This is how a road gets made...

...And this is where it ends. I've never had a friend like Greg Stanuszek, literally. We met over the telephone in a three-way multiplication frenzy back in the early 1990s, and pretty much stayed on the party line until his untimely death two days ago. More than 15 years, then, of raucous banter about this bitchfest and that "no, WHAT am I supposed to do?" not only challenging the evolution of the queer lexicon but also elevating itself into a whirling, impressionistic body of splattered ebullience; a code language rivalling Pig Latin in its exclusivity. Now that party line is dead, and the rooms of my head and heart have gone silent. Fate is a cruel bitch.

Along the way, though, I picked up so many little tokens that when pressed together form a pretty large part of who I am today. What we shared in common from the very beginning -- back when pencils pressed to paper while landlines toggled on the shoulder -- was fairly insane to the outside world. Our post-dated Star Hits lives had fermented into a sort of careeristic diligence that was not afraid to call magazine editors or MTV programmers as if we had every right to. As a result, I became a journalist and he became a marketing guru hopping from BMI to VH-1 and every other party operation on the Los Angeles landscape. Sure, his was bigger. But he never treated me like anything less than an accomplished scribe, one worth my weight in literary bullion. He thought I was the best writer in the world. He was wrong, but I needed to hear it.

It was the most unique of friendships. We didn't swirl around our late 20s in the same car, or our early 30s in the same bar. We were instead satellites, confidantes, and confessional booths for each other's end of day post-scripts. Many did involve the shoes of John Taylor or the hair of Nick Rhodes, but many did not. He was a true friend, one who I cried to over both mundane and severe circumstances. We were two cups connected cross-country by one string, one constantly vibrating string.

We yanked it only twice (or three times, depending on how you count things). The first time was in 1996 when the physics of said pull brought us both to New York City for Pulp's one and only American appearance on the Different Class tour. We were so NME it hurt, and so NME that when we actually saw an NME reporter we simply brushed by him on the way to a VIP area. But it was the surrounding days -- those in which we acted like we had been lifelong friends -- that were the most brilliant. At least what I can remember of them: Dancing with Kevin Aucoin and Jean Paul Gaultier at a nightclub, tracing the steps of Boy George and Marilyn to the loo, sleeping in until 4 p.m. We were such a pretty mess on Vanity's dress.

The only other time(s) was just two months ago. Duran Duran were pulling their Broadway stint in early November, and Greg made it clear that I had to be there, that we had to finally do what we had wanted to do our entire lives in seeing Duran Duran together. I flew up, got off the plane, and rushed to the hotel room with bad news.

"I think there's going to be a strike," I blubbered.

"Don't talk about it," he snapped. "You'll make it happen."

In the next two hours, he, his friend (and now mine) Patty and I scurried throughout the room trying to pull resources. We were literally going to put this gig on ourselves; surely we knew some club owners, and this was fucking Duran Duran! We went down to the venue, The Ethel Barrymore Theater, and approached one of two strikers. She was a decidedly dull woman at whom we both pouted. Greg asked her what it is she wanted while reaching for his checkbook. I told her that she was indeed ruining my life. It wasn't a total loss, though. Greg, Patty and I spent the day in New York and the night at a bar with the band's amazing crew and some other likeminded New York friends. He was trying to get me to stay. He got the crew and management to try to force me to stay. I didn't stay. The next morning I was on a plane back home to Orlando, oddly elated by what might have been better than a concert.

On Monday night, the day after I got home, Greg phoned with his credit card already pulled out. He instructed me to get online, read the number over the phone, and bought my plane ticket back for the rescheduled Tuesday night show. I arrived just in time to walk to the Roseland, get ushered via Greg through the backstage door, and sat down right next to Simon's mom, John's wife, and everybody else who was somebody I thought I didn't deserve to be in the company of.

During the middle of the show, Greg and I walked down to the front of the stage. I started bouncing like an idiot. He stood there beaming and proud like a dad. There was a "we finally made it" look on his face and by the time the poignant and rarely played "Do You Believe In Shame?" came on we were hugging and singing (not so beautifully) like it was the end of the world. And that's the face I'm going to remember for the rest of my life.

He was the most proactive, selfless, ridiculously energetic ball of energy that I've had the honor of basking in. I feel lucky I even had the chance.

I love you Greg. I'll be waiting for your call.

The Last Man Standing

Billy