I know its late....I know you're weary...
It's funny, I don't often turn to writing anymore unless I'm feeling one emotional extreme or another. Two weeks ago I was laid off from my job, which is bad, but I'm working through. Tonight though, I was broadsided with awful news. A former colleague of mine, an amazing editor, true journalist and great man and friend, Rich Pedroli, passed away this morning of a sudden heart attack.
It's hard for me to write this, but since the others who knew him as well as I did are so far away, this has to be my outlet, my channel for grieving, as my friends here, well, they just don't get it.
I met Rich in June of 2004 when I was hired at the MetroWest Daily News. He was large, loud, and Italian. I didn't really get to know him I ended up sitting next to him on the desk. Having two loud people sitting in a close proximity is never a good idea. We were loud together. Our conversations ranged from how much Matt Clement sucks as a pitcher to softcore HBO porn. He loved Eva Longoria, talking about his ass, and his gorgeous 6 year old niece. Whenever the piece of shit vending machine in the cafeteria stole my money and my candy, Rich always managed to beat the hell out of the contraption and get me my Swedish Fish. Professionally, I learned a lot from Rich. I learned how to write headlines, and edit copy, and he was always there to "crack open his brain" and do my A2 if 12:15 a.m. rolled around and I was still neck-deep in pages. Rich was the spirit of the night desk. He was among the veterans, and there was a reason for that. Underneath the dick and fart jokes, there was an editor who not only had the talent and abilities to design "award winning front pages," there was a compassionate man who always, ALWAYS took the time to make sure that everyone else made it out as close to 1 a.m. as humanly possible.
None of these words do him justice. I don't think any words ever will. The subject line of this entry is from a Bob Seager song that we used to sing to each other every single night when the paper was put to bed.
"We've got tonight, babe. Why don't you stay..."
Be good, Rich. I miss you.
It's hard for me to write this, but since the others who knew him as well as I did are so far away, this has to be my outlet, my channel for grieving, as my friends here, well, they just don't get it.
I met Rich in June of 2004 when I was hired at the MetroWest Daily News. He was large, loud, and Italian. I didn't really get to know him I ended up sitting next to him on the desk. Having two loud people sitting in a close proximity is never a good idea. We were loud together. Our conversations ranged from how much Matt Clement sucks as a pitcher to softcore HBO porn. He loved Eva Longoria, talking about his ass, and his gorgeous 6 year old niece. Whenever the piece of shit vending machine in the cafeteria stole my money and my candy, Rich always managed to beat the hell out of the contraption and get me my Swedish Fish. Professionally, I learned a lot from Rich. I learned how to write headlines, and edit copy, and he was always there to "crack open his brain" and do my A2 if 12:15 a.m. rolled around and I was still neck-deep in pages. Rich was the spirit of the night desk. He was among the veterans, and there was a reason for that. Underneath the dick and fart jokes, there was an editor who not only had the talent and abilities to design "award winning front pages," there was a compassionate man who always, ALWAYS took the time to make sure that everyone else made it out as close to 1 a.m. as humanly possible.
None of these words do him justice. I don't think any words ever will. The subject line of this entry is from a Bob Seager song that we used to sing to each other every single night when the paper was put to bed.
"We've got tonight, babe. Why don't you stay..."
Be good, Rich. I miss you.