Within an hour of meeting Joe Franciosi, he took his glass right eye out and showed me. There wasn’t a lot of filter with Joe, one of his most endearing qualities. Kid-like in the best possible way, he was also a programming genius who was the first (only?) guy to put pro wrestling on the radio. It was during our heady days at Comedy World and Joe pitched Wrestling 101 to me. It was a no-brainer for someone who was putting together a male-skewed radio network.
That was back in the early days of this century, just past that Y2K scare, and Joe was hired on initially as a board op, but he soon became much more than that. He became family.
After Comedy World exploded, just like its logo suggested, Joe remained a friend. When I lost Billy to a sudden heart attack in 2002, well, Joe was right there at the wake, the funeral, the days after, and most importantly, in the months and years that followed. I cried many times in Joe’s presence and he never once made me feel weird about it. He man-hugged me and listened.
He was always active with me on FB and on Twitter, and even though we were miles apart politically, we always kept our humor and respect for each other intact. It was about a year ago that we met up for burgers across from my office. He brought his oldest son, a boy born to be a pro wrestler if I ever saw one, and Joe was loving his life, his marriage, and his two young kids.
Angel Adams, a great friend who I never see enough, just called and told me. It is impossible to think that at some point early this morning, a heart attack took Joe away. But it’s true. I don’t know how old he was today. I fear it was thirty-nine, just like Billy.
I’d like to say I can’t imagine the pain his wife is in right now, but I can. I hope she knows how much he loved her. I hope his kids know what an amazing and nutty father they had. I hope that Joe lives on through his wife and his kids, because his light was too bright to fade away.
I love you, Schmo. I always will.