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Deej! What's up dude! Last night I had a dream about you. You and Layla came over to my house and insisted on staying the night, basically just crashed the premises and made yourself at home. You took over both my room and my office, commandeered my desk, which you made your personal work space, and even shut the doors. Even had you left them open I wouldn't have entered, knowing you to be an incorrigible slob. I remember that time you visited me in Denver, cracked out of your mind with that gypsy hoe, and without further ado walked into my shower and washed all that temporary dye from your hair, staining my curtains for good. What I don't do for a friend, or let be done as the case may be.

Soon a black transvestite appeared on the scene (in the dream) to levy charges against you for discriminating against a member of the LGBT population, which even the tranny considered weird as you have had some homosexual experiences yourself. Recently I had looked up the definition of hypocrisy and such behavior qualifies, for hypocrisy is essentially not practicing what you preach, in this case saying that same sex encounters are bad, when doing them yourself, whether on drugs, procuring drugs, or otherwise. Weird how this word figured into my dream like that. The tranny must have been a stand-in for your BFF, Rob, who was always in love with you. How is he these days?

Anyhoo, I finally mustered the nerve to join you in the bedroom. You and Layla were very much in love in the dream, just as you had been in the early 90s, before shit went south. I thought back to that threesome we had enjoyed back in the day. Would there be an encore? She sure had great legs in the dream, gently caressed by this thigh-high form fitting rayon black dress. Suddenly I knew I was dreaming. What to do? I wondered. Since you have taken a walk on the dark side I have always been somewhat nervous in your presence, bracing myself for some wild misadventure or even catastrophe. You are such a wild-card, my friend! In the dream I felt this sense of emerging dread, so I invented some pretense for escorting you outside, hoping to have my quarters to myself again, and we proceeded to run down the block barefoot, a pastime I love in waking life. You aren't much of a runner, how could you be with your two-pack-per-day smoking habit, but in the dream you seemed content to match me stride for stride.

Halfway up the street we encountered two young men with frosted tips who were looking for their car. I instructed them to continue in the direction we had come from, as they might find their vehicle there, ignoring that you could see the cul-de-sac from which we emerged from the guys' position on the street, and there was no car in sight. I was trying to think of what else fun and crazy to do while hanging with you in la-la land, but nothing came to mind and then I woke up. And I've thought of you all day. Why didn't you return my recent call? Perhaps you have fallen off the wagon again. Is it still glass that you prefer? I guess when drug use begins at such an early age, for you it was in the pre-teen years, it's a hard habit to kick. 

But DJ, I want you to know that you'll always be one of my best best friends, and not only because having few friends these days I find myself living in the past now and again, pining for what once was. No. I'm not a piner. Truly you had such an impact on me. When I first met you in Little League and you were the star pitcher for the Giants, you were my idol. Who else could pitch shut out after shut out while also leading the league in home runs. And then you threw a perfect game in All-Star competition. You were as good as any Little League World Series hurler, even the behemoths from Taiwan that are really like sixteen, everybody knows. Of course at practically six feet tall you weren't the average 12-year-old. You were basically an adult, already smoking and maybe even drinking back then, and sex would soon follow. Was it at 13 or 14 that you lost your virginity? But you always kept your wild ways from me, knowing that I was a clean liver. Which is why I called you my alter-ego once, everything that I wasn't, but together we found completion. 

When I started smoking weed in college it was light it up! Remember the fun we used to have, working at Louise's Trattoria on Monday nights and then ordering a large pizza and going back to your place to get baked and chow down, look at Dali paintings and get deep? A versatile connoisseur, it was you who turned me on to adult cinema, and to boogie boarding, and to heavy metal music. I still listen to Sabbath's Heaven and Hell and Iron Maiden. Hell, the otherworldly voice of Ronnie James Dio alone got me through medical school. You were always on the cutting edge. Finger on the pulse. Luckily I never followed you into smoking crystal meth, although I did snort it a few times, but never with you. Although if we had ridden the white lightning together, I'm sure we'd have had a blast, since you are one of the funnest dudes to hang with ever! Some may say you are a case of wasted potential, having been drafted by the Dodgers only to never play baseball at the collegiate levels while others with half your talent made Division I, but I say to hell with the naysayers. You followed your heart, did what you wanted to, a rebel with a cause: which has always been to live the high life. And I say, good for you, son. Even when you go low, so low, like when you wound up barefoot and strung out on Sunset Blvd trading sex favors for your next fix (or so the rumor goes) you are so resilient you always resurface, and with one helluva story to tell.

I hope this letter finds you well, my brother. Alive, sober at least some of the time. Write or call whenever's clever. My mom gives you her best. You're always welcome to pay her a visit. Take care bro. Adam


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