⚓️ The Connection 007 - A Man Must Have A Code

Hi there 😄 

This is my friends & family newsletter. You probably signed up after reading one of my articles, a LinkedIn post, or after we met. You'll get a monthly email.

My friend Chris passed on November 9, 2024, in a motorcycle accident. He was riding slowly out of a parking lot in Los Angeles. They think he hit something. He fell and died. Last week, I went back to New York for his memorial service.

One year to the day that Chris and I filled a 2006 Corolla with everything we owned and drove to Los Angeles, he came home with the tattoo gun.

He unboxed the Kuro Sumi ink and the Raven Superior. A power supply box. Needles and cartridges. Stencil paper, ink caps. He spread his haul across the dining room table we had rescued from the dumpster behind the apartment.

“You taking tattoo lessons?” I asked.

He snapped on a pair of black latex gloves and powered up the gun. He took his first lesson. A small black heart, on his thigh.

I could see it from his smile. That big one, that shined in his eyes. Hooked from that first taste of ink.

Chris started inviting co-workers over to get tatted after we finished our shifts at the Thai restaurant.

We’d finish our last tables, close out, collect our tips. Then we skated home.

30 minutes later, busboys and line cooks started showing up at the door, still clutching their post-shift Modelos.

He’d swap his white button-up for the latex gloves, and ushered them into his makeshift parlor in our dining room. He got to work. Into the morning hours, the incessant hum of the gun and a single incandescent bulb filled the apartment, low voices punctuated like a record screech by guffaws of laughter.

I don’t think he even charged them for the ink. It didn’t feel right to him.

Because more than anyone else I know, Chris lived by a code.

Part of that code was a complete disdain for doing anything he hated. Chris took moral offense to the mundane. Activities that others agreed were just part of being a functioning adult.

Doing dishes. Cooking a meal. Anything that required paperwork.

Every inconvenience was a hard pill to swallow. None the intended dose.

But when Chris loved something, he went all in. He spent hours in the Venice Beach skate park. Covered the apartment walls with his paintings. And he loved his bikes. Everything about them: the sound, the speed, the culture.

His love was so big, he couldn’t keep it to himself. If he was passionate about something, he wanted you in on that passion.

When I couldn’t afford a skateboard, we shared his, like a joint custody arrangement.

He taught me how to ride a motorcycle. We used his bike. When I laid it down, he picked it up. Told me to try again.

Chris had a generous heart. He freely gave his time, money, and energy.

Three months into living in Los Angeles, I landed my first Hollywood internship.

The night before my first day, my face blew up from an allergic reaction. One eye had swollen shut.

I told Chris I was going to call out. He looked at me like I was crazy.

“Look, if you're so ugly that you're scaring clients, they'll tell you to go home. But you gotta show up."

He was right. So I did.

That was Chris. Part of his code. He showed up.

And he made sure you did, too.

Ending Note

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