You want me to write, fine I'll write.

The name Crazy Al didn't come out of nowhere. It may have started when we caught him smoking weed in his sleeping bag at 6am and saying good morning to a duck. It may have started when we were river rafting and we hit the side of a boulder the size of a truck, and he was hooting and hollering like an indian on the warpath. It may have started with any number of remembered incidents but I think Crazy Al was Crazy Al way back when he was just Alan. He was wild and crazy and he lived his life like an Eagles song.
He also had the biggest heart you could imagine. He loved his friends and family with the same passion he applied toward every facet of life. He'd always open your beer before handing it to you. He'd always make you smile when you needed it. He taught each of us a lesson about living life to it's fullest and enjoying every moment. He was always going too fast; in his car, on his motorcycle, in his go-cart that he built. I believe that he wanted to experience everything, and knew he had a limited amount of time to do it. He even talked too fast. Like he had so much to say and could never depend on people sticking around to listen until he was finished.
He was 33 when he hit that lightpost going 35 miles an hour on his motorcycle. Three years ago this month. I listened to the stories and watched grown men cry and thought about all the ways we touch and learn from each other in this world. "Never take it for granted" he told me one time. I stood outside and cried and remembered him alone.