I was surfing around on WaPo's site today, checking out the Live Online discussions were that taking place (and which ones I missed), I noticed that Gene Simmons was scheduled to come on to hawk his new reality show.
And I thought of you.
And a part of me wanted to email you to tell you about it, because I knew you'd be incredibly excited about a KISS-related reality television show. Your love of KISS was unrivaled.
A part of me thought maybe calling you would be faster, to make sure you got to a computer to read the chat. Or at least to tell you that the show was making its way to the airwaves.
I wanted to hear the 30-year-old man/child-like excitement in your voice at the prospect of getting to see your idol strutting stuff and showing off his obscenely long tongue on TV. I remembered how much you love Detroit Rock City, and how I teased you endlessly for that even though I've never seen it. Perhaps we would have started debating the relative merits of Gene's upcoming show to Ozzy Osbourne's. If I were really lucky, I would have been the one to tell you about the show, and you would have heard it first from me, and your excitement would be just this close to orgasmic.
But no email will reach you. You are nowhere near a working telephone. And you are certainly not reading this blog. No matter how much I would want to talk to you or communicate with you, I'm not able to. Because shortly after I wrote this post back in November, you lost your fight with cancer. The last time I saw you was in the hospital bed, thinner than I've ever seen you, a shell of your former self, barely a hint of the jovial, friendly guy I used to work with.
I don't even have a freaking picture of you to upload to this post.
Even though we lost touch after I left that job, I still miss you, my friend.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006