I lost a buddy yesterday.
Don't think I need to speak to say,
I'm gonna miss him.
No words will grieve his memory,
When I saw him last, he looked at me,
And said, I'll see you again.
But he was gone
Gone by Monday.

The lines above are from a song that I wrote many years ago, titled "Gone by Monday." That verse was originally written for my good friend, Frank "Woody" Robison of Fillmore, a Combat Marine who served two tours in Vietnam.

Robison survived the hill fights and siege at Khe Sanh in 1968, only to succumb to Vietnam demons here at home barely more than 20 years later. Since then, that song has consoled me far too many times to remember. I've lived long enough to lose many buddies along the way.

Today is Monday.

Today, another buddy, John Paul Brophy, is gone. He of the mercurial smile, bluest eyes, positive attitude, lover of poetic words and meaningful song lyrics, astonished admirer of beautiful things great and small, especially colorful flowers, birds and honeybees. He of legendary Dead Goat Saloon fame, devotee of blues music—of nearly every musical genre and note for that matter—mentor and guide to a battery of Salt Lake City's artistic musicians, performers and promoters.

He was my friend, my family's friend, my mother's special friend (they tie for first place in best eyes ever) and this newspaper's friend. Few know, but we might not even be here today if not for him.

He was everyone's friend. He was a writer and editor on these pages since the earliest of our days. And yes, I'm gonna miss him.

The first verse of "Gone by Monday" pays homage to my lovable, adventurous, rescue dog, Zephyr—thusly named many years before the famous Zephyr Club opened on the corner of West Temple and 300 South.

I had a puppy long ago
All little boys need to know
That they can make a friend.
He went into the hills one day
To see the other side and stayed.
My Zephyr was gone like the wind.
He was gone,
Gone By Monday.

When I met John Paul in the 1980s, he had a side gig helping the Zephyr Club with its monthly newsletter. I believe it was called Downtown After Dark. It was a marketing partnership that merged the membership lists of three clubs into a single newsletter—the Zephyr, Nino's Private Club in the University Club building and, if memory serves, Cartoons Comedy Club in Arrow Press Square.

I already knew Brophy's byline from his music coverage at The Salt Lake Tribune. In no time, he was writing for this newspaper (then called Private Eye) under the pseudonym of J.P. Gabellini—a homage to both his birth lineage and as protection against the overlords at The Tribune who frowned down upon all other print media, even then.

I had recently returned from Chicago, where I'd fallen in love with blues music. John Paul would soon educate me that my love of the blues was but a single flower compared to his passionate bouquet of blues knowledge.

More than 35 years later—and despite the fact that John Paul can learn no more—I will never come close to the encyclopedic knowledge he had of music and musicians. Nor can I ever match his love and affection for every kind of musical note, especially those notes that are simply about living a good, honest life, not being overtly connected to a musical chord or riff at all. Life and music were the same symphony in John Paul's world.

He knew the characters, the lineages, the riffs, the words. He knew the blues. He knew roots rock. He knew folk and folk rock. He knew jazz. Heck, his brother was a good friend of Beatle George Harrison. He knew it all.

Years beyond our first meeting, it was barely a surprise to me that he would become owner of the Dead Goat Saloon and fire-forge it into one of the most notable music clubs in the country. National blues artist Carolyn Wonderland would even sing about it. Local musicians like "Bad" Brad Wheeler will forever wax poetic about his life and mentorship as well.

I've been asked what my most memorable image of John Paul is. It is this: He randomly called one day to see if I was home. I said sure, come over.

He didn't knock, but his truck was outside. I went to the side yard, where John Paul was on his knees digging the hole into which he would plant a small pine tree. If you knew John Paul, and the physicalities he never complained about, you know what I was thinking then and now: I am simply not that good.

In an email announcing his departure just last Tuesday, he quoted liberally from several notable movies with famous characters speaking lines about their impending death. Upon reading it I called him and said, "Well that was a rosy way to greet the day!" He laughed, as I knew he would.

I told him I could see him plainly—his sparkling eyes, his smile and his gaze out the kitchen window, past the beautiful flowers on his kitchen table placed by his adoring daughter, Rachael, into the backyard so carefully kept by his wife Wendy, who died herself only last year.

He told me he wouldn't make it to the day when Wendy's honeybees re-emerge. He did not.

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