Michael’s Celebration of Life 
We gathered at our little church on July 30,, 2013, to celebrate Michael’s life, to honor him, remember him, tell stories about him, and to wish him well on his new journey. The sanctuary could not begin to hold all of the people that showed up, so over half had to stand outside and listen to the service over the speakers set up for that purpose. I estimate over 400 people came from all of the circles Michael’s life had touched. So many more didn’t even learn of his death until after his memorial.
We laughed, and we cried. We prayed, and we listened, and we held each other. I was surrounded by so much love and tender caring. Sitting between my two sons, Troy and John, breathing in the beauty of the flowers and photos, and seeing Michael’s beloved bandoneon on the altar, hearing his singing in the background, I accessed a strength within myself that came from knowing that the bonds of love can never be broken. Sadness and joy, pain and peace, hugging and being hugged—I let it all in.
Michael sang at his own memorial. Stu directed the sound, and as people were gathering, he played the Broadway standards that he and Michael had recorded together. During the service there were more songs performed by Michael, one of which was “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Cousin Kurt wove together slideshow of photos with five songs from Michael’s recordings, the final one being “When Angels Whisper.” This was a collaborative where Stu wrote the tune, and Michael wrote the lyrics afterwards, not knowing that the tune was inspired by the passing of Stu’s niece.
What follows is a blend of stories about Michael collected from family, friends, postings on Facebook, letters, and from some of those who spoke at his service. I am so blessed to be able to share from such a rich treasury.
I also want to acknowledge my friend Darlene who handled all of the arrangements for Michael’s celebration of life. And his cousin Kurt who worked tirelessly by my side to create a music video and get canvas photos created. All of this was done in less than four days. Kurt and Michael were like brothers and spent hours creating music together.
Michael as a child
I believe that the most important thing for children to know is that they are loved no matter what, and that they have unique gifts to share. This was a guiding principle for me as a parent. Michael knew he was loved from the beginning. He was our prince, our youngest, our baby, and the one that tended towards worrying about things that most kids aren’t even noticing.
He woke me up one night at age 12, in the middle of the night, to tell me that he and his friend had sneaked out to meet someone at the park and try smoking. He was also distressed that he had lied to me. When I had questioned him about his alarm being set for midnight instead of 5 a.m for his paper route, he told me it was so he could make a request on the radio. This wasn’t true, and the fact that he had to awaken me, because his conscience couldn’t handle lying, was forever imprinted upon me. He couldn’t stand deceit in any form.
Fear could certainly get a grip on him—fear that something had happened to me, or his dad, or his grandmother. When he was little, he worried about leeches in the river. Then he was concerned about heart attacks. When he was still in preschool, if he took a nap, and awoke no one in the house, even though we were right outside in the yard, he would be alarmed and in tears. As he got older, he worried about the planet. He felt concerned that humanity was wasting energy, and we were destroying our home. He feared that we would never learn to stop creating wars. He wrote songs about some of his fears. I’m not sure he ever felt completely secure except in our family home—the home he grew up in from infancy.
Most kids cannot wait until they are old enough to leave home. Not Michael. He did not like the idea of leaving home. I remember when his brothers had both moved out. He was only 10, and he noticed that they would come home with bags full of dirty laundry, and head straight for the refrigerator, because they were starving. He asked me if he was going to have to leave when he was 18. I could tell he didn’t want “yes” to be my answer.
However, when it came to making people laugh and entertaining, fear had to take a back seat. When he was on stage, he was fear’s master. He had his first taste of watching live theater when his brother John was in a sixth-grade play. We were sitting up close, and Michael was in my lap so he could see over the heads in front. His five-year-old imagination was captivated, fixed on watching not only his brother, but friends of his brothers that he knew really well.
He turned to me in the middle of the performance and declared, “I’m going to turn into that when I grow up.” And he did. Watching Michael perform would light me up with a glow from within that is hard for me to describe. People would comment to me that they could just see how much I loved him by watching my face beam with joy. And it was so true. I loved every moment. He was so generous with his time and played for many a gathering of my friends at home, or at fundraisers that I would volunteer him for.
Stories from his older brothers 
Big brother Troy is ten years older, and John is six and one-half years older than Michael. Having been the baby brother for so many years, John was especially excited about becoming a big brother himself and having a baby brother to watch over. From the moment Michael arrived, whenever John would hear him crying or even starting to fuss, he would immediately run to find me. This was before the days of baby monitors, which allow you to listen in from a distance. John was my monitor, and a very dedicated one.
