Jerry Rocha was a real one.

RIP.

This is a story that has nothing to do with local politics, but I want to tell it.

So, last December, I received a DM via Instagram. It was from a comedian I’d never heard of, concerning another comedian I’d never heard of.

This is what it said …

And it turns out Jerry was being treated in Orange County, at City of Hope. So instead of just sending a video message, I asked if, perhaps, I could visit in person.

Which is what I ultimately did.

From jump, Jerry was special. You could see it and feel it. Even ravaged by cancer and largely bedridden, he had a light and a pep. He was funny, interesting, curious. He loved Weird Al and superheroes and the Dallas Cowboys and baseball cards and figurines. He was a brilliant stand-up comedian whose work included this, this and this. My first visit turned to a second, a second to a third, a third to a … I dunno, maybe seventh or eighth. One was at the hospital. Most were at the home of Jerry’s fiance’s parents (the most wonderful people). We texted frequently. Sometimes about cancer. Oftentimes about sports and Trump (who Jerry loathed) and comedy and random stuff …

Jerry asked if he could write something for this website, and three posts followed (here, here and here). I always looked forward to seeing Jerry and Andrea, his fiance. They were a magical couple. He hated that she had to dote on him. Even in the most trying of times, she loved doting on him. They had a banter you had to dig. Fun. Light. Quirky. Lotta reality TV and pop culture and boy band chatter.

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The wife and I were scheduled to go to Europe two weeks ago. Before we left, I stopped by to see Jerry. He was in bed—weak, emotional. He reached to shake my hand, told my how much my friendship had meant—“In case I don’t see you again …” We were both choked up. I insisted I would see him again, because I would purchase him a pink beret in Paris, and he needed to be alive to wear it.

I returned home to California on Tuesday. Jet lag hit me hard, and that first night I woke to check my phone. I had wanted to visit Jerry, so I’d texted Andrea to ask when would be a good time.

At 11:11 pm, her reply began with, “Jeff, I’m so sorry for the late text …”

Jerry had passed away.

I am gutted. Truly gutted.

Jerry Rocha wasn’t just a dude to me; some guy who read my books. He was a golden soul with heart, with passion, with kindness, with decency, with empathy, with a light. The outpouring of affection and heartbreak on social media tells the story of a person who was uber loved. Every so often, someone like that enters your universe, and you desperately want them to stick around and make you a better human.

You want them in your life.

Jerry Rocha was 48.

#RIP

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PS: Jerry gifted me with a pair of New York Jets cards (at one point. I accidentally gave them back and felt like an idiot). They are now framed on my shelf, so that I will look at them and think of the man …