What can I say about Michael, who I loved like a brother? For about the last 20 years, I would always ask Michael what the theme for the year would be. I told him it was like consulting the Oracle at Delphi. He always came up with something kinda sincere and kinda ridiculous. One year it was "Movement Without Thought" and another year it was "Clarity of Vision" etc. etc. I think Y2K was "Wholeness," and when I told Julie she responded "Is that 'Holeness' with an 'H'?"
We were living in Houston, and Michael came over from Austin to attend a lawyer's conference in town. They put him up in a swank hotel near the Galleria, a highrise with balconies. It was a sweltering night in July, and when we drove up Julie and I looked at each other and gasped "Oh my GOD" in unison. There, on one of the upper floors, the guest had opened the door onto the balcony and dragged everything but the dresser and bed onto the balcony, backlit by the interior lights. We could hear a boombox blaring all the way down on the ground as we got out of the car.
It was Michael's room, of course.
A lot of folks came to visit Julie when she got ill. Our helper, a middle-aged black lady named Gertrude Freeman, met them all. When I asked her who was the biggest character, she immediately responded "Michael! I never met ANYONE like THAT man!" That's true of everyone who knew him.
Michael was a warrior in the best sense of the word: brilliant and fearless, compassionate and perceptive, big-hearted and hilarious. Every day with him was an exhausting adventure. I'd get up in the morning when he visited and pour myself a cip of coffee. He'd fix me with those piecing eyes and the first words out of his mouth were "So what do you think of the Hegelian dialectic?" That was Michael.
-- Tom McCourt