We used to have contests to see who could suck down the most nitrous oxide without passing out, he used to live by the big milk carton and had a half decent record collection. He was stupid clever and probably the funniest man I ever knew. He was keen on design and art, rock music and all things pop culture. He was grimy and cool, smoked cigarettes and had a bellowing laugh that entered rooms before he did. He had failed relationships but never had trouble finding women, he was crass and spoke his mind,
even especially when it meant saying things that everyone else was afraid to say. We drank at the Matador before the Gogol Bordello show and those were the last photos I had of him. He was hard drinker, one of the hardest I ever knew, he showed me the dark weather on his face and the sharp humor in everything around him. There are certain days I need to talk to him, solicit input about women and whatnot, and in my dreams I can only eek out something nonsensical and forgettable. Today I need to talk to him and he just ain’t around.
All bridges should be made 5 feet off the ground.