A few words about Brian McKenna

The South City gem of a human died early Saturday morning in a terrible accident.

“I’m a big fan of yours, Brian.”

“Dan, the feeling is mutual.”

That was my last exchange with Brian McKenna, a prince of a human being who treated everyone he met like they were his best friend. The interaction came a few months ago at Stan’s Bar, but the memory still felt as fresh as water. That’s how Brian made everyone feel who came into his orbit. For a guy who beat cancer and lived to carry a positive attitude down the road into his 60s, it’s a rarity to carry that sort of air around. You just wanted to be a part of it.

“Your vibe attracts your tribe.”

Brian’s vibe attracted thousands, maybe more when you consider he spent years on the radio. One could feel that vibe sear into their hearts this afternoon as news spread around the internet (aka Facebook) that he was killed last night in a car accident. Most likely doing something he had done several times before, McKenna was struck by a car while crossing Hampton between Murdoch and Nottingham Avenue. The curve around that street makes cars come out of the woodwork like metal slingshots, which could have been too quick for someone to notice passing the street shortly after 1 a.m.

My wife, who knew Brian as well as I did due to their interactions at Stan’s Bar, texted me about a Facebook post shared by Sam Vitale about Brian’s passing. Having just sat down to watch a movie at the Esquire, I was shocked and had to redownload the Facebook app on my phone to confirm the news.

“Please, let it be a pile of shit that occurred after too much yeast and flour had snuck into Sam’s head from the delicious bakery his family has owned for decades.”

Unfortunately, the news was true. Rene Knott, JC Corcoran, and others shared the news. When credible souls like that push it around, something indeed did happen and the sadness hits like a ton of bricks. I didn’t know Brian well enough, a fact that is still downloading in my brain as I write this--but I knew him well enough to feel the weight of the loss. We lived five minutes apart in South City.

He bordered St. Louis Hills, while I was in Princeton Heights slightly more south. Every time I would go on a run near his home off Tamm Avenue and Nottingham, I would look up at the UFC punching dummy to see if he was out there listening to songs while drinking a cocktail and taking a hit off of his vape pen. His balcony hung over the northern end of Francis Park like he was the Prince of that street. Few people would disagree.

If there was a charity, he was involved. If there was a person in need, he was ready to help. If someone needed some reach on social media, he was armed to make a long post and dedication to said person. Every parade that flowed through Tamm and Donovan included an extended stop by his house. Brian cared for a lovely older woman named Babs; they did a hilarious podcast together every so often that was about nothing but what was happening in their lives.

If you would have told Brian he wouldn’t outlive Babs, the disbelief could be sliced with a knife. The truth is none of us know when we’re checking out of his party. Few of us get to know our end. That’s life, the sweet and bitter all rolled into the next moment. We just hope we get another.

St. Louis, and the broken world for that matter right now, is less today. Less bright? Yeah. Less cool? Very much so. Less funny? For sure. Brian sprinkled deft comedy into his long Facebook posts, including a great bit about something sticking out poorly like a penis in sweatpants. He could drop a dad-ish lame joke and make it snap because of the person he was and the monstrous heart he carried around with him throughout his adventures in this town.

Others may have held the title of mayor, but Brian was the unofficial mayor of South City. Earlier this week, he was living his best life at the St. Patrick’s Day parade. Decked out in a green suit and green everything else, the man radiated charisma. All you wanted to do was get close to him and pull away some of that optimism like a phone sticks to a charging station. Having faced cancer down the barrel, he had life figured out-and then it took him.

Earlier this morning, maybe 15 minutes or so before the accident happened, I drove by the exact same spot coming home from my parents. Once you get past Chippewa and Devonshire, Hampton Avenue starts to twist around a corner. Someone crossing the street may find harm if they’re not paying complete attention. As my lovely wife said, he was probably coming home from another night out at Stan’s Bar, one of the best spots to get a drink and see friends in our neighborhood. A path he took 100 times ended a different way, and the fact that I was just passing southbound at the same spot makes this death hit even harder.

Maybe it’s my anxiety playing tricks. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve always taken deaths like these sudden smacks in the heart too close. For some reason, I like to get close and stare it down, letting the grief wash over me like wipers brushing over a vehicle during a car wash. For better or worse, that’s my way.

Brian’s way was connecting with people. Anyone could find common ground with him. His pulse was magnetic. You didn’t have to be a close friend to feel like a close friend with him. Once you were in his orbit, you were a member of his tribe. In the same vein as the part of Highway 40 that Bobby Plager passed away on after suffering a heart attack, strolling past Hampton and Nottingham will carry a special meaning moving forward.

As Frank Sinatra once said, “you can’t have the sweet without the bitter.” Brian McKenna’s life and death exist at the intersection of those two feelings today. If anyone should have lived forever, it was him. He cared more about people than anyone I know.

Rest in peace, my friend. Your impact and legacy live on.