A few years ago, my friends and I met up at a bar before heading over to a boisterous Academy Awards party. It was early afternoon and we were enjoying our first cocktails when a fellow stumbled into the bar and slurred loudly that he needed a drink. Apparently, he'd been kicked out of a nearby restaurant because he had taken all the condiments and started finger-painting on the table.
He was pretty annoying in his advanced inebriation, but he provided us with some entertainment, so we took photos with him and went on our merry way. From time to time, we'd see him out and we would yell his name, but he had no memory of meeting us. It became a running joke to yell his name in a crowded room and watch him whirl around with a confused expression when he didn't see anyone he recognized.
Tragically, Roommate J informed me the other night that he was found dead in his apartment Monday, apparently stabbed to death. The police have pasted flyers with his photo all over San Francisco and are investigating this possible homicide. And even though I didn't know him, it makes me all creeped out to be in such close proximity to a murder.