First off, here is the link : http://www.firstgiving.com/markwhittier

If you are so inclined, please go there and chip in a few bucks.

Mark Whittier was a great guy. He made me laugh, he had a horrible beard, we played stupid role playing games together with other friends. He was there for me with support and love when one of those friends died. Ironic, that soon afterwards, I would get a call from my sister asking if I was going to Mark's wake. [Long and very weird story made short - she knows his uncle very well.]

He loved Hall and Oats, Rush and Yes. He sat behind me during the SATs, even though we didn't go to the same high school. On holidays, everyone would get together at Mark's house after we did the obligatory family stuff and just hang out. He was THAT kind of guy - where you could just do that. He was a passionate man, he loved life, he loved people, and he could convince a rock that it was actually a bird given enough time. Charismatic is not the word. He had a peaceful way of talking - even when he was disagreeing with you. Sometimes to this day, I catch myself emulating it when I want to really get my point across to someone.

He wrote me a letter once, while I was in college, addressed to Steven Walk M.D. with the M.D. circled and crossed out ala Ghost Busters. Four pages of messy cursive, with ink blots. I lost that letter after he died, and haven't forgiven myself yet.

More than anything, as a true example of who Mark was, he convinced me to date his sister. She was mischievous, beautiful, and younger than me. I loved her very much (still do, always will.) and even when our relationship got as 'intense' and 'crazy' as every teenager's will, he never once told me he regretted suggesting it.

Mark Whittier was a man who died early, from a stupid assed disease that people just didn't know about. It was treatable even then, just hard to diagnose. He was good people. He *IS* still missed, and worth honoring. Take a min and look at the above website, even if you don't care or can not afford to donate funds, maybe you finding out about Wilson's disease might see you mention it to someone, who mentions it to someone, who mentions it to a doctor who find it in a patient and saves their life.

That is really all he would have wanted you to do anyway.

Tonight, after being encouraged by my wife, and shamed by my closest sister's "Who is John Galt?" bumper sticker [Or horrified should it be my brother-in-law's], I brewed myself a cup of tea, grabbed a cigar out of my humidor, and retired to the garage.

With the pellet stove churning out heat, and the cigar being a bit stronger than I expected, I started reading the first book published by a Soviet Union refugee. The forward states that Ayn Rand wrote "We the Living" first because at 25 it was something she was familiar with; The collapse of Russia into the Soviet Union.

Consuming a potent toro while drinking tea, my Russian heritage felt a little bourgeoisie twinge as I began my road to literary recovery. For a brief moment in time, I remembered who I used to be, how I used to think, and debated about how much the old me might like the 'new' me.

Its been so long since I was a literary man, you see ... 0's and 1's don't have the same texture.