamn brains out. It’s empowering to feel like you’re the only person who gets it sometimes, because saying so out loud helps a sane person make sense of why certain things bother them. It helps them gage the crowd listening, and recognize their parts in their own problem.

Now, I already know NOT everyone will agree with my rationale on how to deal with what irks them most in their lives here.

I’m well-acquainted with people that don’t seek resolutions for reasons I can’t exactly fathom but that’s their chosen cross to bear. Their complaints become like little pets; they keep them well-fed, let them outside to do their business wherever feels like the right spot, then bag their waste up, and carry their shit right back home again. But I DON’T OWN PETS.

That I bore of woe is me pretty easily, even in my own company.

Mostly I think that if complaints are aimed at the right listener and with purpose, many times solutions will start rolling out. I, myself, am an audience of avid problem-solvers. Signal me to strike and I start knuckling up. Unless you want to walk your complaints down the line, then that’s fine with me too. I can be a pretty good catcher of vented frustrations and compactor of trash-talk.

But I confess, I’m NOT a good hang to people who can’t pick a lane with their complaints.

Experience has shown me that I’ve got a low tolerance for being uncomfortable and my tendency to say no to doing things or putting up with excess stressors isn’t trending upward as I hoped it would be by this age. Or maybe my temperament is just becoming as boring and bland as my diet?

I can’t know what others think of me for sure but I know there’s been some conversational shuffling lately and I’ve been cut. And what’s worse is I know I’m to blame for that, but not sure how to feel about my role in that fact. Where does one even go from here? I guess I can’t know unless I ask, but how does one even do that? And what good comes from knowing the truth when the truth is I can’t hack it when it comes to hating-on most things long-term?

I don’t preach forgive and forget. More like just live, spit it out, and fuhgeddaboudit.

If I was to complain about my day today it wouldn’t be anything but all the usual – catching up with my fam’s stuff and prepping for what next. Yet here I’ve found myself submitting this written complaint about the complaints I’ve encountered lately.

I guess “Hypocritical and Kinda Lame” is a better name for my slice tonight. Unless someone has a fresher spin I can take into consideration. I’m definitely open to riffing something better than this written stream of consciousness tonight.

©B. Butler, 2024. All rights reserved.