You could also add in compassionate, humorous, caring, charismatic, empathetic, loyal, witty, easygoing, perceptive, knowledgeable, bold and optimistic to his rich, vibrant character traits.

A voracious reader, music lover and film buff from his earliest days, Ben was a die-hard fan of anything and everything that was sharply smart, gut-busting funny or just beautifully weird and odd. And Ben was all of those things, too, in truth and in method.

In essence, Ben’s trajectory in life began when he entered Northeastern Clinton Central School in Champlain, New York, in 1997. In middle school, he befriended many kind souls who would remain best friends until the very end: Zach Rabideau, Tom Pearo, Ryan Casey and myself. There were also several peers who Ben found deep friendship and solidarity with: Susan Seymour, Rachel Mercaldi, Shannon Dulude, Sean Casey and others.

As a teenager, Ben loved skiing and was a proud member of the NCCS Ski Club, which offered him many memorable trips to Jay Peak and Whiteface. For several years, Ben was part of the NCCS cross-country and track and field teams, as well as the Drama Club, where he happily partook in numerous stage productions. To that, he always left a mark on his educators and coaches.

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Ben’s greatest love was music. He walked this earth at his own rhythm, with that rhythm being the glorious sound of Warren Zevon’s “Werewolves of London.” Ben was a huge Zevon freak, all atop an eternal love for the Grateful Dead, The Band, Strangefolk, John Prine, Tom Petty, and whatever else had honest lyrics and a bounce to it. Ben was a true dancing fool, too, something especially witnessed at the annual Happy Pike gathering in Chazy.

Looking back, Ben was my partner-in-crime from the day we met in seventh grade. I had just graduated sixth grade from St. Mary’s Academy, now thrown into the public-school system, and was pretty much alone. I was a very weird and misunderstood kid growing up (still am, to be honest). And so was Ben.

That first day interaction in seventh grade, we both had joined the cross-country team. I had really no friends at that time, peers who made me feel seen and heard. Ben was in the same boat. I stepped onto the cross-country bus to head to a race. Every seat on the bus was filled, except for one, the worst seat: behind the bus driver and across the aisle from our coach.

Sitting in that seat was Ben. Sporting thick glasses and a bucket hat, his curly hair popping out from underneath the brim, I asked if I could sit with him. He said OK and slid over to let me in. And we immediately started talking to one another, this eternal conversation now sparked. From there, we were tied to the hip all through middle/high school and beyond.

In high school, Ben was often seen hopping into my rusty 1989 Toyota Camry and disappearing to any and all concerts or some backwoods music festival. The shows seen and miles ventured is immeasurable, as was our friendship.

Of note, one of Ben’s favorite stories was the time he and I randomly drove 10 hours to northern Maine to see Phish’s “IT” festival in 2003. Neither one of us had tickets, but were able to sneak into the event via a bread truck while hiding under hundreds of packages of hot dog buns.

When I left for college in Connecticut and took off out West, we kept in touch. We’d call each other every week. He even called me from the hospital the day his son was born back in Plattsburgh, myself picking up the phone call in a parking lot in Idaho. And we’d wish one another happy birthday every year.

For seemingly any significant or non-significant moment of my youth and early adulthood, Ben was always right there next to me. We were thick as thieves and as close to family as one could ever get without blood relation. The memories are countless together, whether it was working side-by-side at McDonald’s, going swimming at Split Rock or camping in the Adirondack Mountains. I was even the best man at his wedding in 2009.

As an adult, Ben discovered a God-given gift in the art of cooking. He was a true master of his craft, and in the same attitude and vein as that of the late Anthony Bourdain. Family and friends looked forward to whatever concoction he would present with that trademark ear-to-ear grin of his, especially during those rollicking holiday meals. And we would always eat with gusto.      

Spending much of his working life in the kitchen, Ben felt most at home in front of a stove, his creativity in doing so knowing no bounds. And he met countless dear friends while in the culinary trenches, especially those he worked alongside in Plattsburgh at Mickey’s, The Monopole, Good Thymes, Arnie’s and the former Dry Dock.

Throughout the remaining years of his life, I’d call him the minute I was back home to meet and catch-up. The last time I saw him was this past January. I picked him up at his Plattsburgh apartment and we went for a drink. Bear hugs and hearty conversation. Eventually, I had to go back home to work on an article. He wanted to stay and have another drink. I said, “Well, I’ll be home again this summer. I’ll call you.” He replied, “Love you, dude. See you then.”

Benjamin Perron is survived by his children, Augustus Perron and Nimueh Perron; parents, Pete and Barbara Perron; siblings, Zachary Perron, Jacob Perron and Katherine (Ian Carney); and numerous nieces and nephews.

He also leaves behind an array of lifelong friends, from across the North Country and around the world, each of which has been howling to the moon in true Zevon style since hearing of his passing. To those reading this, please put “Werewolves of London” on your nearest stereo at your earliest convenience, and raise a glass to one of freest and most genuine spirits who ever roamed this earthly plane.

In closing, as Hunter S. Thompson once wrote in “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” (one of Ben’s favorite books and films), so, too, is our sad farewell to our dearest Benny Boy: “There he goes. One of God’s own prototypes. A high-powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.”