All afternoon I was sure I would sit down and write something eloquent here, but it’s not going to happen. My friend and colleague Charlie Griffin died today. He was not sick. There was no accident. He was jogging, and he collapsed, and by the time a stranger found him he was gone. Charlie was the most even-tempered person I’ve ever known. When times were hard and work was shit he could still crack a joke and get a laugh. He told the damnedest stories–made you believe the biggest pile of BS without cracking a hint of a smile. There was always a smile in his eyes, though, so you always had to wonder if he was pulling one over on you. I keep hoping to find out that he’s pulling one over on us all today, that he’s going to return to school in August with stories about going toward the light and bargaining with the devil, that there’s somebody else in town named Charles Griffin, and the one we know and love is at home in his recliner watching baseball with his cat in his lap. I know there’s not much use in that line of thinking, but I just can’t wrap my mind around the reality. I’m stuck in the surreal place.