We were playing a game of my invention when Dan walked into my coffee shop and my life. He joined in and even complemented me on the creation of an (admittedly, semi-mean) game that (nonetheless) made him smile. I would see him here and there with a group of mutual friends; at a show he was prefoming in, at a party, on his front porch couch in riverside. I would invite him to my own get-togethers where he would always notice if I was a little bit withdrawn, and try to get me out of whatever cocoon I was in.
His curiosity made his eyes sparkle, his knowledge made him chuckle. He found joy in the insights he had, and resisted the smugness, aloofness, and unkindness these things seemed to inspire in myself and most of the people I was close to. He remained kind, caring, and open even after I had fallen out with the group of friends who had connected us.
His last words to me can pull me out of dark corners of my mind still, just as he would do years before during the parties when I would go quiet. I am so thankful to know him, and I really wish I could have given more to his life- or maybe even just let him know that his part in mine was a brighter spot than he probably knew.
The first time I remember meeting Dan was 12/31/2002. He had invited my soon to be first love to the opening of Fuel where one their favorite bands at that time – My Hotel Year – was to be headlining the grand opening. Bill invited me, saying his friend Dan had invited him and even though it was New Year’s Eve, would I please go. He described Dan as one of the coolest and smartest guys ever. His childhood friend turned forever friend. I was nervous to meet someone so cool and so close to the person I was dating. Hoping I could measure up. I can’t know what Dan felt when we met, but I recall having that familiar feeling. The one you get so rarely in this lifetime, but when it occurs, its distinct and it’s unforgettable. It’s that knowing in your stomach when you meet someone you’ve known for what feels like lifetimes. Upon the initial meeting, you don’t really remember their face, or their smell, or their personality…. but there is a familiarity. As if when you showed up on this earth you were a tiny puzzle broken into fragments, and your sole mission was to find the missing pieces out there in other souls, looking for their missing fragments. You start with your family; they fill a few pieces. Then as you grow older you branch out and you find friends, lovers, and even sometimes acquaintances that fill the missing pieces of your puzzle. Dan was one of my pieces. I knew it instantly.
Through the next four years, I got to know Dan as the hetero life mate of my then boyfriend, but he also became my close friend. He showed me music that I had never heard, introduced me to true indie movies, showed me the unknown parts of Riverside and Springfield. He held my hand and cried with me the day my dad told me he was diagnosed with cancer. He bought Smirnoff ice for me (back before I knew better) the day I graduated and watched teen movies with me, but also not letting me forget how lame it was that that was all I wanted to do to celebrate graduating. ? We discussed books, fought over the correct pronunciation of verte (I was right, by the way), loved music together, and pondered the whereabouts and potential actions of certain goats together.
Dan and I were estranged for many years, but being a piece of my puzzle, when we reunited it was easy to pick up. We had to get past the initial anxieties of “are they still mad? Were they ever mad? Is it cool to greet with a hug?”. Dan was always loyal to Bill, but when we did reunite as friends it was with an understanding that he could, and did love both of us simultaneously. He was there to laugh his ass off at me when I got into my first and only bar fight, and over a chihuahua no less. We saw each other most Saturday nights for the better part of a year. Listening to Dan talk about math, science, or music was like Shakespeare speaking of prose. He had love and understanding of these, but also a reverence when he spoke of them. As if these were his religion. As if they were saving him from the demons that lurked beneath his surface. If he had these loves, he had the world. There are seldom things more beautiful than seeing someone speaking of their true loves.
The last time I saw Dan was in 2014. He was in the middle of trying to shake off his demons for good. I was getting married the next day and I asked him to please come to the wedding. He said he couldn’t make it, but he hugged me, and he whispered in my ear “remember me when I was happy. I’m going to be better this time. I love you”. The next few years Dan fought his demons over and over until he finally lost the battle. When I look back, I can see how those demons had been there all along, but he was able to keep them at bay with his youthful energy and the way young people can always believe their troubles are temporary. I don’t know when those demons became too strong for him to handle. But, to Big Dan, my sweet, kind, beautiful friend, I do remember you when you were happy. Before the demons really ran the show. I remember your laugh, your smile, your hope, your eyes, your love, your passion for music, your passion for knowledge, your passion to live. I don’t see your demons. I see the boyish excitement and wonder that was always shining in your eyes, at all times. No matter what. I love you, Danno. Then, now, forever.
Dan loved a good high five. He once taught me the trick to a successful high five: stare at your high five partner’s high-fiving elbow. Legend has it that Dan eventually found a group of folks that enjoyed high-fiving more than he did. Maybe the high fives were too frequent. Maybe he was practicing social distancing. We may never know. However, what is known is that he created the attached piece in an effort to reduce his high-fiving.
Image courtesy of Ann Teller Walsh
Here is a printer-friendly to-scale PDF version for anyone who would like to give Dan a high five.
Dan and I played TONS of Duke3d. DHOUSE.MAP was a favorite. It became a running gag that whoever got 100 frags first would be declared the winner. Of course nobody could play Duke3d for that long. And yet, somehow we managed to do exactly that. Dan on his 486, and me on my Pentium. Hours would slip by unnoticed as we blew each other up while Planet Radio played in the background. There is a download link for the map below for anyone who would like to check it out.
The year was 1994. I was in eighth grade and I had just started at a new school, Orange Park Christian Academy. There were barely enough eighth graders to fill a classroom, so Dan was pretty much in all of my classes. He was a cooler dork than I was. I had seen Star Wars, but he had the technical drawings. He and I interacted daily but weren’t really friends outside of school. One day Dan got into a minor scuffle, and his academic career at OPCA abruptly ended. We kept in touch.
My Hotel Year was one of the many bands that Dan helped me fall in love with. When I heard that they were having a reunion show in Orlando, I knew we were going. Dan, Ellie, and I made the journey down and crashed with some of Ellie’s friends. Before the show, Dan and I familiarized ourselves with some local ad campaigns.
Left: Dan doing a convincing Spider-Man pose on the world’s saddest billboard / Right: Dan and Bill performing a dramatic reading of a flyer they foundDan and Bill at the My Hotel Year reunion show
The show was great. The road trip was great. This is one of my favorite Dan memories.
I’ve always been intimidated by expensive guitars. Anything over $200 or so and I’d start to get a little reluctant. Dan, however, enjoyed the finer things in life. He worked at George’s Music at the time and wanted to check out their fancy guitars, which were in Orlando. He asked me if I wanted to go on a road trip. Of course I did, so we went. I heard Modest Mouse and Jimmy Eat World for the first time on the way down. When we arrived, we got a hotel and watched Princess Mononoke while ‘enjoying’ some Zimas. That was my first Studio Ghibli movie (and probably my last Zima). The next day we saw (and he played) the expensive guitars. They were sparkly and fancy and too rich for my blood. As we were checking out of the hotel, we saw a strange machine. It was an Internet terminal. Welcome to the future! I wanted a souvenir email, so Dan and I collaborated to write the following email:
