Miss OoLaLa

To a lot of people, he was Mike McFarland—the actor, director, and so much more. To me, he was just “Miiiiiiichael.”

I’ve been struggling to write this for days, because writing it is the moment it becomes real. There are no words big enough for how grateful I am to have had him in my life.

I met Mike 21 years ago by accident while watching a friend’s booth at a convention. I didn’t know who he was. Eventually, he became someone incredibly important to me.

He was 13 years older than I was, absurdly talented and accomplished, yet one of the most humble people I’ve ever known. It wasn’t until years later, when we reconnected, that I fully understood how much he had valued me.

Mike loved Doc Martens, Sisters of Mercy, goth clubs, travel, unique food, and making people laugh. He sang and played guitar, had a beautiful voice, and was one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. He changed the trajectory of my life, too. He introduced me to media-related work, and that eventually led me to radio.

Before his prognosis, I dropped everything and drove from Lafayette to Grand Prairie because I wanted time with the version of him I knew, just in case. We ate gumbo, walked Irving Mall, and later sat on his couch watching one of his favorite movies. I cried and hugged him. He said, “We don’t even know what it is yet.” But it felt like I was saying goodbye to that version of him.

Shortly before Christmas, I got to bring him my gumbo one last time and celebrate his last Christmas with him.

There are so many things I’ll miss that no biography could hold: his laugh, the weird high-pitched sounds he made, the way he loved people with his whole heart, the tiny inside jokes, the ordinary moments that suddenly aren’t ordinary anymore.

Mike is in songs, food, old photos, Dallas streets, parts of my career, a pair of Doc Martens, a bowl of gumbo, and a Sisters of Mercy song coming on at exactly the wrong moment.

Or maybe the right one.

I hated what this illness did to him, and I’m relieved he isn’t suffering anymore. I still keep wishing for one more moment, even though I got to tell him everything I wanted to say.

Rest in peace, my sweet friend. I love you. I’ll miss you.