“I think the rich sends poor people to war so they can dress them up in crisp, new uniforms so they can stand to look at them.”

Like most kids from divorced families, when I was little we would go stay at my dad’s house on the weekends. This house was drastically different than our mothers. Namely, his house was full of books stashed everywhere. Piles of magazines in the bathroom, Calvin & Hobbes collections on the coffee table and most importantly, to me, an entire collection of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. stashed in the cupboards on the headboard of his bed.

Because they seemed to be behind closed doors, unlike the other books lying around the house, I always felt like they were possibly dirty. They were maybe something I was too young to see or that he didn’t want us knowing he had. I would wait until he was working in the barn or elsewhere in the house and sneak in there to look at the covers for some indication of what was inside.

The covers haunted me forever, and later created the monster that is my book OCD. He had all of the covers from what looked like the same artist. Now I have the same obsession with good covers. I only buy a certain cover and then have to match the rest when I buy books in a series, like graphic novels and they have to relate the text inside perfectly. After years of scouring used book stores, all of my Vonnegut collection has these covers and I refuse to part with them even though many are falling apart. These covers just seemed to adequately show the harsh, funny, wry, sometimes dirty, satire contained in the pages that later in life I would come to love about Mr. Vonnegut.

Whenever anyone asks me who I like to read or if I have any suggestions, I always push Mr. Vonnegut. Ask theMan, I’ve been trying to get him to read “Welcome to the Monkeyhouse” for as long as I’ve known him. His books have just resonated with me and his laid back style of writing just hits home without ever being preachy or “better-than-you.” You can tell he comes from the Midwest where we like to stay modest but cynical.

So when I found out Mr. Vonnegut died, I kinda felt like my breath caught in my chest. There are some people you want in the world to stick around to hear what their take on things are, like Bill Hicks and Robert Anton Wilson. So I called Dad and left him the message that our poet was gone.

I think Dad really kept those books in that cupboard because they were his favorites and he kept them close to his bed to fall asleep too. Once I finally picked up “Cat’s Cradle” at his urging when I was probably 14 or 15, I got it. Now, I have to keep my Vonnegut books close to me as well.

So good-bye Sir. May you meet up with Kilgore Trout and continue to watch our crazy ways from wherever you are.