SIDE SALAD - Everything crunchy is good.

LIFE IS SHORT. WRITE HARD.

On the last legs of my 41st year and just three days after the start of a year with a number so futuristic that I had to look at it on the screen during Dick Clark's broadcast the way a dog looks at you when he's trying to make sense of what you're saying, I am reminded that life is not an endless commodity. Not by a longshot.

First came news this week that Ed Filo, former writer for the Stuart News, had passed away from a series of strokes at age 55.

Ed was quite the character when I met him in the early 1990s while we both were covering Port St. Lucie city government. I was working for the Palm Beach Post. Ed was filling in between beat reporters at The News. I jokingly called Ed Hawaii Fi-Lo and told him that his curly hair and bushy moustache reminded me of a young Samuel Clemens. Very little seemed to phase him.

While I was banging out stories on my TRS-800 laptop, he did crossword puzzles during city meetings. Didn't take a lot of notes until he had to. I regularly beat him on stories. He didn't seem to mind. In retrospect, I think Ed had the right outlook. It was a city meeting, for God's sake. In Port St. Freaking Lucie.

Life is short, Ed was telling me by completing No. 1 Across. Do your crosswords.

Then today I found out that Michael Browning, a former colleague of mine when I worked in the Accent section at The Post, had died last weekend at age 58.

Although he sat in front of me in the newsroom, I didn't know Michael very well. He came to the Post during the months that I was getting ready to leave to work at FoxSportsBiz.com.

His reputation through the door was huge. He had worked for 20 legendary years at the Miami Herald, from which the Post was absorbing an inordinate number of refugees. He had been in China during the student revolt. His writing was symphonic and lyrical. I was in awe.

And, in an example I try to follow to this day, he was never in the office. Why? Because the stories aren't in the office. Not the good ones, anyway.

One of the reasons I left the Post's Accent section was that I could see I would forever be a designated hitter punching out ground balls while Ted Williams was at the plate. I wasn't resentful in the least. He was a great hire. But I knew it was time to move on if I was to make any hay.

Scott Eyman at The Post wrote a lovely obit for Michael. So did Marc Fisher at The Washington Post.

But I like the idea that the best obituary a writer can have is his own work. That's the one thing that stays behind after you assume room temperature.

I particularly liked this story about suddenly having to care for his aging mother. It's a better story than the premise sounds. Magnificently better.

Even in the dark moments of the story, Browning found light in the concept of caring for his mother's dog, which was so flea-bitten, he considered putting it down:

Tippi the dog has turned into a remarkable pet in his own right. He needs to be walked daily, which is good for me and him both. He has killed a fruit rat and, spectacularly and noisily in the dark, a very large raccoon that was trespassing in the yard. It was not a pretty spectacle. The raccoon objected loudly. But the raccoons have relieved themselves in my pool so often that I couldn't feel much sorrow.

Still, Tippi has a dark side. I hope he doesn't develop a taste for fat, sleeping men.

As if that wasn't enough mid-life male journalism death, I also heard the unfortunate news that Dave Hunter, my former roommate while I was at the Anchorage Times, had passed away a month or so ago.

Dave was an interesting guy, to say the least. He had been editor of the entertainment magazine at The Sun in Gainesville when he was recruited to be features editor in Anchorage. He was one of the first people I met in Anchorage and we arrived on the same day in February to minus-10 degree temperatures.

Dave was a big guy who loved to have a good time, which fit in well with my sensibilities.

This photo was taken at the now-defunct Birdhouse in Bird Creek, Alaska. The Birdhouse was covered in panties and bras and all sorts of unmentionables. We had just spent the better part of an afternoon climbing nearby Bird Peak. We were tired. We were thirsty. And the Birdhouse was perfect, what with all the sawdust on the floor and the bar that was slanted because of an earthquake's upheaval. (Dave is wearing his ever-present white cap. We're sitting with climbing mates David Futch and his girlfriend at the time, Ruthie.)

Tourists filing off buses walked past us, taking photos of "the locals" as we drank in the corner. And yes, that's a boot cast in my right arm. Someone left it behind as a souvenir. I felt the need to use it as a coolie for my bottle of Chinook beer. It worked well, although it made my lips scratch.

Our former editor, Randolph Murray, did a lovely job capturing Dave's essence in a recent column.

Randolph writes:

It had only snowed 8 or 10 inches overnight, on top of the 8 or 10 feet we had already had since October, when I got a call at my desk from Dave, who was usually one of the first people into the office every morning.

"I can't get out of my garage," Dave reported.

"What do you mean, you can't get out of your garage?"

"I mean I can't get out of my garage. The door won't open. The motor just hums but the door won't go up."

"Well, Dave, you may just have to walk outside and shovel the snow and ice away from the door. It didn't snow that much last night but it may have drifted up over at your place," I suggested.

"That's what I thought too," Dave said. There was something curious in his voice, like he was trying to stifle a laugh.

"It's not the snow." Pause. "Randolph, there's a moose leaning against my garage door. A full-grown, 1,200 pound moose! He's standing under the eave of the house with his gigantic rump pressed up against the door.

"And everytime I try to get the door to open up, it just vibrates up against him. The moose is getting a massage! I think he likes it."

By this point we were both laughing.

"Dave, Dave, you're going to be trapped in there all day. You're going to have to go out there and chase him off."

"You come out here and chase him off! Wait'll you see the size of this thing!"

Well, eventually, after Dave quit using the electric garage door to give Mr. Moose a massage, the big brute got bored and ambled off down the street, freeing Dave and his car.

And providing me with the best true excuse I ever heard for being late to work.

Posted by Jeff at January 3, 2007 06:35 AM | TrackBack