I'd been living in Mexico for over a year, writing and teaching, and was finally moving back to New York on August 25th. I had many reasons why I wanted to return, but Michael was a huge part of it.
I can't precisely recall at what point we became friends. I know we got along well from the get-go, when we both enrolled at Columbia University's Graduate School of the Arts in August 2002. Soon, Michael stood out as a completely unique individual whose films and writing had a flavor and personality that is hard to pin down.
Michael was quirky, but he was never eccentric. He was funny, yet always grounded. And it's amazing to think that maybe people wouldn't know he and I were such close friends— because he was so close to so many. How could I even possibly begin to claim him all to myself?
This is why his death also seems so surreal. I woke up at 5 this morning and, for no apparent reason, just began crying. I couldn't stop thinking about him. I've done a lot of crying since I heard the news (I only found out four days after it happened), but for some reason was unable to deal with it. Maybe it was that I hadn't seen him since January, or that we had spoken but everything seems faded at such a long distance; it made the news seem so unreal, so distant.
Or perhaps it was that in such a crazy world, full of bad news and fast-paced living, the heavy realization that one of my best friends had died was muted by my own denial. I kept feeling, deep down, that as soon as I arrived in New York, I would pick up the phone and call him, and we would go get a beer or catch a movie and pick up exactly where we left off. Here we are, almost a month later, and I'm barely starting to really feel, to really deal with the grief of Michael being gone. If this is me, who had only known Michael for seven years, I can't even begin to imagine what his family feels like.
For that was the power of Michael— he made a difference. He marked me in so many ways that it's hard to narrow down his influence as a human being and as a friend. There are so many things that I've taken from him that listing them would take an impossibly long time. I've been having very sudden flashbacks for the past few weeks, unexpected memories of moments or details about him, and I immediately have to regale someone with them. From random things like his undying love of spider-monkeys (as a documentary on them unexpectedly begins on TV) to his love of children's lit (he could always help me remember the name of any movie I saw as a kid, especially if it was adapted from a book).
I always said he was ridiculously smart, and every time I said something horrendously stupid, he would call me out on it, but never in a condescending or higher-than-thou tone. On the contrary, he genuinely wanted me to be corrected for my benefit, not his.
And his love of puppets! I remember walking down the tiny streets of Venice four years ago and seeing the most magical and random of puppets on display, and even though they were priced way out of my range, I at least had to take a photo for Michael to see. Surely he had never seen puppets like this! (And of course he had, but he always appreciated the fact that I still wanted him to see them.) He was so in love with puppets he even took me to see a tiny little play called Die Hard: The Puppet Musical. He was all over puppet musicals even before they became cool again thanks to Forgetting Sarah Marshall.
We had a different appreciation for movies. In fact, I always joked that I shouldn't even bother recommending anything to him because he never liked anything I suggested, and while not altogether true, it did create an aura of mutual understanding of what each of us appreciated in cinema. Knowing full well that his was a more refined taste than mine, I tried to get him to watch the offbeat, the weird, the B-movies that I think he would benefit from, since his humor was just as offbeat. He seldom loved any of them, but he did find the nugget of my reasoning to be logical and to some degree expected.
That was also why, whenever he wrote a tragic or dramatic screenplay, I would find it funny. Michael would be dead serious about his subject matter, but his characters would have these wacky, funny personalities and hilarious, over-the-top names. Even he had to concede that he was innately funny.
I think it was when we were together in a screenwriting class that I noticed Michael's particular sensibilities. I have always wanted to remake this random obscure, surreal and not-quite-successful film, and I lent him the DVD. I told him he should write it and I would direct it. He was mildly insulted —after all, he thought the movie was awful— but after I explained what it was that made me want to remake it and why I felt his voice was perfect for it, he realized I was in fact complimenting him.
When I left for Mexico, Michael and I had just begun a web series. In all honesty, we had talked about it for over a year but didn't do anything because, as two struggling artists living in New York, we needed to make rent and pay student loans and kept putting it off. By then, both of us had moved out of student housing (me to Brooklyn, he to Queens), so the distance was another factor. We saw each other often, but it was hard to think about work when we met. All we wanted to do was hang out! So when the threat of my departure became real, we put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard, if you will) and we hammered out the details of the project. Then we held auditions and shot about a third of everything we had written, but we couldn't put anything online until we found the right actor for the co-lead role. Also, we had one scene that involved a tiny bit of special effects.
The day after we shot those first thirteen episodes, I left for Mexico. Michael was to continue the search for the missing actor, and he was to work on the FX. Again, paying rent and loans got in the way, and I would constantly bug him about getting back on the horse. I can almost hear his boisterous laugh at every message I sent him —and for a few weeks, I'd e-mail him daily— trying to get him to continue what we started. When I told him I was finally moving back to New York, he was so excited. With my return, he knew there was no excuse, and we'd both work on finishing the project we so often spoke about.
But I can't blame him for not working on the project in the meantime. I was gone. He couldn't do it all by himself. And now I don't know how I can possibly do it without him. Just thinking about it is emotionally draining.
We worked on so many projects together, on so many film shoots and read so many of each others' scripts. As I type this I realize that it's hard to describe how dear he was to me, and I could never really do him justice.
Michael preferred using environmentally-friendly companies, even if they couldn't provide the best service as the bigger corporations. He was willing to commute for an eternity to help a friend move, if only for an hour. He would warn you that after 2 or 3 am he couldn't really function anymore and yet would still stay up late to work on your film. He'd read your screenplay and genuinely worry about the fate of your characters. He once dragged me to a party that turned out to be a rave, and it was expensive and lame and everything I did not want to be doing that night, so by the end of it, he was willing to endure any torment to make it up to me. "Andy," he said, "you're my best friend at Columbia. I hate that you had a bad time. I'll go with you to any heavy metal concert you ask me to." I never held him up to that.
He was charismatic and smart and kind and talented beyond words, and it kills me that I'll never see him again. And yet...
And yet I know he's okay. When I woke up this morning, the reason why I felt like I needed to write this, was because I knew deep down that wherever he is, Michael is doing just fine. I can't stop crying yet I'm somehow chuckling as well, because I can picture him with his feet propped up and laughing uproariously, ever the raconteur. I was lucky to have met Michael, and whoever has him now, they're blessed to have him.
I wish I could honor Michael in a way that he deserves. I wish I could grab one of his (inevitably) funny scripts and make it into a movie. I know I'm a ways away from the kind of clout that allows me to direct any old project I choose, but when I do, it would be an honor to bring his words to life. I will also try to rekindle our last project together. In the meantime, the best I can do is remember Michael for the wonderful human being he was, and try to honor his memory by being the best person I can be.
Rest in peace, my dear friend.
