Every time I remember Joe I remember this:
I met Joe in the summer of 1991 during the golden age of the
BBS. I saw the flyer for Paradise Lost
on an actual bulletin board at some computer shop and went home and logged
on. Eventually, my cousin got into some BBS
chat altercation with a friend of Joe's and it was decided to meet at a diner
and ‘sort it out’. I attended as Second
for this event and so did Joe.
As my cousin and I approached the table we see two skinny
guys, as pale as the winter's sun. One
with straight red hair of impressive length and the other dark haired with a
short no-distractions style military type cut.
Both seated. Short-hair guy has
one foot lightly raised and one firmly planted, pretending to be looking at his
fries.
Joe's first words to me, while eating a fry: "Black
belt..." *chomp chomp* "Berzerker.."
"What?"
Still totally calm and without emphasis, Joe shifts
slightly, looks directly at me, "I'm a Black belt and he's a
Berzerker"
The implication immediately was that, should there be any
trouble, it was going to be costly. This
was Joe's tactical genius. His
matter-of-fact delivery designed to throw potential opponents off guard,
invoking a reaction and giving Joe time to read and analyze the situation. At the same time ultimately intending to
prevent conflict from erupting in the first place by an intimidating show of
force, and failing that, give him time to identify and enumerate our weak
points. He never looked for trouble, always prepared for it and never ran when
it occasionally found him.
Glad to learn trouble wasn't a forgone conclusion, my
response was a cheery, "Cool, is the food any good here?" The brief flash of amusement on his face then
a wry smile that he couldn't help let slip out told me I liked this guy. He had worked out that I had worked out what
he had worked out and he knew that we both knew it. Joe had an affinity for knowing the reason
why one did what one did and if the circumstances called for it, intentionally
acting without thought. Then, just as quickly, expressionless as he shrugs at the
food with a somewhat disgusted/commiserating "sucks ballz". Joe pronounced the "z" in that. I don’t recall the rest of the evening but Joe and I hit it
off. It's hard not to like a guy who is
usually the smartest guy in the room, and doesn't want to be.
While discussing the merits of martial arts a couple of
weeks later we ended up deciding to spar each other in a park to see how it
would go. Second time ever seeing this
guy, (a black belt in martial arts, clearly ready to throw down and an unpredictableness
about him you could see in his eyes) and I'm basically in a loosely controlled
fight with him. Sounds like a crazy
thing, unless you've met him. Joe
practically radiated integrity. I knew
without question it wouldn't get out of hand, and if something crazy did
happen, Joe and I would be back to back.
You could trust him. With the heaviest, most sensitive, important, shit on the planet, you could absolutely trust him. Joe was fiercely loyal. We had an agreement that should an unexpected and, most importantly, unannounced, package arrive from one to the other, it would not be opened. It would be secreted away someplace nobody knew about. Only the sender was allowed to speak of it.
You could trust him. With the heaviest, most sensitive, important, shit on the planet, you could absolutely trust him. Joe was fiercely loyal. We had an agreement that should an unexpected and, most importantly, unannounced, package arrive from one to the other, it would not be opened. It would be secreted away someplace nobody knew about. Only the sender was allowed to speak of it.
I am confident he had this agreement with others. Joe wouldn’t limit his success by single
sourcing his “head in a box” disposal services.
You could trust Joe with your life. This is not hyperbole. And it’s not just because of his sense of
honor and integrity but also because he was competent beyond measure. Not only did you not have to worry that Joe
wouldn't do what he said, but you never had to worry about what would happen if
something unexpected came up. He'd figure
it out.
By December 31st, 1999, Joe and I had assembled
what they call today “Bugout Bags”. Joe
called it an “Oh Shit” bag. Car loaded
with food, ammunition, and other necessities.
The plan was, should any form of “all hell breaking loose” begin to
break loose, we’d gather at my parent’s farm which had a generator, a well with
a hand-pump, and as he put it, “a comforting field of view for popping
balloons”.
He was a protector, unwaveringly defending the innocent or
helpless. I’ll leave the stories of EMP
bombs and spork revenge to others but believe when I say Joe would not brook
any sort of infringement on the security of his friends. To attack those Joe named ‘friend’ was to
attack Joe himself, and to attack Joe was just a bad idea..
Joe was always prepared but he never took that for
granted. He liked learning things. He liked better things. He held no sentimental attachment to ways or
methods or processes that didn't work.
He'd take the best parts of a thing, discard what doesn't work and keep
the rest.
He appreciated competence in others. He fostered it. When he’d throw a Virtua Fighter party at his
place, he was the first to appreciate it when the Stun Palm Of Doom came off,
even as he was the recipient. On the nights we’d be testing BFRIS he was absolute-focused on
reproducing, then finding and fixing some particular bug in the code, but soon
we’d all be flying around shooting at each other. Joe loved fun.
When I started a Kung Fu school, Joe was one of my first
students. As the school grew and he
became one of the senior members, his compassion and ability to help others was
easy to see. He would regularly spar
with the less experienced students, knowing this was the most dangerous. Their new-found techniques, awkwardness, and
general lack of skill with those techniques led to many unintended hits to
their opponents. Joe saw this as a great way to exercise his defenses while offering
opportunities for his fellow students to learn.
