In the midst of life being hectic, insane, messy, and stressful (and yet somehow still wonderful, beautiful, and amazing), we get a very unexpected phone call.
Bryan’s dear and very cool, talkative, artistic, and inspirational uncle Wolfgang (real name Michael Golden) died inexplicably while riding his motorcycle on the highway. His aunt was not with him, thankfully. He was only 62, in good health, and will be incredibly missed.
I wanted to write about how busy I am, how terrible work is for me right now, how the world always seems to kick me while I’m down. But I think instead I’ll just write about Wolfgang and how much he meant to me.
Wolfgang was always the type of person who would just keep talking. He never stopped. It didn’t bother him if his audience didn’t seem to care, but Bryan and I always looked forward to visits with him. We got to talk about art, life, photography, the desert, motorcycles, and society. He used to be an art professor at the university here, so he taught us a lot about local Vegas/Nevada art culture. That said, his father apparently lives or lived in Gerlach, NV, and he once apparently literally ran into Burning Man back in 98 or 99 on his Harley. He never stopped telling us about how we just had to make it to Burning Man someday.
Of course, being teenagers, we didn’t make it to Burning Man until this last year. And of course it was the most incredible experience, and we couldn’t wait to come home and tell him all about it. We took about a million polaroids and shared them with him and his wife. Then we saw him again on Christmas, where he gave us the best gift (he always does) – some homemade birdhouses made from found wood at the local mountain. He got a little drunk and said some silly things to his wife that he probably shouldn’t have said in public. It was great getting to spend that time with him, even though I was sick and tired.
He was a legend that I wish I never had to tell my kids about wistfully. He will be missed more than words can ever express. Hug someone you love today.
