A Toast to Dave Mullineux
Most everyone I know and remember well is on Facebook now, from my elementary-school best friend to a new singing partner, so much so that the exceptions really are exceptions.
From time to time I've wondered whether Dave Mullineux, the most entertaining co-worker I have ever had, was registered on there. If he were, we wouldn't have any mutual friends; we worked together, but I don't think he ever met anyone I knew. I googled and found his obituary tonight, pasted below; sad of course, but reading it gave me a sense of the full life he led.
I lived in Seattle for a year when I was 19 and 20. Followed some friends who had just graduated from college out there, at a time when I wanted to just have a job and pay rent and live life rather than be in school. Someone had a sister who worked at the Seattle Post-Intelligencer for $9.50 an hour, which sounded like a lot then, summer of 1990. And so I went out there.
I had done some temp work in Minnesota at a student-loan guarantor, and found a job out there in the same industry. Clerical work, managing paperwork, typing on an actual typewriter.
Dave was a claims analyst, claims manager, something like that. 24 years old, from England, he had been one of the top 100 darts players in the U.S. The trouble was, and he said that this was true of all the top darts players, that drinking relaxed his muscles enough to throw precisely, so when he stopped drinking he couldn't compete anymore. He also had been married and divorced by the time I met him, married long enough for him to have a green card, at least.
So he was in a rough spot, or getting out of one. But he was one of the funniest people I had ever met. Half of it was the accent, half of it was him. He took some kind of metal plate out of a filing cabinet one morning and played it like a didgeridoo, singing a song that went something like "Tie me kangaroo down, boys" and then would sing it again for anyone walking through the office. We were near Puget Sound, on the fifth floor of an early 20th century office building, and gulls would land on the window sill, and Dave would name the gulls after the odd names in the loan files he was processing. The one I remember was Hectamarie S. [something].
It wasn't just the accent, it was his timing and character. Lunchtime: "Eric, I feel like a little wonton soup." Funny, with his accent. Or, one day, he was at his desk with a paper clip elongated into a straight metal line, sticking in his ear. "Eric?" he said. "Do you know what the three great pleasures in life are? Orgasm. Sneezing. And this."
"Eric? Do you know that I have been from Phoenix, Arizoner, all the way to Tacomer?"
And one day, with relish, as he was getting ready or a visit back to England: "Eric. I'm leaving on a plain jet, don't know when I'll be back yet."
He was excited to read that Phil Collins was playing at the Tacomadome, in nearby Tacoma, and convinced me and two other co-workers to go. During a few minutes of distorted guitar noise, that would eventually lead into "In The Air Tonight", he said something like, "This isn't music. This is art or something."
Anyway, soon enough I left Seattle and went back to the midwest to finish college, and since e-mail and Facebook and all didn't exist, we lost touch. But he is still one of the most entertaining people I've ever known, and whenever I make a joke with a British accent, it's Dave who I'm imitating.
He came up in a phone conversation tonight, so I thought to google him. I found his obituary from last year; apparently he died from a fall. But I also found the columns that he wrote for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer (I'll paste one below). I love knowing that he wrote and published, since he did nothing of the kind at the time. And I love knowing that he found some grounding and happiness since the time I knew him. Salut, Dave M.
Obituary:
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/314719_obitmullineux09.html
One of his columns:
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/opinion/208889_firstpersongiving.html
From time to time I've wondered whether Dave Mullineux, the most entertaining co-worker I have ever had, was registered on there. If he were, we wouldn't have any mutual friends; we worked together, but I don't think he ever met anyone I knew. I googled and found his obituary tonight, pasted below; sad of course, but reading it gave me a sense of the full life he led.
I lived in Seattle for a year when I was 19 and 20. Followed some friends who had just graduated from college out there, at a time when I wanted to just have a job and pay rent and live life rather than be in school. Someone had a sister who worked at the Seattle Post-Intelligencer for $9.50 an hour, which sounded like a lot then, summer of 1990. And so I went out there.
I had done some temp work in Minnesota at a student-loan guarantor, and found a job out there in the same industry. Clerical work, managing paperwork, typing on an actual typewriter.
Dave was a claims analyst, claims manager, something like that. 24 years old, from England, he had been one of the top 100 darts players in the U.S. The trouble was, and he said that this was true of all the top darts players, that drinking relaxed his muscles enough to throw precisely, so when he stopped drinking he couldn't compete anymore. He also had been married and divorced by the time I met him, married long enough for him to have a green card, at least.
So he was in a rough spot, or getting out of one. But he was one of the funniest people I had ever met. Half of it was the accent, half of it was him. He took some kind of metal plate out of a filing cabinet one morning and played it like a didgeridoo, singing a song that went something like "Tie me kangaroo down, boys" and then would sing it again for anyone walking through the office. We were near Puget Sound, on the fifth floor of an early 20th century office building, and gulls would land on the window sill, and Dave would name the gulls after the odd names in the loan files he was processing. The one I remember was Hectamarie S. [something].
It wasn't just the accent, it was his timing and character. Lunchtime: "Eric, I feel like a little wonton soup." Funny, with his accent. Or, one day, he was at his desk with a paper clip elongated into a straight metal line, sticking in his ear. "Eric?" he said. "Do you know what the three great pleasures in life are? Orgasm. Sneezing. And this."
"Eric? Do you know that I have been from Phoenix, Arizoner, all the way to Tacomer?"
And one day, with relish, as he was getting ready or a visit back to England: "Eric. I'm leaving on a plain jet, don't know when I'll be back yet."
He was excited to read that Phil Collins was playing at the Tacomadome, in nearby Tacoma, and convinced me and two other co-workers to go. During a few minutes of distorted guitar noise, that would eventually lead into "In The Air Tonight", he said something like, "This isn't music. This is art or something."
Anyway, soon enough I left Seattle and went back to the midwest to finish college, and since e-mail and Facebook and all didn't exist, we lost touch. But he is still one of the most entertaining people I've ever known, and whenever I make a joke with a British accent, it's Dave who I'm imitating.
He came up in a phone conversation tonight, so I thought to google him. I found his obituary from last year; apparently he died from a fall. But I also found the columns that he wrote for the Seattle Post-Intelligencer (I'll paste one below). I love knowing that he wrote and published, since he did nothing of the kind at the time. And I love knowing that he found some grounding and happiness since the time I knew him. Salut, Dave M.
Obituary:
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/local/314719_obitmullineux09.html
One of his columns:
http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/opinion/208889_firstpersongiving.html