Jeff Stratton

Writer, editor, publisher, music curator and wonderful human being – via hondurasnews.com.

First of all -- this is a eulogy, not an obituary. An obituarist gathers details about someone’s life; a eulogist gets to praise the departed. I am faced with the loss of a kindred spirit. As such, I am not willing to rack up and organize the mundane details. I just want to tell you how much I loved Jeff Stratton.

I like to think that Jeff would be the first to say that this is bullshit. To die, suddenly and unexpectedly, at the age of 47, leaving behind a young child and a beloved partner, is ridiculous. To leave the world abruptly in the middle of so many worthwhile projects is shocking. In fact, it’s downright rude. I imagine that as he gets to wherever he is going, he will want to talk to whoever is in charge. I hope they have some answers for him.

When I walked into the offices of a small independent newspaper in Boulder, Colorado in 1994, ready to leave the comedy world and step into a life in journalism, Jeff was occupying the cubicle in the upstairs back corner. His desk was littered with CDs, piles of papers and a host of strange little tchotchkes that are routinely sent by the music industry to music editors in an effort to flog their product. He welcomed me immediately, without hesitation.

Our friendship was cemented by a mutual love of music, mockery, moonshine and something else that starts with m. Night after night, we would venture around the back of the building to a magical place we liked to call Hooter Alley, where laughter was shared with the rest of our similarly-minded bunch (Mr. Pants, Cat Spacey, a shout-out to you!).

His cheerful, chirping voice; his sparkling eyes; and the mischievous look on his face as if he was always about to say the funniest thing imaginable, which he was, led me to dub him Skippy. In deference to my seniority, he dubbed me Uncle B.

As with most small, independent enterprises, the money was tight, the deadlines were harrowing, and the management was psychotic. Somehow, Skippy got me through each week. Our paychecks had a nasty habit of being utterly worthless. One Friday, we all piled en masse into my car, drove to the institution they were written on, and cashed them, singing together (to the tune of “My Boyfriend’s Back”), “The landlord said he’s gonna throw out my belongings/Hey, Lon, Hey, Lon/My paycheck bounced!/I am living on uncooked blocks of Ramen/Hey, Lon, Hey, Lon/My paycheck bounced!”

Our taste in music was pretty divergent. I was into jazz and opera; he wouldn’t or couldn’t stop playing Nick Drake. However, we came together in our appreciation for Nick Cave, Ween and Lee Perry. And he did turn me on to Jesus Lizard. His welcoming mind was open to all kinds of music . . . except bluegrass, a particular love of mine that he would mock incessantly by miming a mandolin and calling out, “Plinkety, plinkety, plink!”

Even after we both escaped that publication, we hung out. Lots of good times were spent at his creaky little rental house at 7^th and Lipan, and later at his nice vintage starter home on Denver’s west side. He moved to Florida, and I stopped by down there as well. In each and every house of his, the CDs were shelved from floor to ceiling. In each, he was a jovial, talkative, funny, inclusive host.

And he could write. Boy, could he write. His writing was a model of clarity and forthrightness. He knew what he thought, and he could state it plainly and eloquently, and he could write it quickly. An editor’s dream. After years of writing about music, he moved into “straight” journalism, and won awards for his work there as well. He was a consummate journalist.

Finally, he moved beyond my reach to Roatan, off the coast of Honduras. Although I never got down there, we traded jokes and comments electronically. Not nearly as satisfying. He claimed to have turned his back on journalism. He taught English. He met Deirdra. He started podcasting as Duke Dubuque, unable to resist sharing his musical enthusiasms and knowledge, to everyone’s benefit. He and Deirdra had Cooper, a wonderful little kid who doesn’t deserve not to have his dad around.

In the end, Skippy couldn’t resist the urge to communicate, to inform, to share. Jeff had just started his own independent publication, the first his island home had ever seen. I jokingly referred to him as the Charles Foster Kane of Treasure Island, and imagined him chastising his workers as he swung through the office on a liana, cutlass clenched between his little teeth. Up to the end, he was making good things happen.

I am confused as to how he met his end. One report says complications from a stomach ulcer. Another says a heart attack. It doesn’t matter all that much, really. The important thing is that he has left the building.

Selfishly, I want him back. In my life, the people who really get me, who share my warped sense of humor, my wildly inappropriate way of looking at things, who I can feel absolutely and unequivocally able to be myself with, are extremely rare. Almost extinct. Jeff was one of those people. I could not see him for a year, then step into a room with him and pick up precisely where we’d left off.

The fact that so many other people have said the same thing in recent days shows you what kind of person he was. Everyone felt special, felt appreciated, felt heard in his presence. It’s a kind of inclusiveness of spirit, an essential friendliness, which I can only aspire to emulate imperfectly at best. He taught me a lot about how to live life and treat people.

I don’t know, don’t care and don’t want to speculate about why people die when they do or what comes after. That is not in my pay grade. All that can matter to me is what happens here in the scope of this time and space, this reality. Jeff Stratton got to tell his truths, love his loves, and share himself with a vast array of humanity. That’s good enough for me. Good job, Skippy.

UPDATE: 12/23/11 -- Here is a wonderful video tribute from Jeff's friend, Ej Q'aniluno --