R.I.P., alas

Rico says he's lost family and friends over the years and, while he misses most of them, he's resigned himself to the gradual diminishing of his circle of acquaintances. But the loss of a fifty-year friendship, on the other hand, is saddening. It's someone (who shall remain unidentified, for Rico's protection; the guy likes gubs as much, if not more than, Rico does, and owns a lot more than Rico does) who Rico met when his parents first moved him to California, when he was eight. They've had an interesting, if uppy-downy (to use one of the guy's phrases) relationship since then, but the relationship croaked altogether this week, in spite of Rico's attempts to revive it. (Yes, gubs were involved, but fortunately were not pointed at each other.) Rico says he doubts he'll ever see the guy again, at least until they're both under a stone somewhere... (Well, Rico says that he won't be; he's going with cremation, with his ashes scattered from Nantucket to Usal to Hana by his remaining friends.)