I remember the time he didn’t run to find me and took things into his own hands. I don’t know how John even got Michael out of the crib, but he managed to do so. Michael was probably three or four months old, and I thought he was sleeping. We were visiting with friends on the outside patio deck of our home, late afternoon, windows open, and I didn’t hear Michael wake up from his nap. Next thing I know, I see John coming through the door, holding onto Michael like a rag doll, very concerned that he had been crying, and no one was paying attention. No harm done to Michael, and a lesson learned. I look at family photos, and if John was in them, you can bet Michael was stuck to him like Velcro. They were quite the team.
From John
Here is a letter from John to Michael, written within hours of learning of his death. He read it at Michael’s service and gave me permission to share it.
“My Little Brother. I’m devastated you’re gone. When you were born, I dialed the phone to each of my friends’ homes to announce your arrival. I was so proud. Not long after, I taught you to say bad words on cue just to entertain them. When you told me at age four of something you’d done that I could not understand and did not approve of, I tried to convince you that you were both retarded and adopted. I hurt you and probably scarred you with this.
From a young age you loved to sing, and I would tell you “stop, you’re annoying”. But we grew up together, and played, and loved each other as brothers are supposed to. Some of my best memories are from days when we would challenge each other’s skills at skateboarding or guitar playing—in both activities you quickly surpassed me. We’d listen to our shared favorite bands, and see them in concert together. Everywhere we went people commented on how much we looked alike. The girls always found you funny and cute, and I was proud to show you off to them.
We watched our parents split apart, and I know this was especially hard for you. Regrettably, in adulthood, you and I also did grow apart some. I always wanted more for you, Mike. I wanted you to conform to the world and give up your dreams of becoming a professional musician—or at least make them secondary to a more stable and promising career. I’d tell people “Yeah, I guess he’s a very good, professionally trained singer, but I mostly just still hear my annoying little brother.”
You were painstakingly devoted to your craft. You were amazingly hardworking and dedicated to mastering your musical instruments and writing songs and music. You were a renaissance man. You blazed your own artistic trail. You never attained the recognition and appreciation you deserved. I was probably, aside from yourself, your worst critic. I’m sorry I was so rough on you. I guess on the one hand I wanted you to find something else to hang your hat on, while on the other hand, if you were going to be a musician, then I wished you’d create music with more practical popular appeal.
You treaded so softly through your life. You never spoke an unkind word about anyone. You lived to make people laugh, to perform on stage, to entertain and inspire with your special gifts. You knew and understood your way. You lived true to yourself and true to your path. You honored your family and parents. You never, to my knowledge, intentionally harmed a living thing.
You leave us having been very honorable and completely loving. I understand the tremendous pain we feel with your passing is going to heal with time. But may your memory never fade. You will be remembered in the hearts of your loved ones for the rest of our lives as the wonderful soul you are. You’re free now of your earthly body—free of pain, free of fear, free of sorrow. Free to sing with angels, and play your music to a celestial choir.
I hope I can catch a glimpse of your performance in a dream. And I know if you can, you’ll be looking after and protecting us. We’re just surely going to miss you something awful, Little Brother. I wish I had told you this more often Mike… I love you.”
From Troy
His older brother, Troy, had the following to say at Michael’s service.
“I just have a couple of stories about my brother. For me, he’s Mikey. Mom was struggling, trying to figure out a name, and John and I used to have a ritual in the morning with the cereal. One of us would get the cereal out, and then the bowls, and then we’d see who was going to put it away. ‘Well, I got it out, you put it away. No, you got it out, you put it away.’ So, one morning we’re eating cereal, and Mom’s going, ‘I don’t know what we’re going to name him,’ and there was that commercial with this little terror of a kid, little rascal who didn’t like anything. So anyway, “Mikey, he likes it.” And Mike liked everything and everyone. He was an angel from day one. I don’t think I ever heard him mutter an angry or a mean word about anyone. He’s a beautiful example of how to walk this planet. Thank you for that brother.
He was also affectionately known as The Prince. And we recall one time when he was probably eight years old, and we were probably still tying his shoes, and putting his socks on for him, and we were sitting around dinner chatting, and Michael just looks up and says, “Excuse me, I’m out of milk.” We all got up, because the kid needs milk. And it just went on from there. It became a joke. I remember so many times at Thanksgiving coming home, Mom’s cooking these fabulous meals, and Mike has this way of just showing up when dinner’s ready. And then, you know, there’s a lot of production and washing dishes after. And, I’d instigate it by calling out, “Mike, time to wash some dishes.” Stunned and surprised at such a suggestion, he would smile and ignore me, and continue to play music for us, and I would wash the dishes.
And life goes by, and you get busy, and you think you’re going to get together, and I certainly wish I could turn back the clock, but I know he’s an angel with angels, and I’m so grateful for him, and to have been able to be called his brother. And I’m so grateful we have the strength in our family to heal this. Thank you brother, I love you.”
