Hub - Here is to you Frank!

I don’t know how to reach you, Frank. I’ve been looking around, but it seems you’ve gone interstellar. I took that late flight from Barcelona, hoping to see you on Sunday. But we obviously missed each other at the airport—your last flight took off just as I landed at Son Sant Juan.

You’re probably sitting in some interstellar corner bar, listening to klingons at the next table while a giant squidfish of a bartender tries to catch your eye. I wonder what the house drink is—Moloko Plus with knives, I guess. But I’m sure you ordered that bucket of beer you always kicked back. I’ll raise a bucket of beer and think of you now and then. I miss you, man. I know it’s selfish, but it’s better than squidfish.

Old bastard!

When I visited on tuesday, you still tried to make me laugh, telling me that story about the catheter and how four nurses had to hold you down. You’ve got balls, man. By the way, greetings from Julia and the kids. She misses you too. Anyway, you two always got along better. Ha!

You’re the kind of mild person who can get hard on someone when needed. I picture you interstellar, sitting by your motorbike, calmly fixing it with a bottle of whiskey at your side, like something out of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. You give that steady look of yours, the one that says you know exactly what you’re doing.

I still have that workshop lamp of yours. You lent it to me two years ago, and I know it’s yours because when I plug it in, it shines.

So, I’ll let you to it. Write me if you can. I’ll be waiting. Same old address.

Give Alan a hug. Does he still wear that menjou beard? He got there earlier than you, so I’m sure he’ll show you around.