Kerry O'Neill
Sep 7, 2018 · 4 min read

I feel compelled to write something about Burt’s passing. Burt was an amalgamation of what I strive to be in every way. He was candid, honest with himself, honest with others, discerning… A talent who worked with his friends as much as possible. A survivor who always picked himself up and dusted himself off and tried again. He wasn’t above anything, he was honest about the bad choices he made — the roles he didn’t accept, the money he squandered, the women he treated unfairly. Burt pushed the envelope and challenged himself time and time again. He figured it out. He always figured it out. And he was fucking funny, too. But he still died alone. And so will I.

Nobody knew what to do with me as a kid, certainly not my dad. My siblings were generations older than me, my mom wasn’t around, and my dad had to work. My grandma played the role of my mother, and at the time I thought that was fine but it wasn’t having a mom. It wasn’t the same as having a parent, you know, the real deal person who created you from their own DNA, the fruit of their loins or whatever. My dad was my chance at having a relationship with a parent and he was scared. He had never done it on his own before and would have preferred me be a boy. Not because he wanted to pass down some kind of generational love of sports or his last name, but because then the emotional distance would have felt okay. A man and his son could have an unspoken bond. But a man and his daughter, the one with all of the complicated emotions and existential questions? The daughter who’d writhe on the couch, convinced the world was going to end because she read a Nostradamus text at age 8? The daughter who refused to eat anything but cut up hot dogs and bologna sandwiches and who once threw up into a bowl of white rice just to prove a point? The daughter who wrote her first book in elementary school, the pages bound together with yellow yarn, and titled it“My Absent Mother”? It would have been easier not to connect, not to try.

At a pretty young age I realized I was smarter than most of my contemporaries because I had been through things, I had felt real pain. I couldn’t just go a sleepover, or to a birthday party with a bounce house. I was more sophisticated than that. And what that meant was that I had to stay home and loaf around the house in my own strange version of depression. I call it my own version because I was happily depressed. I have always been happily depressed. I love to march to the beat of my own drum… I’m even happy marching to the beat of my own drum. But the beat of my drum is sadness.

But I could only watch so many music videos before my brain began to melt. And my dad only had so much energy at the end of the day or on the weekend. And so it was Burt who brought us together. I remember watching Smokey and The Bandit on our old blue and white striped couch. Laughing at the same things my dad laughed at, watching him watch me cover my eyes and smile. It was thrilling to both like the movie, and to know that my dad liked that I liked the movie. And so my love affair with action movies began. They transported me out of the shittiness of everyday life, which I was an astute observer of as early as kindergarten; and made me feel like I was going on an adventure with my dad when we were right there on the couch — because I was. Burt was my first crush and explaining that to my dad made him both proud and scared — A feeling I hope I still give him.

I loved a lot of action stars. I loved a lot of character actors. I loved a lot of movies. But the thing about Burt was that he was so magnanimous, he felt like you could reach into the television and touch him right there. A friend told me a story last night about his aunt who came to Hollywood in the 70’s to be an actress. She didn’t quite make it, but all she ever talked about regarding her time here was how nice Burt was. How Burt helped her, what a great guy he was. I could feel that energy years and years later, just watching a movie. I had the chance to see Burt speak recently and it was really nice. He shot from the hip and didn’t bullshit anyone. He was dusting himself off yet again. What an amazing lesson in humility Burt was. And is.

He was so funny, he was sharp, he was handsome… He had it all. But he still died alone. How could Burt of all people have closed out his life alone without his true love or a room full of people? How can I expect anything more than what Burt got? I cried until I realized I’d be lucky to have a sliver of what Burt got to have, in this life and the next. Burt died alone and so will I. And so will all of us.

Thank you, Burt.

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