From his Aunt
My sister, Alorah Inanna, wrote these words in her blog which I find inspiring and comforting. “Naresh was 36—an opera singer, a tango musician and dancer, an actor, model and magical man. He was never of this earth—he was always uplifted, he was always light-filled, he was always singing or playing his music. As I drove up from Los Angeles to be here with my sister, I kept feeling inside—“He stayed with us as long as he could.” My instincts kept saying that his exit was right. That he was one of those icons who was meant to die young. To never age. To never lose lustre. To never endure the death of life’s dreams. As we have processed the death of this dear one, we have all been inspired by the grace it contained. The grace of getting to handle his death through the natural death care project, to not have to turn his body over to some impersonal mortuary, to not have to pay exorbitant fees, to be able to hold him, and love him, and let him go slowly. The impossible perfection of how it unfolded has given each of us trust in the process itself. Forever desiring that it never had happened, we can each also feel its perfect design.”
From Michael himself
I found Michael’s application to America’s Got Talent. He didn’t make it to the finals and took some time recovering from the disappointment. But he rallied.
In the application, when asked what made him start doing his act, and what drives him to keep pursuing it, his answer was, “I love music, love the bandoneon, and from a very early age—probably five years old, have enjoyed entertaining. The music, the instrument, the use of my voice—all feel very healing to me. Last fall, and again this winter, I toured many of the retirement villages up and down California. The enthusiastic response I receive from these seniors who grew up with this music is beyond words. I’ve watched people come to life and replay memories that made them laugh and sing and dance when they could—even if it was in their wheelchairs. The joyful response from the audience brings me great joy in return. I’ve performed for weddings, birthdays, anniversaries, fund raising events, and always the gift I give comes back to me multiplied.
When I was going through the many boxes of papers and music he left behind, I found a letter he had written about why he dreamed of going to Germany. (He didn’t squeeze the trip in before he passed. It was still on his dream list.) Here is what he wrote in an attempt to crowd-source some funds.
Germany or Bust? Help make a singer’s dream come true.
Singing didn’t come naturally for me. I was nearly tone deaf when I started in high school. My audio comprehension skills were also far below average, which put me at a slight disadvantage in school. I was always the last one to get what was going on, and the last to finish my tests. How then, you might ask, did I become a musician? Music just wouldn’t leave me alone. At six years old, while my older brothers were playing football on the field, I was sitting with the marching band making friends with the French horn player. When I got my first guitar at age 13, I would fall asleep with it and wake up with it next to me. I never missed a guitar lesson, and no one ever had to remind me to practice—more often I had to quit so my family could get some sleep. They converted the garage into a studio for my first band—The Blue Spoon. I began taking voice lessons, working with two great teachers over the last 20 years. I took every music course offered at my local community college, sang with amazing choral groups, and then turned to opera and classical training. I love music. I love writing it, performing it, practicing it, learning how to improve my craft day by day. It still won’t leave me alone.
What is it about music? It’s transcendental. Everything is energy, and when you conduct and direct that energy towards a beautiful feeling, that is music! It can inspire, it can heal, it captures the emotions, everything improves when music is added.
Of course, musical performance as a career has a reputation as probably one of the hardest things one can set out to do. Only a small percentage of people ever actually succeed at making a career in singing. There are so many reasons not to I’ve heard them all, known the odds, and yet I’m still passionate about going for it—perhaps haunted by the ghost of perseverance. It seemingly requires a certain kind of madness to keep at it.
The bandoneon, which is that squeezebox I play, used primarily for tango, is a church and sanctuary in a box. The sound is such that it could easily be the portable outside church organ for a marriage or funeral. It was invented for the purpose of bringing the sacred church music out in the world, but it failed to take off in Germany right before the world wars, and the strange accordions somehow all ended up in Buenos Aires, Argentina, being used for the tango. My path to this instrument actually came through Germany. My Uncle Michael Naumer’s father brought a beautiful concertina (which looks much like the bandoneon) with him when he came to the United States from Germany as a young boy. My cousin, Kurt Naumer, gifted it to me, and I taught myself to play it. Then tango entered the scene and with it, my love of the bandoneon.
Why Germany? Could it be the voice of the instrument calling me to take it home? Perhaps. There appear to be many people in Germany, and the rest of Europe, who appreciate and support really great music! My research indicates Germany offers more opportunities for a classical singer than does the United States. Many opera singers have started their careers in Germany, where the government actually subsidizes the theaters and requires that all opera singers are contracted to work for at least a year when hired. This applies whether singing as a soloist or in the opera chorus.
In addition to opera, there is much more work and support for tango musicians as well. So either way, I believe I will have more opportunity over there to truly live my dream of a successful singing career.
