Such was the wit and wisdom of my friend Bruce, who is gone now, and I am so much poorer for it.
Of all the people I’ve “met” on the innertubes, there are many that I might like to have a beer with, but few that I consider Good Friends. Bruce was one of that latter rarified class, and the fact that we’d never actually met in “meat space” didn’t diminish it.
Ours was one of those “instant” friendships that springs up when for some quirky reason, two people just hit it off. A similar age and rebellious history, an appreciation of twisted humour, all things Mac and men in leather and engineer boots — the last being a shared addiction that both delighted and dismayed us (“We’re drawn like moths into the flame”, one of us sighed during one of our many discussions on the topic). We also shared decades of indentured servitude to the advertising industry — sometimes even at the same agencies, albeit at different times. We were two unrepentant freaks laughing out loud at a hostile universe, delighted to have found each other. What a gift.
But not for long, as I found out yesterday. Again.
In a bitterly ironic coincidence, Sunday was the anniversary of the death of my older brother, another gentle soul that succumbed to the inner voices of evil and wretched secret despair. And now the shadows of early December fall darker still.
Goodbye, my friend. I will miss you.