Alan Nathan Yost
We lost our good friend Al Yost about 10 days ago. The memorial was yesterday. His wife Debbie asked his friends and family to share stories about what made Alan the remarkable man that he was. This is what I was able to say:
“I miss my friend Alan. It is too soon for this, to be here, mourning him. And too terribly unfair.
Unfair because Al was someone of such uncommon intelligence, and kindness, and most importantly humor. That we are all of us here and now means that we will have to bear the burden of his absence without him to lighten the mood. To say something preposterous and incredible. To be Alan, while the rest of us are too damn focused on being sad.
Alan and I were friends for ten years, and estranged for two. He wouldn’t shrink from that last statement - Al had very little patience for me when I tried to speak euphemistically. I’d try to talk around an issue - “Say what you mean,” he’d counter.
So this is what I can say of Alan: he was one of the most intensely talented designers and artist I’ve ever met. I was in awe of his wit and his sincerity, and his ability to argue with me til I agreed with everything he was saying. I cherished his sense of humor, and for the life of me, in all the time I knew him, I never had any idea when Al was kidding.
I mean, you’d be standing next to him at a party and he’d turn to you with nothing but an earnest expression on his face and say something like, “I didn’t come here to clog any pores, I was just hoping to have a good time.”
Al and I worked together in the dot com days. We shared a circle of friends long before we became actual friends. In a strange way, our work brought us together.
In 1999, I joined Alan in LA for an short client gig - he was waiting to finish up a project, I was going there to await my assignment to the Tokyo office. On my first night in town, he was kind enough to take me out to drinks - he knew I’d never spent any time in Los Angeles.
We arrived at a bar in West Hollywod that Alan liked and settled into a booth. As we placed our orders, a troop of middle aged men in motorcycle jackets and helmets entered and took position across from us at the bar. Alan looked up and recognized one of them. His gaze was suddenly full of consternation; he advised me not to look in their direction. “This guy,” he explained sullenly, “he follows me everywhere”.
I didn’t bother to check the bar, choosing instead to focus on the bourbon selection. I tried not to predict what direction Al’s sense of humor would take a particular idea, but in this case I simply assumed he was making shit up. That night, it seemed, Al was in rare form. He continued, telling me about his repeated run ins with this same guy, and his pack of motorcycle-riding companions. “Last week, I’m at the Three of Clubs, he walks in 20 minutes later. I leave and go to the Brick House, he comes in while I’m signing my check.”
I looked into the crowd at the bar, and at their center, I recognized a man of a certain age with a fairly well known, slowly greying hair cut. “Al,” I said, “You’re trying to tell me you’re being stalked by George Clooney.”
After that, Al didn’t want to talk about it. “Finish your drink, there’s better places than this to see.” We got up to leave. Al grabbed his coat and moved towards the door. We both took one last look back at the bar, where the group of middle-aged bikers had noticed our departure. The man at their center had made eye-contact with Al, and that’s when I realized with some amazement that George Clooney was waving goodbye to us as we left.
This is the kind of story I try to remind myself of when I try to grasp what we’ve lost. You got the sense around Alan that anything was possible. Things would get crazy. You’d have fun. He was full of incredible ideas, and told elaborate tales. The joy of Alan’s company was never knowing what to expect - there was no way to be prepared for what would come out of his mouth. You simply wanted to be around to experience it.
For Debbie, and Miles, for his family and friends, I cannot express the depth of my condolences to you. I loved my friend, and I will miss him. I will keep his memory close to me for as long as I live, and count myself lucky to have what time with him that I did.”
Rest in peace, my friend.