Why sing? Applause, Applause, Bravo? In spite of all the sour notes along the way, the performances that went sideways, the sound systems that didn’t work, the empty rooms, unimpressed critics, lack of payment, there are still too many beautiful reasons to keep doing it. I am talking about something spiritual. The gift of song and poetry is intangible, perhaps even priceless.
Finding the joy of singing and sharing that with people who could use some more light in their life is what it’s all about. It certainly isn’t about looking cool on stage or feeling glamorous—takes just one wrong note to remind me of that. It’s not even about the money, that’s just the means to keep giving the gift I’ve been given. It’s about bringing and sharing the light, transforming the demons into angels, or shining into darkness. Singing to people personally, in a small intimate setting, is for me one of the highest expressions of love. Despite the struggles, life has blessed me with a way to give back to the community. I create opportunities to give the gift of song, even on the street, which I do from time to time. I also find a deep joy and satisfaction in helping people with Alzheimer’s, dementia, and Parkinson’s through my singing. Studies have verified the magical effect music seems to have on the brain.
A new chapter. It would be fantastic to be able to afford a nice place for once. I’ve lived in some pretty interesting places so far in my life. One of my favorites was a tent at Mount Madonna, in the mountains south of Santa Cruz, California. It was there, as part of a spiritual community, that I meditated daily for hours, and helped with everything from cleaning toilets to cooking the food. I washed my hands of course. I wrote some interesting songs at the time. I took a vow of silence for several months and was given the name Naresh by the spiritual leader Babaji, a silent monk who has not spoken since 1952 and communicates by writing on a small chalkboard.
When I first moved out to live on my own, I found a cheap studio without a shower or hot water, set up for painters and loud punk bands to practice. It was all I could afford, and I squatted there until eventually the fire marshal shut the place down for not being up to code.
The real reason—too many hip-hop shows down in the basement of the Sacramento catacombs. The next place I rented put me into serious credit card debt, but it was a taste of the good life for three months. The place after that seemed nice because I could record there and at the time I didn’t mind so much that the room I was sleeping in had unsealed sheets of fiberglass everywhere. It was later that I realized, after I got sick with pneumonia, that breathing in fiber glass night after night isn’t the best thing for a singer. I moved home to save funds for Germany. Now the time has come—I have purchased a one way ticket. I need just enough seed money to get a good start.
What does SUCCESS look like? I’m not attached to the outcome. I have a dream of singing, and in the end, the road still points to Germany. My intuition and everything I read tells me something will happen over there if I only audition. The point is, if I am supported in launching my career in Europe, there would be so many more gifts to give; more shows, more beauty, etc. It’s all about doing the same things I’ve been doing but finding the support to keep doing them. Auditioning and being selected for venues in Germany, Switzerland and Austria would be a dream come true—allowing me to live truly independently. I imagine getting that first contract and then the next and the next. I envision renting an apartment and tango dancing with friends after performing in an opera or operetta.
There are hundreds of theaters and opera houses close together, and I can get to all of them fairly quickly by train. So success, for me, would look like a year contract of singing in an opera chorus, or as a soloist for a year, while I hone my tango chops on the bandoneon, singing at retirement homes and sharing the love and light. A beautiful life awaits the classical singer in Europe. I can feel it in my soul, and I would really appreciate the chance to make it mine!
Thank you so much if you can help this dream come true! Whatever you can give to help me make this happen is immensely appreciated!
God bless you! Resh
Lessons he left us
I found this quote from him on a yellow pad in his tiny writing, “When you really love someone, it’s unconditional. There’s no such thing as flaws. We’re all working on ourselves…and everyday’s a new chance to grow from mistakes with compassion.”
Whenever am tempted by thoughts of blame, which I know better than to listen to, I find it helpful to remember the example Michael set of acceptance.
And here’s another paragraph he had written about his love of Tango, and the people in that community. I read it at their gathering in his honor. “I’m a very private person. I keep a very low profile; even my music has still remained unpublicized for the most part for the time being. This morning I woke up asking again, “What is it that I want, or what do I not want?” Thinking that if I knew exactly, life would be easier. They say it’s especially important for an Aries to know what he wants, which I am, born April 17, 1977. I know that I want to surround myself with positive, healing people who really care about humanity and the planet. I want to feel hopeful for the future somehow, somewhere, with people who are creating this together. I believe there are many paths to unity. How does my background as a sensitive massage practitioner and musician come into play on a bigger level? For now the natural evolution of tango has been connecting me with different communities who all share a sense of refined taste in everything from wines to graciousness.
“Important to remember we are not stagnant fixed identities, but a precious being in process that remains growing, like a beautiful unfolding melody or whatever magical metaphor reminds one of who we might really be. I choose again to identify with greater divine presence in all of us, and I share this with you from my heart. Your heart is my heart.
