I called a cab to pick me up at 12:30 to take me to the San Francisco Art Institute, the site of Jim’s memorial celebration. The cabbie didn’t exactly know where it was, so I guided him there, and we got there with several minutes to spare. There were signs clearly marking the pathway through the gallery-like corridors to the auditorium, where just about every LiveJournal and Bear community “luminary,” co-workers from current and past jobs, his kind family members and other friends were in attendance. The place practically looked like the lobby of a bear event hotel, but everyone was happy, yet an air of sobriety and grief filled the energy of the space. I’m sure someone much better at it than I will be able to list who was in attendance.
I took a seat and silently waited for the celebration to start, generally non-verbally greeting new arrivals, or with as few words as possible; a touch on the arm, a squeeze of a hand. Words seemed unnecessary to me, but conversation was flowing freely and softly among others, as friends greeted friends, recent and long-lost. So many people knew and loved Jim; so many mourned his passing.
Finally, 
Jack (qbear) took the podium and started the ceremony. He served most ably as the Master of Ceremonies, with a short eulogy of his own, with readings from Jim’s LiveJournal and will, and introducing each speaker in their own turn. Each speaker talked about an aspect of Jim’s complex life with grace and eloquence, there was nary a dry eye in the place, and the room was filled with laughter many times as each of the eulogists spoke about Jim as son, traveler, citizen, fellow employee, pop culture afficianado, and husband. The Whoa Nellies performed two songs, and a traditionally clad bagpiper played two songs. There were slide shows projected onto the large screen behind and to the left of the speakers – one accompanied Jim’s father with photos of Jim’s sonhood, and others which chronicled his travels set to music. When Ray came down from the back of the auditorium to say his peace, the room was filled with tears and tight throats. The piper lead everyone over to the cafeteria for the wake.
The cafeteria at SFAI is perched atop the building with a panoramic view from the Golden Gate to the Bay Bridge. Inside the largish room there was memorabilia from Jim’s life set up on tables and easels. The spread of refreshments were some of his favorite foods, which had a “white trash” bent to them: balogna, pickles, and miracle whip on white bread sandwiches, Velveeta and bacon on toast sandwiches, homemade nachos, a huge plate of bacon(!), a large tray of mashed potatoes, a giant pot of baked beans (or maybe chili?), as well as some snacks from Costco: cream puffs, jalapeños poppers, cheese sticks, and a whole boatload of Krispy Kreme donuts. Jim wasn’t exactly a gourmand, eh?
The mood was considerably lighter, though, and the food and conversation flowed freely. I walked around with the tray of cream puffs, serving them to whomever wanted one, and got a chance to briefly say hello to pretty much everyone there. I also got to meet some fellow-LJers, and some more detailed conversations with a few people. Isn’t that always the way at events like that?
Eventually, though, it was time to go, and Victor and Mel were kind enough to offer me a ride to the Lone Star, where they dropped me off on their way to taking Peter and Mark home, and themselves as well. In the Lone Star, I went out onto the patio, where several of the mourners were having a cocktail to Jim’s memory.
Three Jack and Cokes later and it was time to head home. The walk home in the stormy evening was drunken yet happy. Thank you, Jim, for your friendship and kindness. I appreciate that you let me into your amazing life, even the little part of your life that I was. Thank you.
P.S. Oh, Yeah, I have just about all of the memorial service on video! I’ll be stitching it together tonight, and posting it for everyone to share. My camera only captures 3 minutes at a time, so there will be a few dropped words here and there, but I think it’ll be alright.
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