My friend, literary hero, and spiritual mentor, Jim Goad, has died. There is much going around the webs today, from eulogies to virtual grave-spitting. Personally, I am very sad to see him go. Despite his reputation, he was never a dick to me. I’m even sadder to say that his end came as no surprise. Jim’s life had gone into a tailspin over the last few years that was both frightening and depressing.
I am not going to get into all of the ugly details right now. But I will say that I sincerely believe that the world was a better place with Jim Goad walking in it. His was a totally unique voice that spoke to and attracted misfits of all ilks. Meeting another Goad reader in the wild was akin to a member of Fight Club covertly nodding after spotting that the waiter has a black eye. His humor, wit, insight, and shockingly tactless approach to life will never be duplicated. This is probably a good thing.
Many of Jim’s flaws are being publicly and unnecessarily celebrated in the wake of his demise. I say unnecessarily because Jim was more than eager to flaunt them himself, for all the world to see. Any criticisms of character that could be leveled at him, Jim was well aware of and had, most likely, obsessed over longer and more tediously than any of his detractors could ever find the time to do. His brain was so fine-tuned to the nature of his existence and its surroundings that it short-circuited somewhere along the way.
As time went on, our conversations became less friendly and almost clinical in their rapport. Jim opened up to me and laid things out in a manner so vulnerable, it was difficult to listen to. Hearing someone whom I had admired for my entire adult life slowly crumble in real time was a cold and helpless experience. I have never witnessed nor heard despair laid out so plainly and painfully, and I hope to never again. As anyone who knew Jim can vouch for, there was no possible way to give counsel or advice. These were not problem-solving discussions. I felt that the best I could do as a friend was to listen. He seemed to appreciate that, for a little while at least.
Ever the chipper optimist, I wish I could have done something— anything — to help. I wish that just a little of my hunky-dory sunshine had rubbed off on him. There were times that I wanted to shake him and scream and ask why be so hyper-logical about everything except your own mental well-being. I tried to remind him that he wasn’t alone. That he was far from it. There is no comfort in that he “went out on his own terms.” Nothing could be further from the truth. In my own opinion, he had so much more to give and not just in the literary world.