Best love, Michael Ortego aka Resh.”
From friends far and wide
Michael’s gifts were special. He was sensitive, and usually had a smile on his face. He was a good and loyal friend. I loved all of the stories shared about how much Michael impacted people’s lives. Here are a few.
Terra
Michael’s childhood friend Terra wrote this to me. “For me it seems odd to call him Resh or Naresh, because to me he will always be Mike, as that is how I knew him. When I was six, my parents moved to the Arden Park area. It was a very big change for me, and I didn’t do well with change. It didn’t help that it was the middle of the school year. I was painfully shy with people I didn’t know, so it didn’t make the situation any easier.
Mike and I were in the same class. I was working on a puzzle—a puzzle he knew how to do, and I didn’t. He watched me work on it, and try to figure it out, but I must have been moving too slowly for him, because he very abruptly walked over to me, physically moved me out of the way, and finished the puzzle. When he was done, he very frankly said to me, “See that is how you do it. Hi, I’m Mike Ortego.” I was so shocked. I wasn’t sure what to say, so, “Terra” is all that came out my mouth.
We were friends from that moment forward. Because of my friendship with him, I made many other friends at school. Every girl thought he was dreamy, and every boy wanted to be his friend. I just thought of him as Mike, my best friend. I never heard him talk bad about anyone, and when I would talk to him about someone making me feel bad, he’d always say, “Why do you care?” It always made me think, “You’re right. Why do I care what they think?” That little saying helped me through all the moments a girl deals with with other girls, and I learned to not care. He was a gift for sure. He was special. Even at six years of age, he was wise and kind. It was so wonderful to see that life, and all its ups and downs, didn’t change him—didn’t make him hard and insensitive. He really stayed true to that little boy I had met when I was just six.
I remember Mike in his polo shirts, his perfect hair, his jeans and loafers. He could have been in ads, he was so put together. This made the 6th Grade Talent Show so shocking to all his friends, when he stepped out as Axel Rose on stage, and started to perform Welcome to the Jungle from Guns N Roses. I knew in that moment Mike had made a decision to shed the pretty boy conformist image of himself. I just had no idea how far he would take it.
After elementary school, my parents had divorced, and I ended up not going to Arden Middle, so Mike and I lost touch. I thought of him over the years, and in high school we reconnected. To my utter shock, Mike didn’t look like Mike anymore, and he wasn’t really friends with most of the kids we had grown up with. Mike had long hair, and was very into his music. I can remember staying up all night talking to him in his room about his choice to change. Once again, Mike didn’t care what anyone else thought, including his family. This was him, and everyone would just have to accept it.
He was brave and true to himself in every way, and he taught those around him to do the same. I knew a shyer side of Mike that a lot of people, other than his family, didn’t get to see. This shyer one was the one in his room, in his own head, working it out. He wasn’t comfortable being thought of as a “Hot Dude,” and he was terrible at public speaking. He would always get a big smile and giggle a bit while he spoke, stumbling if he was put on the spot. The performer was confident, but the boy in his room wasn’t quite as put together.
He never was sure what to do with compliments. He would always turn red, and his head would drop, then his eyes would peek up at you, and he’d smile that million dollar smile, and I would see that six-year-old every time. It’s not often in your life that you get to know someone, and get to be a part of their life for such a long time.
For me, he will always just be Mike, the six-year-old boy who rescued me from social oblivion, who called me out on my wild tales, and who treated me as a friend should—the one who I would sit with in his room. We would talk about our families, our concerns, our fears, and our joys, even as little kids. I have so many memories of Mike. I saw him every day for six years, and then on and off for twenty-four years. There were birthday parties, school functions, play ground antics, swimming, skateboarding, hanging at the park, walking home from school, hanging out at friends’ houses, and each other’s houses, and the list goes on and on.
But in it all, there was silliness and laughter always. I got to watch him grow, and shed one skin, and find his own skin, and I feel so blessed that I get to be one of the few that was a part of the journey from the very beginning. He really was something special, and I will miss him. He was a kindred friend for sure, and our spirits were forever intertwined at six.
I love that story because it reveals Michael’s wisdom and compassion which began at a very early age. He sometimes struggled with being different. I remember asking Michael a few months into the seventh grade why some of his grammar school friends weren’t hanging around our house as much. He proceeded to tell me that they were with the “smart” kids, and he was with the “dumb” ones. Shocked, I remember explaining to him that if the tests at school measured musical and artistic talent, he would be placed on the “smart track.” He had already begun playing his beloved guitar, and no one ever had to tell him to practice. More likely we would need to remove the guitar from his arms after he had fallen asleep with it. In this instance, I was doing my best at self-esteem damage control. Right-brain brilliance can be over-looked in a system focused on science, math, and left brain measurements. I realize how truly brilliant and masterful he was and is. Michael memorized thousands of songs, many in foreign languages. He not only learned the words and musical scores, but then taught himself to play even the most complicated operas on the bandoneon. My good fortune was to be able to pour love on this child from the day he was born and watch him bloom. What a treasure.
