Commie Girl

Che Who? Social justice at the Nixon Library

I never saw Buddy living to be one of those 90-year-old blues guys sitting on a porch, crediting their longevity to toothpicks and whiskey. He was too cranky, too pissed, too ranting and roaring. The first time I ever spoke to him on the phone, fact-checking his very first article for us, he yelled at me. It was before we had e-mail; stories would get faxed in and then retyped by the receptionist, and I wanted to make sure we hadn't misspelled his name. I spelled it for him. Is that correct? I asked. "I think I know how to spell my own fucking name!" he shouted, and I refused to work with him for some time after. We ended up becoming really good friends (all those comradely smoke breaks, where I'd bitch about my love life and he'd laugh at me and advise me to be less slutty), but I haven't seen him in years now. He was down in San Diego, with his ridiculously excellent and pretty wife—Buddy married up like you wouldn't believe—and a small daughter I haven't met. I guess I'll rectify that this Friday at noon at Buddy's memorial service. It'll take place at Harry Griffen Park, 9550 Milden St., La Mesa, for those of you who want to take a ride down and see Buddy off proper.

We'll miss you, Buddy. Nobody could horrify us quite like you could.

Balls.

CommieGirlCollective.com

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