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Mark Bricklin passed away over the weekend.
If you don’t know his name, maybe you’ll know it when I’m done.
Mark was the first guy to take an actual chance on me in the full-time working space.
He hired me for my first writing and editing gig, despite my inexperience — perhaps because he found one joke he liked in my sample tests, and that I also looked like I worked out 19 hours a day. My pecs had abs. And my abs had pecs. And my biceps had calves. (I could do this forever).
In the winter of 1988 just weeks after the Loma Prieta earthquake broke the mirror in my mom’s living room and sent me on a bicycle to the liquor store — I flew from SFO to a cold, mysterious place called Allentown, Pa., previously known to me through a morose musical effort by Billy Joel, who made a bundle from singing about despair. That’s impressive. He would later squander that genius on “Uptown Girl.”
The job I had applied for was assistant editor for Prevention magazine, the world’s largest health magazine at