Adam Curry, 1983 - 2007
For those of you who haven't heard of the untimely death of my beloved friend/beer buddy/pot pal, Adam Wesley Brown Curry, I'm sorry you had to read it in a fucking LiveJournal. But I need to write my own eulogy for Adam. Adam had been diagnosed with leukemia last May, and received a bone marrow transplant in September. After battling a couple of nasty infections over the holidays, he got home about a week and a half a go for a night, and Shane and I hung with him. It was fun; we played Wii and Burnout. It was the last time I saw him. And he looked so well. But another infection claimed his life a few days ago.
My earliest memory of Adam was a fight we had in first grade. We've talked about this fight quite a bit in the past few years, and neither of us could ever figure out what exactly we were fighting about. We both remember how the fight ended when I DDT'd his ass. Sure, it wasn't a proper DDT, but it worked.
Over the years we did many things together; as kids, my favourite was the exhibition. One year in particular, Adam and I bought bracelets and went wild. That year, for some reason, there were two tilt-a-whirls. We'd ride one, and as soon as we got off it, we'd jump on the other one. I don't even remember how many times we did. Or the time Adam, Brian Brouwer, Mike Ryan and I crammed into a tilt-a-whirl, only to have Brian throw up his wheat puffs breakfast over Adam and Mike. I got away scott free in that one.
But over the past few years, my times with Adam have usually involved beer and pot. I'd head over to his house on a weekend, and we'd drink, toke, play video games and listen to music. The best was his shed, though. His dad's, to be exact; built by Bruce Curry himself. The three of us would sit out there, drinking Keith's, toking off of a joint held by roach clips with a die on the end, shooting the shit about anything and everything for hours on end. Most of you who know me know I love to talk, and Adam always would listen to me, no matter hat I was rambling about or what bullshit I was spitting out. And in turn, he'd respond and engage me. What more could a friend ask for?
The worst thing about all this, other than his actual death, I suppose, was his optimism. Anytime I saw him he was so sure he was going to get better, and putting on a smile in a way only Adam could. Whether he actually thought this, I'll never know. But he put on the brave face and kept the rest of us from worrying. That was Adam; his biggest flaw was his greatest strength. He was just too damned nice, and thought of others before himself. :)
But I will not mourn Adam's death. I refuse to. Death is but a part of life, and Adam's proverbial ticket just got punched way too early. Celebrate his life. We talked about this a few nights in the shed, and we both agreed that one must remember the good times, rather than grieving the end. That's the way Curry would have wanted it; I plan to get blind stinking drunk and as high as possible to honor his memory. I doubt he'd want it any other way.
Adam, if you're out there somewhere in the great beyond, and have a high speed internet connection (and if you do, it's probably a T3), I want to say what I never did. I loved you like a brother, and always will. I could never have asked for a better friend.
So please, sit down, relax, and crack open a bottle of Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale in honour of our departed friend. Smoke a little cheeb, too, if that's your thing. Remember the man who always made me smile, always made me laugh, and was always up for hanging in the shed.
Wherever you are, Adam, I can only hope you've got a big bag of crabs handy.
Good night, sweet prince.
My earliest memory of Adam was a fight we had in first grade. We've talked about this fight quite a bit in the past few years, and neither of us could ever figure out what exactly we were fighting about. We both remember how the fight ended when I DDT'd his ass. Sure, it wasn't a proper DDT, but it worked.
Over the years we did many things together; as kids, my favourite was the exhibition. One year in particular, Adam and I bought bracelets and went wild. That year, for some reason, there were two tilt-a-whirls. We'd ride one, and as soon as we got off it, we'd jump on the other one. I don't even remember how many times we did. Or the time Adam, Brian Brouwer, Mike Ryan and I crammed into a tilt-a-whirl, only to have Brian throw up his wheat puffs breakfast over Adam and Mike. I got away scott free in that one.
But over the past few years, my times with Adam have usually involved beer and pot. I'd head over to his house on a weekend, and we'd drink, toke, play video games and listen to music. The best was his shed, though. His dad's, to be exact; built by Bruce Curry himself. The three of us would sit out there, drinking Keith's, toking off of a joint held by roach clips with a die on the end, shooting the shit about anything and everything for hours on end. Most of you who know me know I love to talk, and Adam always would listen to me, no matter hat I was rambling about or what bullshit I was spitting out. And in turn, he'd respond and engage me. What more could a friend ask for?
The worst thing about all this, other than his actual death, I suppose, was his optimism. Anytime I saw him he was so sure he was going to get better, and putting on a smile in a way only Adam could. Whether he actually thought this, I'll never know. But he put on the brave face and kept the rest of us from worrying. That was Adam; his biggest flaw was his greatest strength. He was just too damned nice, and thought of others before himself. :)
But I will not mourn Adam's death. I refuse to. Death is but a part of life, and Adam's proverbial ticket just got punched way too early. Celebrate his life. We talked about this a few nights in the shed, and we both agreed that one must remember the good times, rather than grieving the end. That's the way Curry would have wanted it; I plan to get blind stinking drunk and as high as possible to honor his memory. I doubt he'd want it any other way.
Adam, if you're out there somewhere in the great beyond, and have a high speed internet connection (and if you do, it's probably a T3), I want to say what I never did. I loved you like a brother, and always will. I could never have asked for a better friend.
So please, sit down, relax, and crack open a bottle of Alexander Keith's India Pale Ale in honour of our departed friend. Smoke a little cheeb, too, if that's your thing. Remember the man who always made me smile, always made me laugh, and was always up for hanging in the shed.
Wherever you are, Adam, I can only hope you've got a big bag of crabs handy.
Good night, sweet prince.