When word spread last week that actor, director, and playwright Michael Martin had died unexpectedly on April 26 at age 63, several of the posts on his Facebook wall expressed the same sentiment.
In fact, the number of strangers mourning the onetime Chicagoan’s death appeared to outnumber those of us who actually knew him (full disclosure: Martin and I had been friends for almost 25 years).
Martin went on to found his own storefront theater company, Great Beast, as well as writing, producing, and acting in multiple productions during his time in Chicago. His work often drew critical acclaim (including positive reviews in the Reader), but he continued to hold down an office job as a paralegal at a small law firm during the day.
Despite the mugging, the couple moved to New Orleans in 2002, and Martin eventually acquired another satchel to hold all his scripts. He always had something in the works—usually multiple projects. A wry Facebook post from a few weeks ago captured his ambition and optimism perfectly: “It’s utterly charming, isn’t it, how I just keep making schedules I can’t possibly keep and setting goals I’ll never achieve? I think so, yes I do.”
“Why do I feel guilty when I have nothing amusing to report?” he posted.
“I’d like to see rending of garments and convulsing and gnashing of teeth,” he wrote. “Dead plants thrown in the air. Feral cats running around. Children hiding in fear. Savage looting of my huge stockpile of worldly goods. Fire everywhere. If someone can do a GoFundMe, please hire professional wailers.”
