We will accept testimony on content and manner because we were in Alameda at a farewell dinner for the Cowboy Troubadour Michael Koppy, who after some 20 years of below-water rent in San Francisco lost his apartment when the new owners moved in their dad, who (Koppy says) spent the last decade living in a tent.
Why do we love our friends? Because of their stories, of the twists of their lives -- the ups, downs, sideswipes that make such good stories, true or not, pruned or not, pumped up and glossed over or not.
Koppy always tells a good story, but he is not autistic. He asked us all what our weirdest jobs were which so enmeshed us all in memory and introspect that *he* never told his. Which I bet would have been odd, and that he got fired from it, too.
I'll miss him, which is my current default emotion.
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