Negroni. Sbagliato. With prosecco in it.
[Alt text: Three TikTok screenshots of Emma D'Arcy with short hair, wearing a pink diagonally striped oxford shirt with a matching pink tie. The captions say "A negroni," "Sbagliato," and "With prosecco in it." You can click on the image to see or hear the full video. It starts around the 1:55 mark.]
Sunday morning, I woke up, made some coffee, looked at Instagram, and learned my friend J had died. Pancreatic cancer. He was in his early 50s. I hadn't seen him since before the pandemic and my Irish exit out of SF.
If there was one person who could have — should have — beaten that cancer, it was J. Not just because they "caught it early." But because he was one of the happiest, most positive and optimistic people I've ever met. He was one of those people who gathered you in and made you laugh. Able to find humor in any situation. We used to joke that his last name was a verb. To say "I got (named) last night" meant "I stayed at Moshi Moshi too late drinking and laughing with J and now I have a terrible hangover."
And now he's dead. For two days I walked around in a fog, remembering every 5 or 10 minutes that he was gone, trying to wrap my brain around it.
I still can't.
He lived his life with such energy and enthusiasm — for his husband, his pets, his friends, his family, his work — that I remember wishing I could hook a hose up to him and siphon some of it away for myself. I mean, how could anyone be that happy at the gym at 6am?
I met him through a neighbor and mutual friend. Ten or twelve years ago, we'd take our dogs to a place we called The Buildings. Between the two office/research buildings was a large green space, where our dogs liked to run and wrestle. One day I lost sight of Paddie for a minute. J laughed and said, "She's over there! Pooping and smiling into the wind." It's funny how you can remember such seemingly small things.
His conspiratorial giggle was everything.
The entire internet right now is obsessed with that clip I linked to above. The way Emma D'Arcy says "Negroni. Sbagliato. With prosecco in it" has gay women cheering, straight women questioning their sexuality, and bartenders stressing the fuck out. The audio clip has been on repeat in my head for almost four straight days now.
I wish J could have seen it. I picture him lifting a glass, toasting the person next to him, waggling his eyebrows, giving his best faux-suave "Negroni. Sbagliato. With prosecco in it," and then dissolving into laughter.
Postscript: J was an AVID traveler. If he wasn't in another country, he was planning his next trip. He was a professional about it, too. He believed in wearing nice clothes on the plane. Used his miles to upgrade to business or first, often snapping a selfie with a glass of champagne before takeoff. He was probably one of those people who slept on overnight flights, woke up in a good mood, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, excited about the adventures on the other side of baggage claim.
I, on the other hand, couldn't sleep on the plane ride over here (Barcelona), despite 4 drinks and 2 melatonin tablets. I managed to sweat through all my clothes, thanks to anxiety and hot flashes. This afternoon, while waiting for my Airbnb to be ready, I sat on a park bench and I was, no joke, attracting flies.
So I'm off to shave my teeth, powerwash everything else, and sleep this off. Starting tomorrow, I want to see Barcelona — and life in general — with J's attitude and energy.
No links this week, sorry. I got a bunch of insane mom stories from you all last week, that I can't wait to weave together. I'll do that next time. If you have some you'd like me to include — anonymous, of course — just reply to this email.