Jazz Shaw, one of Hot Air's finest voices, has been silenced by illness, as you may have read today at his site, on X, or Instapundit. Regular readers may think they knew Jazz just as well as any of us here at the Townhall digital empire who worked with him. There's truth to that, too. Jazz's writing voice was every bit him — direct, without pretense, and with a knowing friendliness that made readers everywhere feel like he'd brought you into his living room for a chat about whatever was on his mind.
Even if sometimes it was to rake you over the coals a bit. Jazz was good at that.
He was a sharp operator, too. In a business where you've got to produce a lot of words on any number of topics — and where you have readers with long memories — Jazz got it right more often than not. When we disagreed, I always went back to double-check my work.
All of these public details you probably know, so I want to share one of those little personal stories that get to the heart of who a person really is.
Jazz's X profile reads, "Editor/writer, Salem Media, Hot Air, The Debrief. Horseradish farmer. Jets fan. Curmudgeon. Opinions are my own and I've got a lot of them."
Wait... horseradish farmer? He's joking, right?
Nope. I don't know how the whole horseradish farming thing got started but I do have an idea. My wife, Melissa, planted horseradish two or three years ago in a stubborn part of one of her many gardens. We live in a semi-arid region and horseradish is hardy stuff. Melissa was hoping the horseradish would thrive here and (this part was a surprise to me) send its seriously tall leaves two or three feet up.
In a single year, a forlorn corner of that garden — part of the view from our front cocktail patio — suddenly looked almost... tropical.
If Jazz planted his horseradish to get a little tropical-ness at his New York home, I totally get it now. He and Melissa would have gotten along splendidly, and not just because she has a thing for talkative curmudgeons with healthy appetites for booze. What a shame they never got to meet.
. Jazz Shaw, Amelia Hamilton, Steve Greene
But the point of the horseradish story is about the kind of friend Jazz was to me.
More years ago than I can recall, Jazz sent me a DM asking if I'd like some prepared horseradish. His garden had exploded, and he didn't know what to do with all the stuff, so he was making little jars and sending them out to people.
At the time, Jazz and I only knew each other through our work and (more than a few) conferences where we bonded over (more than a few) martinis. That he thought of me for his horseradish gifting project nearly floored me.
In time for Christmas, I received a little jar of perfectly prepared horseradish (hand-labeled as "Jazz's Really Bad Horseradish") that I spent the next few months slathering on various ribeyes and mixing into various Bloody Marys.
This went on for a couple of years when Jazz DMed me again. He had this plan to prepare a batch of horseradish with vodka and would I like some? "Well, duh!" is what I didn't say but certainly could have. "Yes, please," is what I did say. So, for the next few years, I was one of the even luckier few who got Jazz's booze-infused stuff.
There won't be a little jar arriving this year. Or ever.
I'll miss that, but not nearly as much as I miss the man who took such care of a faraway friend.
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