Well, hell.

I first met James when he was the youngest member of a cast, playing the oldest character, in a production of Richard 2 I happened to be dramaturg on. Even then his intelligence and talent shone, but I had no idea what was to follow.

Cut to a few years later, and he called out of the blue, saying he was thinking of moving to New Haven. We quickly passed friendship, and became collaborators and counselors to one another. We shared stages in Urinetown and Sister Mary, supported each other at Elm and Putney; he directed me in Catastrophe and The Big Knife; when we tired of marathoning BSG, we turned our pens to the page and churned out draft after draft of scene after scene.

We’d go toe to toe on Hamlet, and more often than not, break even.

We’d chain smoke in my kitchen or at Christy’s, where I’d request a tune from Allen <https://www.facebook.com/allen.gogarty?fref=mentions>, and you’d sing along to another. And another. And another. You invented the St. Samuel Beckett (a shot of Bushmills dropped into a pint of Magners).

I’d struggle and you’d offer advice. You’d struggle and I did what little I could. You came to Taunton for the holidays and dazzled my family with your wit, charm, and prodigious mind.

You made the time (on basically no notice) to raise a glass to me on my 35th birthday, and many others before.

You tried to convince me Midsummer was a good play, and you came closer than anyone else.

You despised social media, as it turns out rightfully, some might say presciently, so. So you’d hate this post, and the others I’ve seen lamenting your passage from this world into the next. But this is how we’re dealing with this now.