This web site is dedicated to our friend Gary Brickman, who passed away on June 26, 2000. Sailing on Gary’s Yacht Eric Eales, 13 July 2000 I knew Gary for 20 years. Despite an age gap of 13 years, we became close friends because the thing I most admired about him was the thing that he most admired about himself: his hustle. In 1981 we drove his battered white van to Washington, D.C. ostensibly preparing the route for the Disabled American Freedom Rally, a ragtag of crips and supporters who later caravanned from San Francisco to the Capitol in celebration of the International Year of the Disabled. Gary and I went because it was a grand adventure, and also because it got Gary and his van 3,000 miles from adult supervision for a whole summer. I promised his Mom I would look after him, but it was the blind leading the blind. First stop was Reno. Gary lost almost all his money at the blackjack table that night, promised not to go back and then got up early (the one and only time I ever saw Gary get up early) the next morning. This time he was winning. We negotiated a deal: I would remove all chips larger that $10. An hour later he ran out of small chips but our trip was refinanced. Next stop Salt Lake City, Pioneer Day and over 100 degrees. Gary hurt his arm. “I can’t drive,” he said. We had 2,000 miles to go. Gary shrugged, and then grinned. We continued. At some point I told Gary that the next time he dropped something it had better not be his wallet, because it was staying right where it dropped. We hit Chicago, actually hit a parked white Cadillac with pink upholstery and red tassel framed windows. “Do you think we should stop?” Gary asked. We were going the wrong way down a one-way street in a seedy neighborhood. We left. He towed my chair around the lakefront in Chicago, showed me how to get a motel room each day without having to pay. Reminded me of the energy and hustle I liked to think I had when I was 19. I told him if I was ever going to get on a private yacht, it would be his. Gary loved basketball. We’d go to watch the Warriors, put the van with the limos outside the stadium door, arrive as the game was about to begin. Gary would watch a couple of minutes of the game, spend 10 minutes fiddling with whatever electronic entertainment device he was carrying that day, then go for food, or down to the floor level, or the other side of the arena. Gary couldn’t keep still. His attention span was about 2 minutes, absolute max. We saw “The Catch” at Candlestick Park because he camped out to get 49er tickets. He had a portable TV that he’d “bought” to be returned after the game. We’d watch the A’s or the Giants but in truth baseball was too slow paced for Gary. Gary had many media jobs but his one ambition was to be an on-air reporter. He worked for Channel 2 and other local stations, and even got some summer fill-in on-air reporting assignments but was never given the opportunity to work on-air full-time. He took a job with CBS in New York, knew Dan Rather, knew everyone. He went because it was getting too difficult to continue driving his van in San Francisco given the number of tickets and threatened sanctions from his cavalier disregard of parking regulations. “Life’s too short to worry about parking tickets,” he said and returned to the Bay area when New York became inhospitable for the same reason. For a while his van was registered in Oregon in attempt to keep ahead of the parking police. Gary was smart, sharp, and fun to be around. He also never knew when to stop pushing. On a trip from San Francisco to Vancouver we arrived at a 5 Star hotel and Gary went in to negotiate a room. Two hours later we had a 2 bedroom suite with lounge, full kitchen and bar. The room rate was for less than a single room. The first thing he did when we were settled in was to request a late check the following day. Sometimes he didn’t know when to quit. Gray got into the dot.com world by accident. He applied for a famous web start-up and was dismayed to lose out to someone “younger and closer to our user profile”. He had turned 30 and it was time to at least pretend to grow up. He had little to no interest in computers. He was interested in people. He knew Steve Jobs, he went to trade shows, he networked. He lucked into a tech job and parlayed that into a position at NBCi without ever having to understand how technology worked. Machines bored him. I last saw Gary in April at the new Giants stadium. He had finagled great seats behind home plate, but spent the first half of the game touring the stadium, returning In the 5th inning with half a hamburger for me. “Dropped the other half,” he said. “It’s on me.” We talked about how he had finally straightened out his financial affairs, something we had discussed ever since he began to earn a salary worth having. He shrugged at his losses on Real Networks stock, and how his share options were below par. “It’s a gamble,” he said. “I’m a gambler.” He talked about his brother, as always with great love. His brother’s illness greatly affected Gary, and his caring showed a different side to the finger snapping pop pop popping butterfly brain usually on view. We talked about his job, and his future. Gary felt that he lacked a mentor at work. I told him that at his salary he was expected to be doing the mentoring. Gary made me laugh, made me feel energized. He left us too soon and I’m sorry I won’t get to sail on his yacht. — Eric Eales eae@bigfoot.com Gary Brickman, 1997 »home