July 7, 2014. Mike Regan was the kind of friend you brag about, and he wasn't even a very close friend of mine. He seemed to do everything well, and it seemed effortless. He had talent and craft and skills that I marvel at. I first knew him as a chef who led a kitchen staffed with friends to an amazing Thanksgiving dinner just three months after I moved to Chicago. Seriously, I mean amazing, and that feat was repeated year after year for other holidays as well. He was a fantastic musician, who built several of the instruments on his band's stage (his drummer and decades-long friend Jason is speaking of him in the photo above), because he was also a highly skilled woodworker. That's the kind of stuff I suppose you tell other people about when trying to describe someone, but what made me proud to have him among my friends was being able to see what he meant to his friends. And that was apparent in life. I didn't feel a terribly different sentiment at his wake than I would have at a party the living Mike would have attended. There was far more talk about himself, and there were far more tears than should be at another party, but I don't think any of us felt differently when he was alive, and a great many of us will miss being able to see him again.
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