Robert "Bob" McClain

Bob McClain — A Farewell from a Friend Bob and I met fifty years ago, in 1976, at Arthur Andersen & Co. On paper, we had no business becoming friends. I was a fourth-generation Chinese American, born, raised, and educated in Los Angeles, and firmly anti-war. Bob was an Irish American from Pittsburgh — a returning, highly decorated Vietnam Special Forces Captain. This did not look like a match made in heaven. I kept my distance at first. But even then, I could tell there was something different about Bob. There was no hidden agenda with him. He was honest — sometimes blunt — but always conscious of the impact of his words. More importantly, he listened. He cared about people. His military background taught him the chain of command, respect for process, and responsibility — lessons he carried into every part of his life. One of the first things Bob ever taught me was a lesson disguised as a phrase. Delivered slowly, stretched over five seconds, with absolute conviction: “Fuuuuccckkk yooou.” It was his response to unreasonable demands — from others, or from yourself. It could be used on good people in bad situations, or bad people in good ones. It wasn’t about cruelty. It was about clarity, boundaries, and self-respect. It turned out to be a very useful lesson. From there, Bob and I became great pals — grateful to have each other as we walked down the adventure of life together. We shared the trials and tribulations of being single guys building careers, navigating dating, relationships, and the hard truths that come with them. Bob taught me early on that you cannot change someone in a relationship — and that it’s impossible to make new old friends. We talked about the joy of marriage, and the challenge of particular personalities. When Bob first married, I videotaped the wedding — in the early days of video cameras, when the equipment was the size of a microwave oven and the camera looked like a shoebox, tethered by a cable to a wall outlet. After all that effort, we pressed play and got… sound only. No picture. Just voices. Very Bob. Very us. We played flag football in a CPA league. Bob had played college ball at Santa Monica City College, so he was the real deal. I was just lucky to be on the field with him. We won championships. We also earned a permanent invitation to the managing partner’s office after a fight broke out — a former college player bear-hugging Bob from behind while Bob swung and punched players from the other team. Our participation in the league was promptly curtailed. There were Olympic-style decathlon challenges — running, swimming, arguing over who won and who didn’t — and eventually realizing that it didn’t matter. There were dating debriefs, including the fact that we once dated the same woman at different times. Those were excellent debriefs. There were trips to St. Charles, Illinois for training, burgers at Tommy’s, drinks at Nick’s, and curiosity about what was behind the double doors at Arthur Andersen. Then came new jobs and new chapters — Bob as CFO, advisor, problem-solver, and traveler. Animated animals, potential Disney contracts, and travel to Bangkok. All the while, Bob was always available for breakfast or lunch. He told me stories of earning the Bronze Star — hiding among casualties, saving lives. He learned Thai, made lifelong friends, including a Thai soldier who later became a high-ranking general, whom Bob would visit decades later. Bob loved Thai food, loved speaking the language, and always endeared himself to the wait staff — guaranteeing great service wherever he went. Later in life, he talked about spending six months in Thailand and six months in California. Very cool. There was also his mountain home — the constant upgrading, the work, and how deeply he treasured his time there. Bob didn’t just show up for moments. He showed up with his hands. When I purchased my home thirty years ago, Bob was there — landscaping the backyard, building drywall walls to create an additional bedroom. When he later moved to Dallas, he gifted me a leather couch that still sits in our living room today. There are mental memories of Bob all over my mind, and physical reminders everywhere I look. We planned to compete in a triathlon together — he’d swim, I’d ride the bike. We never did it. We talked about it a lot. For fifty years, we compared our physical condition and encouraged each other to stay in shape. In later years, Bob lovingly referred to me as a “fat fuck,” which — in Bob-speak — was encouragement. Bob also had a… complicated relationship with law enforcement. As a former police officer myself, those stories held a special place between us. Once, at his mountain home during a snowstorm, Bob had had too much to drink and went for a walk into town. He saw a police officer sitting in a patrol car and walked right up, challenging him with, “What are you looking at?” The next thing Bob remembered was waking up in a jail cell. There was also the Forest Ranger incident… but that’s another story for another time. Bob was deeply aware of how lucky he was to have Lois. He celebrated her. He knew she managed him, grounded him, and made him a better man. He marveled at his good fortune to have her as his wife and partner. He took great pride in his children, Meghan and Paul — fully aware of the challenges his personality created, and equally aware of their love, strength, and accomplishments. I remember the day the line crossed between Bob and Meghan physically. At the beach, she challenged him to a race. Twenty steps in, Bob was ten steps behind and fading. He collapsed onto the sand, looked at me, and said, “The lines have crossed.” He shared Meghan’s challenges and victories, always beginning and ending with how much he loved her. And Paul — Bob knew his personality wasn’t always an easy match with yours. But he was proud of you. Proud of UCSD, proud of the work you put into renovating the family home and cabin, proud of the man you became. Bob loved his grandchildren. He loved his family. As he aged, he once told me he needed to stay alive so Lois could continue to receive benefits. That was Bob — practical, loving, and selfless. I last saw Bob in November 2025 at the VA hospice facility in Dallas. It was just Bob, Agnes, and me. I wanted to see where he was mentally, so I asked open questions about our shared history. After the second question, he stopped me and said: “My mind is fine. It’s my body that’s fucking with me.” He knew exactly where he was. He didn’t complain. I believe he spared protest because he knew it would hurt his family. As Lois said, his passing was a blessing. Bob would not have wanted to live trapped in the condition his body had become. When I left, I told Bob that I loved him — and that I knew how deeply he loved his family and friends. The last thing Bob ever said to me was: “After you leave, I’m going to cry.” So am I, my friend. I love you, Bob. Thank you for fifty years of friendship.