Imagine this page being blank. That’s what it would look like if it weren’t for Michael Jackson. In fact, there would be no Malt Advocate, no WhiskyFest.

Michael was my mentor, when it came to learning and writing about beer and whisky. His books-World Guide to Beer, Great Beers of Belgium, World Guide to Whisky, and Complete Guide to Single Malt Scotch-were like bibles to me, just like they were for many of you. He inspired me to go to Scotland and Belgium in the early 1990s back when single malts and Belgian beers were not popular. He opened new worlds of drink to me, for which I will be forever grateful.

Michael also taught me to be a responsible journalist. One of my first writing assignments was for a small supplement of All About Beer magazine called Suds ‘n Stuff. (Actually it wasn’t even an assignment. I wrote something up about Belgian beers, sent it to then publisher Mike Bosak unsolicited, and he published it.) A couple years later when I started up Malt Advocate, I called Michael and asked him if he would write for us. He brought up that beer piece I wrote and told me that he read it and it looked very familiar to him. In fact, he said it was similar to what he wrote in his book. I told him it was probably because much of the information I gathered for my article came from his book.

Then he asked, “Have you ever even been to Belgium?”

I said, “No, I haven’t.”

“Then you should go,” he said.

I realized then if I was going to be a good journalist, I needed to travel to the breweries and distilleries to learn about the products. I have since logged in many frequent flyer miles, traveling around the world. Through my travels, I learned that it’s not just the product, but the people who make the products and the cultures where they live that captures the essence of a given drink. I owe this to Michael.

Michael was also very supportive of Malt Advocate. He was the busiest guy in the business, but he somehow managed to find time to write for us-even back in our early days when I could hardly pay him anything. And he didn’t just write for us. We would spend hours in pubs-often after some press event-over a pint or dram and he would offer advice on how to improve the magazine.

Very quickly, Michael and I became friends. Whenever I was in London-or if he was near my hometown just north of Philadelphia-we would try to sneak out for a drink someplace quiet and escape all the activities that were going on. We spent lazy afternoons in The Dove, an old pub overlooking the Thames just down from the Fullers Brewery and a brief stroll from his home. On one particular afternoon, we were on finishing our second pint of Chiswick Bitter, when I asked him if he wanted to join me in a third. He said that he better make it just a half pint. When I asked why, he replied, “I have to taste 26 vodkas and write up a piece for The Independent that’s due by the end of the day.”

I just looked at him and laughed.

I remember fondly a Sunday in winter when the Standard Tap in Philadelphia opened up early in the afternoon just so Michael and I could visit. (They opened up for him, not me.) He wanted to visit the Standard Tap, and his only free time was that afternoon. It was just the two of us, along with the bar manager, sitting at the bar, sampling local beers, and chatting about whatever came to mind. Michael was a regular guy, just like the rest of us-hanging out and enjoying a couple of beers with a friend.

We shared our passions about non-work related issues. And he had many passions that ran the gamut from rugby, to jazz, to cats. One weekend when Michael stayed at my house, I think he spent more time looking for and playing with our cat Cosmo than he did with us. One night we were late for a beer dinner that he was hosting nearby. We searched all over the house for Michael, but couldn’t find him. I was concerned that something happened to him. We found him out in our back yard playing with Cosmo, oblivious to everything else.

Michael was human, too, like the rest of us. For reasons I will never understand, he always seemed insecure about his career. He was so busy because he had difficulty turning down new assignments. While he never admitted it, it he seemed to fear that someone would take over his spot on top of beer and whisky journalism and he would be left out in the cold, unemployed. So many times I would encourage him to just say “No” to people. I would tell him that there’s only one Michael Jackson, and there will only ever be one Michael Jackson.

And then there was his Parkinson’s disease. Michael confided in me about this many years ago, because I was also suffering from some health issues at the time and we would share our trials and tribulations. I kept encouraging him to come “out of the closet” with his problem, because his Parkinson’s would make him look like he was drunk. He wasn’t. The discussions about our mutual health issues, along with our friendship over the years, were the reason why he chose Malt Advocate to reveal his condition earlier this year. I’m glad that he finally did.

Writing this, I am deeply saddened, because I know that Michael had so much more to share with us. I also have a heavy heart, because I lost a very good friend. His last piece for us, which he wrote back in August a few weeks before he died, will appear in the next issue of Malt Advocate. It’s classic Michael.

Before you move on with the rest of your life, pause for a moment of silence for Michael and reflect on all he has done for us. Then, tonight, do what Michael would prefer you do in his honor. Pour yourself a glass of something delicious and drink it.