One night, while
sparring a 6' 4" junior student, Joe was demonstrating the setup for
flying kicks, what to look for and how to handle them. He launched an amazing double spinning
kick. He had telegraphed it twice
earlier in the session, practically wrapped it with glittery paper and rainbows. There was no way his opponent would miss
it. Except somehow they did. Halfway through the kick, Joe realized he was
going take this guy's head off. So he
pulled it. Knowing that his chances of
injury were significant as he would end up with both feet in the air and his
momentum that would carry his legs back down would be stopped. This was the martial art equivalent of teaching someone how to throw grenades and then seeing them pull the pin and drop
one. Joe was not going to have a student get injured sparring with him. He shifted the angle of his kick so that it
would hit the student's shoulder and subsequently went down right on his head.
Joe did not have time to waste on worry or regret. He didn't waste energy wishing things were
different. He would, as any intelligent
person, occasionally lament the state of humanity. We spent many an evening talking about Objectivism,
the closest Ground Zero spot in Albuquerque, how to get Spike to
stop doing stuff, how to get Spike to start doing stuff, girl trouble, car trouble, gun cleaning methods, games, listening to and
playing music. He was a sucker for any
particularly tricky harmony part or guitar lick. He loved besting those challenges but he also
loved the musicality of it. It didn’t
matter who it was, if it was musically sound, it had merit. The Venn diagram of 'bands we listened to' started out like an infinity symbol and ended up with edges so blurred at the intersection it was more of a musical mitosis. I recall Joe and I, guitars in hand, sitting
in my apartment and playing through practically the entire Barenaked Ladies ‘Gordon’
album. We worked repeatedly on the break
in Brian Wilson and when we nailed those harmonies the satisfied grin that he
could barely sing through is how I often remember him.
Joe's intelligence, honor and integrity were matched by his impish
love of mischief. Challenging
conventions was a strategically disarming move, but crazy mischief of any sort
was a delight for him.
I once sat in with his band for a New Year’s Eve party and
Joe, knowing that I was being pursued by a very nice but TOTALLY not my type of
girl, kept announcing my singleness and ‘availability between songs. “Thanks people!! Let’s hear it for our
drummer, who’s looking to start the year off with some sweet SWEET
lovin’!!”
Later when I found myself trapped, Joe ran interference to allow a clandestine escape.
Later when I found myself trapped, Joe ran interference to allow a clandestine escape.
His enthusiasm for life was child-like in it’s innocence and
purity. He loved what he loved and he
goddamned LOVED it. He was particularly
fond of fireworks. He introduced me to
the thrill of “Loud ‘explodey’ ones” via the Attack Chopper. Illegal in Albuquerque, we bought some at the
firework tent on the Indian Reservation.
They were basically an M80 with a propeller attached and a pre-explosion
stage that would spin the thing about 40 feet in the air. Initially, not my cup of tea, it was
admittedly awesome. As you might imagine
Joe was practically giddy with delight at process. Find a location where there was little chance
of injury to anyone. Ignite fuse. Revel in the shock of the explosion, car
alarms, and a full neighborhood of dog protests, name the next location and
then flee in different directions before the authorities arrived. I don’t know if it was the Attack Chopper or
Joe’s joy at it that made me a fan. I do
know that since then, I think of him every July 4th.
In 2003 I asked him to be in my wedding in Las Vegas. He was deep in the crunch-time for Counterstrike
and there was just no way it was going to work out. Then he calls me the day before and asks me
where the ceremony was at. He had worked
it out after all. This was the essence
of Joe. If there was any way he could
help out a friend, he would. He graciously ushered guests in and while some
shot him questioning glances, I couldn’t have been happier to see that purple
Mohawk getting to enjoy making people unsure if they were at the right
wedding. It was the perfect cover for
the smiles and genuine happiness he showed at seeing my own happiness.
This was the last time I spoke with Joe in person. We had been through triumph, tragedy, song
and siren. E3, IGF (as finalists in the
first ever IGF), game meetings/parties, soundtracks, Jurassic Park (and the introduction of DTS), Independence
Day (really any big explodey blockbuster), conquest, heartbreak, and apocalypse
plans. Because of Joe I’ve played
PyroBall, The Assassin Game, installed a Slackware distro, slid down hills in
Albuquerque parks on huge blocks of ice and know who Less Than Jake are.
Joe moved to Dallas and eventually Seattle which turned his
Mohawk green. We spoke less often but we didn’t need to. I knew if I needed him
he would be there. I’d like to think he
knew the same.
Many people will say Joe was a brutally honest person with a
secret inner nice guy. He had a big warm
fuzzy secret heart, as the song goes. As
I’m sure his contemporaries will attest, that big heart wasn’t so secret. I was glad to call him my friend.
Joe was a warrior. An enthusiast at life. A mutual friend remarked that Joe lived his
life the way he was going to live it, consequences be dammed. He was happy.
I wish I wasn’t writing this.
Joe would quip that I might as well wish a unicorn would show
up and give me a shoebox full of gold ingots.
Except it would be an ammo box and it wouldn’t be unicorns, but either
way, the certainty of the futility of my wish would be absolutely clear. His severity would be tempered with a manner
that implied not condescension or pity but a flat unassailable certainty mixed
with a flash of compassion so intense you knew he spoke from experience and his
heart.
I miss Joe. I always
missed Joe. I will always miss Joe. There were long stretches of time that we
never spoke and never needed to. Any
time I thought of him, it was quickly followed by the certainty that at some
point, we'd meet up in Albuquerque, eat something with green chili in it, shoot
a bunch of guns and have a damn fine time.
Goodbye, my friend.
If you are somewhere, I’m sure
you’re doing something way cooler and more kick ass than any of us could
imagine.
… playing
my guitar and building castles in the sun…
