It is with great sadness that I read of Mr. Sloan's premature demise from an erstwhile reliable source, namely himself. I think it's only
proper to memorialize the passing of this tall man and his giant
webpage with a fitting song, a dirge as it were. With apologies to
Rodgers & Hammerstein, I have taken the liberty of calling the following humble lines "Pore Sam Is Daid":
(To be sung slowly in a hokey cowboy accent in a minor key)
Pore Sam is daid,
Pore Sam Sloan is daid,
All gather at his website now and mourn,
For there soon will come a day,
When they take the site away,
Including his collection of soft porn.
Pore Sam is daid,
Pore Sam Sloan is daid,
Another New York cabbie laid to rest,
Yes his meter's stopped a runnin',
And there's no longer the same fun in
RGCP and all the message boards he blessed.
(To be spoken in a country accent:)
And then the preacher'd get up and he'd say: "Folks, we are gather'd
here to bitch and moan of the passing of Brother Sloan, who drownded
hisself in a sea of briefs and writs." And then there'd be plenty
aweepin' and a wailin' from his many wimmin. And then he'd say: "Sam
was the most misunderstood man in Usenet Territory. People used to
think he was no-good cabbie driver and they called him a lyin'
Leko-slayer and a two-bit wimminizer."
(Hokey singing cowboy again.)
But the folks as rilly knowed him,
Knowed that 'neath the nuisance suits and other
mess,
Beat a heart so big it had its own address. (Own
address.)
(Speaking.)
Sam Sloan loved his fellow men,
He particulerly loved his fellow wimmin,
He loved Kayo from Japan and Honzagool from
Pakistan,
He had a kind of love-hate thang goin' with Grishkin
from Hong Kong,
But he treated them all as his betters, which he was
right!
(Cowboys singing in concert)
Pore Sam is dead,
Pore Sam Sloan is dead,
Just hear them lonesome g-pawns start to wail,
Folks at RGC are sad,
Cuz they useter treat him bad,
And didn't mean that he should rilly go to h***.
Pore Sam is dead,
"Out of service" lights his head,
He's drivin' that great taxi in the sky,
And the tourneys that he'd frequent,
Miss a presence piqued and piquant,
Cause pore Sammy's had to take his final bye.
(spoken softly, reverently)
Pore Sam. Pore Sam.
Because Mr. Sloan was kind enough to take my last musical effort ("The
Fast Train to Crossville", to the tune of the Monkees' "Last Train to
Clarksville") graciously, I have high hopes that he will view my poor
effort above with similar good humor. And perhaps he will even feel
some twinge of gratitude that I have decided to exclude my companion
song "I'm Back In My Taxi Again."
-Geof Strayer