From the memorial service...

One of the things I love best about Leslie is he’d be the first to make fun of all the nicey-nice things we tend to say about the deceased at funerals. He’d say something like, “No, fuck, life is full of pain, suffering, and absurdity, and then you DIE!” Then he’d burst out laughing.

I got to know Leslie in the early 1980’s and saw him regularly for the next 15 years. I was living with Fernando, and the philosophy reading groups usually met at the house we built in Magnolia. As many of you know, I was not an actual member of the group, not a colleague, don’t know much about Leslie as a teacher and only a little about him as a philosopher, which I picked up mainly by osmosis, by listening to a lot of high-powered intellectual discussions in the background. And having many great conversations with the group members over bread and cheese after the readings finished. Actually, I do know something about his philosophical views, since he paid me to type his doctoral dissertation. One of the many interesting things about the brilliant Dr. Marenchin is that he was computer illiterate until very very recently. I moved to the west coast in 1995, but I’ve tried to keep in touch with Leslie, probably not as well as I should. Still, I consider him one of my best and oldest friends.

Right now we’re all trying to absorb the fact that Leslie died unexpectedly, and way too young. So for the moment we tend to let the extreme sadness of this event marginalize all the happy memories we shared with him. Which I think is a mistake.

20 years from now (if I’m still alive!), what will I remember about Leslie? Will I remember that he was unlucky in love? Will I remember that he died too young? Will I remember that he had his share of disappointments and unhappiness? Maybe, but what I hope what I’ll remember is his crazy raucous laughter, his lightening-quick wit, his filthy, demented, Rabelaisian humor. He could be uproarious. And fun to be around! If he was your friend he could get away, most of the time, with calling you all sorts of insulting names, and you didn’t mind; you’d just laugh.

Leslie was part of our yearly Thanksgiving celebrations, and some years, after we’d all eaten and drunk way too much, Leslie would get on a roll and start cracking his jokes, and soon I’d be literally weeping with laughter.....

Those are some of the best memories of my entire life, and Leslie was a big part of them.

He had probably more than his share of bitterness and tragedy. What I think kept him going was his sense of humor. But to describe what Leslie had as a “sense of humor” is like saying that the Grand Canyon at sunrise is “really pretty”. To him laughter was an Extreme Sport, although I’m sure he would crack up at the idea of himself as any kind of Extreme Sportsman.

Freebird has set up a great blog (professormarenchin.blogspot.com) where there are a lot of insightful comments. I was reading some of them this morning, and the one that pretty much sums it up for me is from an old friend of his in Pennsylvania: “I can't tell you how many times I have about peed my pants from Leslie making me laugh. He was a master at the art of humor.”

As an Extreme Sportsman of Laughter, he would often exceed the limits of acceptability. He was also master of the faux pas. He could make comments in jest that were cutting, rude, and hurtful. I think most of his best and oldest friends have been the butt of his jokes at one time or another. But he rarely said things with true malice, and was diligent and sincere in his apologies. I think he sorely regretted his uncanny ability to put his foot in his mouth on many occasions, and that he could’ve filled a notebook with things he wished he hadn’t said. He was at heart a kind, empathetic, and caring man, and in the end that’s why his friends stayed his friends.

During the first couple of years I knew him, when I’d formed an image of Leslie as a cool, hang-loose guy, a bon vivant with an easy laugh, I had an experience that changed this image somewhat. Once we were at his apartment for some occasion. On the way to the bathroom, you had to pass through his bedroom past a chest of drawers. In retrospect I tell myself that I noticed this handsome piece of furniture and merely want to test how the drawers worked. Actually I was probably just snooping. I pulled out the top drawer half way. I froze in shock and amazement. Arrayed perfectly in flawless rows were his socks, each pair folded identically and exquisitely. They were even arranged by color. Although I know there’s nothing particularly wrong with being well-organized, I couldn’t help but thinking, oh, man, this guy is way more fucked up than I imagined! I silently closed the drawer and withdrew into the bathroom, where I contemplated this revelation of the inner workings of Leslie’s soul.

The last time I saw Leslie was this past summer. He was visiting Portland with a new woman friend. I met them at their fancy boutique hotel in downtown Portland. He was well dressed, looked healthy, and seemed radiantly happy with his new relationship. His life seemed on a good track. We went for drinks and dinner and had a great time. Much laughter. He wasn’t drinking much. When we parted he gave me a hug, and probably called me an asshole for not coming back to Houston more often.

That’s the last time I saw him, and I’ll remember him as a happy man.

-Steve Adams