Letter to Joe

Joe,

You leave me no choice but to appreciate every minute that I have left. And yet I can’t help, but feel like somehow, you are still fucking with me.

I don’t really believe that you’re gone. I feel like, I could text you:

Me: “Yo, I’m gonna be in NYC for Disrupt. You around?”

Joe: “You motherfucker. I hate when Facebook reminds me to think about you.”

I expect you to walk through my front door and tell me that I am going to go see a band, called Escort, that I’ve never heard of, because Cocaine Blues is a hell of a song.

Or go watch football in the Castro, because Marina is lame (and you don’t have your Marina pants on).

I expect to show up to your house for brunch and be hammered by noon. You’d hand me your newest cocktail invention and ask, “How badly did you strike out last night?”.

But mostly, I’m in denial, because I’m pissed. I’m pissed that I never got a chance to say, “Goodbye” and I don’t think I can handle talking to a casket.

I want my friend back. I refuse to accept that they guy who could make a highlight reel out of my shitty days is not coming back. I’m going to call Verizon, Apple and the President to get our full text message history. There is enough there for 10 lifetimes.

You’d choose a beach bar over a reef break any day, but you could usually smoke me down a black diamond.

You loved and owned the tech hustle but you preferred to travel. I wonder how many stamps are etched on your passport pages.

In Tahoe, you brought a truckload of hammered degenerates to “chill” and immediately proceeded to lock yourself in the bathroom with some girl. Those degenerates became some of my best friends.

I still don’t know what a Joehattan is, but I imagine it’s very sweet and leads to bad decisions.

You are the only person I know, that Yan couldn’t keep up with.

I believe you still owe me one on the wingman front, but we can chuck that one to a rounding error. On that note:

I’ll never forget how you managed to pick up two girls at Burning Man, while wearing a Tutu and proceeded to have a sex party in one of the yurts.

Your sense of humor and natural ease took the weight off the heaviest subjects. Our mourning friends point to your unique ability to lift their spirits, even in the face of the harshest hangovers and the often inconvenient truth.

It’s ironic how it takes death to give us clarity about life. In the last 48 hours, I’ve had the deepest conversations with the closest of friends.

In all seriousness, I think our best eulogies only scratch the surface of what you meant to us all.

You went out like James Dean, at the top of your game and categorically before your time. I imagine you in that last second, exploring the planet and shamelessly in love.

Bravo, I miss you my friend.