Ben
From one of his best friends, Ben. “What do we say between the songs? We were so bad at it. I remember a Blue Spoons gig in 1996 where we were tuning our instruments and it turned into a jam session. And after it was over, Michael exclaimed, ‘That was the key of G.’ I’m very blessed to have shared music with Michael for over 20 years. I miss him a lot. From Colossians 3-4: Put on therefore as the elect of God wholly and beloved bowels of mercy, kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness and long suffering. I wrote this about two or three in the morning, which is when Mike is most active in writing.
One night, Mike, me and Darren, Matt and Ian, we jammed at Mike’s until the sun went down, and the neighbors yelled at us. Exactly 10 o’clock, the neighbors yelled at us. Every night. We practiced a lot. Five nights a week sometimes. This one evening, after we rehearsed, we went to a party. I don’t remember the party, but I remember coming back to the Ortego house, where we had nailed carpet to every square inch of the garage, and even wrote a song about it. And we snuck back into the house, very, very quietly, just turned our amplifiers up ever so slightly, and Darren sat at his drums, pulled his brushes out instead of drum sticks. We were in mid-down stroke of the first note, and Robyn opened the door of the garage and said, ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ We all just looked at each other, and she was right, time to go to bed.
I believe Michael, my dearest, sweetest friend, was chosen by the almighty hand from above to give to his family, his friends, and anyone who knew him even for five minutes, a gentleness, a patient friendship, heartfelt compassion, and kindness that is rare and meek. Michael was the most humble of friends, and his true love shown in the way he conducted his life long after, to give the gift of music to those who would simply listen. There is not a single musician in the entire city of Sacramento that I know who has achieved more on their own by way of pen and guitar, or that box I could never pronounce the name of. He told me, it’s the word ‘band,’ and then you have to sound like an Italian saying ‘onion.’ So it’s ‘band-own-e-yon,’ or something like that
Last time I saw Michael was at Darren’s house. He sat next to the fire in the back yard, and he sang songs to us for at least a couple of hours. He left me a gift of music that I will truly be grateful of for the rest of my life, and I will make it my duty to pass along the stories of his incredible friendship. He made it his duty to suffer and compose, to rehearse, to perform, and to be the best musician he could be. And his long suffering, and love of music, did not go unnoticed. He left for us an incredible catalogue of works.”
Jamie
From his dear friend Jamie who didn’t hear about his death until almost a month later and couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t returning her calls or emails or texts. She writes: “One of my favorite memories of Michael was the day we rode to the river. The sun was setting, and we got off of our bikes to watch the sunset from the water. I had been going through a messy separation, and Michael totally cheered me up. In that moment, watching the sunset with Michael, I remember thinking, ‘this is as good as it gets.’ 
Last night I was almost asleep, and I was subconsciously thinking about the accident, and started to feel really sad. I so clearly could hear Michael saying, “Don’t go there, it will only bring sadness. Think of our happy times.” It was surreal, and what I’ve been hoping for—I HEARD him. The weight of the situation was so intense that I couldn’t bury it. I decided to open up, and let it out. So I closed my eyes, and let go of my earthly restrictions. I saw Michael. He reached out his hand to me. He was smiling so big, and his happiness was so radiant that I actually felt it. He said he was having a glorious time and seemed so very free. The tears rushed down my face, and I told him again that I missed him. Michael has been my teacher. I still miss him terribly and always will.
Excuse my pouring out my heart, but Michael’s memory deserves my honesty and vulnerability. I was talking with my mom this evening about Michael—allowing the hurt to resurface, accepting it…sort of. Later I was in the laundry room, and I voiced my frequently muted thoughts, “Michael. I just miss you.” In that moment I thought how I’d love to “notice” him. In the same moment, I decided to look at the clock—hmm… 11:45—your Facebook post crossed my mind—11’s and 9’s. “Hi Michael,” I grinned. He always had that effect on me.
Sometimes I have trouble explaining Michael to others. Different doesn’t quite do him justice. Nor does weird, although I love weird. Maybe other-worldly. But tonight it came to me—a simple saying but perfectly fitting—Michael was and is a breath of fresh air—pure hearted.
He had that actor’s good looks. I forgot sometimes, then I’d really look at him. Even other men noticed. I always felt very, very lucky to have his friendship. Lucky just to have known him. I see his face in yours—and in sunsets, and all things that are beautiful. I think of him every day, usually many times. I’m thankful for knowing him. He’s taught me a lot in life and passing.
