Marty Pasko (1954-2020)

I’m going to tell you the funniest joke Marty Pasko ever told me, but before I do that, I’m going to tell you about Marty.

. . .

Marty and I served in the animation trenches.

It was my honor and delight to work with him on such shows as Thundarr The Barbarian and G.I. Joe.

We were competitors, but competitors in the good sense, the way the original EC comics bullpen were competitors:  Frank Frazetta would deliver his pages and Wally Wood would nod sagely and aim a bit higher with his next story and Bernie Krigstein would just sit there and smile and say, “Fellas, lemme show you how it’s done…”

It wouldn’t be unfair to characterize Marty as a bit fussy and very detail oriented in his scripts.  The late John Dorman, then head of Ruby-Spears’ storyboard department, frequently complained to me that Marty would send him scripts with “excruciating detail, including the make and model of a doorknob in the background, along with where it was manufactured and when it was sold!”

But y’know, better to get more than you needed than not enough, right?  As detailed as Martty’s scripts were, he never had the storyboard department screaming curses at his name (which did happen with another here-to-be-nameless RS scribe; I’ll tell you that story some other time).

Marty’s work felt rich and compelling.  You got your money’s worth from him, and I was happy to hire him and work with him on G.I. Joe.

We stayed in touch on and off after that, frequently exchanging Facebook messages and opinions, but in recent years only rarely seeing each other face to face.

We all belong to birth cohorts, people who fall within the same few years of age range, and as our cohort grows older, more and more members find their way home.

It’s a sad and lonely experience when it happens, especially with someone like Marty, who was intellectually so lively and could contribute so much.

Marty’s death shocked me the way few others have.  When I’ve lost family, it almost always came after some intimation that the end was near, and we could brace ourselves for its inevitable arrival.  And with other members of our cohort who preceded us, there were pressing health problems that signaled the end was not unexpected.

But while Marty acknowledged health problems, they never seemed like something that would claim him soon.  We kind of thought he’d always be there, and it saddens us we thought wrong.

. . .

So here’s Marty’s funniest joke.

Other people tell this joke, and tell it well, but nobody ever did it as perfectly as Marty did.

I’m sorry I don’t have a recording to play for you.  You had to hear Marty’s flawless inflection, precise timing, impeccable delivery to understand why every time he told it, people would howl with laughter and clutch their sides as they doubled over with hilarity.

I can scarce do it justice;
you had to be there.

. . .

They’re shooting a big historical epic out in the desert, and they run into script problems.

The producer tells the writer to get in a jeep with him, they’ll drive around in the desert for a few hours, hash out the problem, then come back and the writer can do a rewrite.

So they hop in and drive off.

But the producer is careless and doesn’t pay attention to where they’re going and pretty soon not only gets lost but breaks the jeep’s axle on a rock.

These are the days before cell phones, and since nobody knows where they’ve gone, the producer and writer’s only option is to try to find their way back to the movie location.

They start walking under the blazing sun, and soon they become even more hopelessly lost.  Dehydrated and almost delirious, they stumble along until they crest a dune and see what can only be described as a miracle.

There, on the other side of the dune, is a trough filled with some sort of liquid.

They rush down, fearing this will prove to be a cruel desert mirage, but to their surprise it’s real, it’s solid.

There, in the middle of the vast, hot, trackless desert, sits a big metal trough filled with cling peaches in heavy syrup, cling peaches so cold that water condenses on the side of the trough and runs down into the sand.

Weeping with joy at their incredible good fortune, the writer gets on his knees and scoops up a double handful of peaches and syrup.

But before he can eat, the producer unzips his fly and say, “Wait, let me piss in it to make it better.”

. . .

Marty, forgive me for not doing your joke justice.  RIP

© Buzz Dixon