I went out to Miami to visit Shaun in January 2024. He was living in an apartment in Aventura, perched on his couch surrounded by guitars, facing the TV. He would fall asleep there sometimes but always with a guitar within reach, maybe in case he woke up with a musical idea. He was giving himself daily antibiotic infusions through a PICC (which was an endless source of ironic entertainment for us). He had suffered multiple sites of melanoma recurrence in his leg and was recovering from several surgeries. We hung out, listening to and playing music together using his collection of exquisite guitars. We went out for food, including a run to Joe’s for a epic stone crab orgy. (side note: the first time I went to Joe’s was with Shaun many years ago. The waiter came over and asked if we had any allergies. Shaun quickly replied, “I’m allergic to stone crab claws that aren’t Jumbo.” I still use that line.)
It was pretty fun spending some time together but it got to be too much for Shaun, I suppose. He got upset, over what I still have no idea, while we were out at dinner one night. He insulted me in a raised voice and stormed out of the place, leaving me stranded at a restaurant. I took an Uber back to his apartment and got my bag; he was nowhere to be seen. I got in my rental and called my wife- she was as surprised at Shaun’s hissy fit (a term he was very fond of) as I was. I spent the night at an airport hotel and flew back to Denver the next day. I had forgotten my dopp kit at Shaun’s place. I texted him and asked that he send it to me, which he did. In the package that arrived in Denver a few days later, he also enclosed a few of the delicate spoon cookies that Kirsten had made for him. They had turned into a small pile of crumbs in transit back to Denver. It just seemed so fitting: the cookies, made from love, turned into dust as they’re sent back to Denver. Did he mean to share the cookies with me? Did he see the analogy of pulverized cookies and our friendship? Frankly, I wouldn’t put it past him.
That was the last time I saw or spoke to Shaun. Our last words were borne of anger and frustration. I’m still processing that but I don’t feel guilty about it. Although the fact that I need to write that (namely, that I don’t feel guilty) probably says something about how I maybe should feel. A couple of mutual friends contacted me shortly before Shaun died, saying I should probably reach out to him. I chose not to because I didn’t think it was something I could handle- I had been on the Shaun Samuels emotional rollercoaster as much as anyone and after a while, that’s a tough ride to keep wanting to get back on. And on some level, I fantasize that Shaun and I were cool, in our own way. There wasn’t anything I really needed to say to him before he died- he knew he was dying and he knew how I really felt about him. Nothing I or he might’ve said would have changed that.
On some level, it seems appropriate that the last time I would ever see Shaun, that fucker, he’s freaking out in some fucking restaurant and bailing the fuck out on me. It is a suitable emotional bookend to a wonderful, horrible, satisfying, embarrassing, fucking hilarious, painful, amazing, stimulating, maddening, and deeply authentic friendship. And wherever the fuck the Hairboy is right now, I’m sure he’s gotten a few good laughs recalling some of his fucking ridiculous exploits. So I’ll say goodbye to Shaun the same way he often said goodbye to me: “go fuck yourself, gorgeous.”
RIP, fucker. 9/6/25