Stu
Stu worked with Michael as a friend and musical collaborator. He spent hours and hours creating Michael’s Legacy Collection CD set that they had been working on for months prior to his passing. Stu says losing Michael was one of the hardest losses he’s had to bear. They spent hours together in his studio and became the best of friends. Without Stu’s help, much of the music Michael was in the middle of creating would have been lost. When I visited Stu’s studio for the first time, I could see why Michael loved spending time there. They would get together late at night and spend time creating musical tracks. Michael was a perfectionist. When Stu showed me the amazing complexity of how tracks are laid down, I gained even more appreciation for the talent of this man I got to call my son, and the special relationship the two of them shared. We watched video footage of Michael’s unfinished cabaret show, with Sammie and Scott playing their parts to Giovanni, his central character. What a comedian! He had removed parts of the video to shorten it for sending to cruise ship booking agents. Even with the cuts, we could catch the one-liners he was dropping, as he tried to woo the waitress (Sammie). I have the entire cabaret show script as he had written it out. I remember listening, as they would rehearse in our living room.
Sean
His long time friend Sean shared a story with me as we sat on the front porch swing where Michael used to play his music. Sean is an amazing artist himself, as well as a musician. I remember the many hours they would spend together in high school. I wish I still had some of the videos and home movie productions they dreamed up together. We talked about how Michael has touched so many lives and always lived with such honesty and authenticity. Sean said he had some tough times in his teen years and felt like he just didn’t fit in. He used the term “bent” to describe how he felt, and then told me how Michael’s total acceptance helped him accept himself. “Bent” was no longer a problem, but instead became a beautiful asset to be treasured. Sean worded it much more poetically, but I could feel the positive impact that Michael’s friendship had upon his life. While we were sharing, two hummingbirds swooped down and hovered for a moment. We both smiled.
I heard similar stories as people began calling and coming by to tell me about their relationship with Michael, or I would read posts on Facebook.
James
James, a dear friend and drummer in one of his bands wrote: “With a heavy heart and great sadness, I say Rest In Peace to the beloved and gifted Michael Ortego, known in the music and theatre world as Resh Michael. He was one of the kindest and warmest people I knew. He had a heart that was truly open to people as well as to the call of his inner genius, which he shared with the world and with those lucky enough to watch him. His voice was of a caliber that many of us had never heard, and it lifted us up. I’ve been crying at the thought of the songs he will no longer sing, but I rejoice in the memories of grace and beauty which he shared with me and countless others. I’ll miss you, brother.”
Winko
His musical friend Winko tells the following story. “I was in a trio with Michael and Daniel, and we would play various clubs and special events. I started my career as a one-man band probably about the time Michael was born. He came to me about five years ago, searching for ‘the way,’ and ended up showing me ‘the path.’ There’s an old Zen saying that when the student is ready the teacher will appear. And the best student ends up teaching the teacher. And another saying is, ‘No prophet is accepted in his own home town or by his own family, because they all think he’s crazy.’ And so if anybody tested, or doubted him, or tried to sway him to be doing something else, don’t despair that you didn’t believe in him, because that is the true test of a prophet that makes him worthy of the title, and that was your job to test him. And success is nothing more, nothing less than your best effort. Money, fame, all of that stuff is a by-product of your best effort. And that’s what I learned from Resh the Prophet.”
Selena
Selena, a friend from grammar school wrote: “Why you, Resh Michael….why you? You were the kindest soul…your friendship started in 6th grade for me at a new school where almost everyone was mean. You were my first buddy. You were real. I remember times since we lived three streets from each other that I’d be sad, knocking at your door and you weren’t home….but your parents would say…you wanna come sit in his room and listen to his music? Even as young as 10 years old you were such an earthly gift. I am so saddened that your time on earth is gone, but I know someday I’ll see you again. I hope your settling in where your spirit has gone….”
Alice
Alice wrote: “Not only was Resh Michael incredibly sweet, he was also very, very fun. I didn’t know him past high school for very long, but when we were teenagers, Resh was always down for hi-jinks. I have one especially fond memory of him striking hilarious poses while my sisters and I sporadically shone a flash light on him as we were all hanging out in a pitch black room. Each time the light shone on Resh, he was doing something more and more crazy. I couldn’t stop laughing that night. You will be missed Resh Michael!!”
