Mike Linz was one of my oldest and most trusted friends. A number of Chicago galleries have shown his art over the years, but Mike never really broke through, and struggled all his life.
Long ago, he was hit by a car late on a winter's evening. Unable to walk due to a crushed leg, Mike dragged himself for the better part of an hour through the snow until he made it home.
But yesterday, his luck ran out; thirty years of alcoholism had ravaged his body to the point where it could no longer provide a home for the bundle of neurons that made up his Mikeness.