I got back from my vacation last night, feeling relaxed and tanned. I went to work, and got a phone call from Andy that our friend, Phil O'Donnell, better known as Mr. Phil, died on Tuesday in a motorcycle accident. I'm still reeling. I'm still sick. I'm still floored beyond belief. Things like that don't happen to people like Mr. Phil. He's invincible. He's indestructable. As Andy said, he's the closest we've ever met to a living superhero.
We've known Mr. Phil since back in Andy's 9:30 club doorstaff days. He was one of the single sweetest, nicest, craziest motherfuckers I've ever met, and Andy and I absolutely adored him. He gave the most awesome, back-cracking hugs you could ever, ever ask for, and is the only man aside from my husband who could make me blush with his complements. But it wasn't just me - he made everyone feel that way. We've spent the day in hysterics - the crying kind and the laughing kind - thinking about all the funny/insane/ridiculous/wonderful things that man did, both on his own and with his sweet, tiny lady-friend Puck.
I am heartbroken. Andy is devistated. I don't know what else to say. The world is a worse place today.
We love you, Mr. Phil. We will miss you so.