Dean
A friend of his named Dean, whom I have yet to meet, posted the following on Michael’s Facebook. “Friends of Naresh Michael Ortego Resh Michael. It is my displeasure to inform you that he died a couple of weeks ago in a car accident. Damn cars. I remember being at his aunt’s house where he was living, couple times, and walking with him in the trails behind the house, and us putting our arms around each other, and him saying to me about how it’s unfortunate that us with our arms around each other might feel a bit uncomfortable to our American sensibilities at the moment (we remained arm locked and kept walking and talking), and that it’s in Italia! that men are men, and not afraid to lock arms around each other and walk around the streets. He touched you. He made it okay to touch. He penetrated, he did. What a deep man. His self-expression was honest and inspirational and FUN. Someone else on his Facebook pointed out how fun he was. First to go to the Fun. Fun immediately. So inspirational. Keep it fun people. Life is short. I love you Naresh (or Michael…I want to call you Michael but dammit, our first meeting at an Old Ironsides open mic, all those years ago involved you telling me you were Naresh. So, it remained first impression imprinted…Nar Nar. I love you.”
Christopher
And from another musician friend named Christopher whom I’ve never met. “I met Naresh in and about the Sacramento open mic scene about ten years or so ago at the Fox and Goose. He was an individual you wanted to rub elbows with, but not follow as an act. The last time I talked with him was at a Christmas party two years ago, and he introduced himself as “Mike.” I knew that I had known this dude from somewhere, and it did not take us long to figure out our musical connection. I think when he said, “Hi, I’m Mike,” he knew his cover was blown. This dude used to get up in front of a handful of songwriters, pick up his bandoneon, and rock the **** out of it without worrying about what people thought of him. His smile had natural gravity. He could not hide his natural affinity for performing and for performing artists. May you rest where you like Naresh. I am certain that we will meet again. Thank you for always being yourself. Bye bye for now.
Daniel
Daniel Zuckerman, his friend and violinist, shares about Michael and practicing. “Resh would show up for practice like he had just fallen out of bed, unshaven, dozing through rehearsal, and then suddenly he would just pop in to a different gear. It’s so strange that cars were around at the end here, because he was just like a race car that could go from zero to 60 with the snap of a finger. Sometimes we would tell him, ‘You don’t have to sing full out. It’s just a rehearsal.’ But his response, ‘No, that’s fine,’ or at a dress rehearsal, and he’d be going full bore, and we’d tell him to save it. And there were just times when he did not know how to ‘save it.’
Atousa
From a woman named Atousa, who took the time to write to me about Michael, when she learned of his passing. She captures the way Michael was able to listen. His gift of being present is hard to describe. Here’s what she wrote. Hi Robyn. I first met your son at an ARC theater play…. what a voice, and handsome too! I was dabbling in some stand-up comedy, and during an open mic show, he happened to be there. After I was done, he took the time to come over, to talk with me, and encourage me to move forward with theater and comedy. Soon after, I married a man, to whom I am not married anymore. He hated theater. He hated my involvement with it. So I abandoned it. During my short marriage, I reached out to Michael, and he was so beautiful and humble and encouraged me to go and explore theater again. You know, people don’t look at you any more—and though I didn’t have much of a friendship with him, when he looked at me, he really looked, and I could see that he really saw me—all of me. So for these small beautiful moments that he gave me, thank you for bringing him into the world, and allowing me to be able to feel those moments, that I very rarely experience. I am 4 months pregnant with a son now, and your courage just brightens my whole soul.
Athena
From his friend Athena, whom he helped with her bid to become a cooking celebrity. He videoed her cooking and spent hours editing the material for her. She says: “The night I found out he passed I had a dream about Michael…and my Mom who has passed was there too. I was in a coffee shop, and he grabbed both my hands, and said, “I’m right here…come sit with me.” We sat on the couch, and he gave me a big hug, and told me with his soft voice and giggle, “Don’t worry it will be ok…I’m still here”…after that I saw my Mom and she says to me, ”I’m here to fix everything and sort it all out…it’s ok….”
Ken
I received a letter from one of the residents of the Covenant Village of Turlock, a retirement village that Michael performed at several times. This is what Ken wrote upon learning of Michael’s passing. “May I thank you for sharing your wonderful son with us, the residents at Covenant Village. At his last performance with us (with his Venetian straw hat), he sang, at my request, his ‘This is the Moment.’ I was so moved that I left the auditorium without being able to find words of appreciation for so much beauty. This belated, and bit of inadequateness, is my attempt to thank him for bringing such brightness into so many of our lives…Weren’t we fortunate?”
Fortunate indeed. I so agree. Michael toured the west coast with a friend one year, and by himself the next, taking his music to over 50 retirement villages up and down the coast from Los Angeles to Seattle to Sequim, Washington, and back. He would spend the night on site, eat with the residents, and entertain them with his light opera, songs from the Big Band era, and those from his musical theatre performances. One of his trade mark songs was ‘This is the Moment’ from his lead role in Jekyll and Hyde. He spoke many times to me of the joy he felt when he sang at retirement villages. I found a map of the places he visited on those two tours. He came back with a full heart, and an empty wallet.