Normally, I write in Swedish, but this time there is a good reason to do this so that all good friends in Great Britain, Ireland and The US can understand it without using a poor translation program.

I wish I could cry. Better and more often. But it doesn´t happen. I cried when my father died from cancer in 1977 and left me, 20 years old and confused. Next time was when I, paralyzed from the waist and down, received a message from the doctor that I would never been able to walk again (screw him, ok?). Then I cried when I for the first time heard my daughter Isabell Alison sing Hjärter Dams sista sång (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8LX-loSsUg).

And then – when Jeff died. It was late 2012 and it was one of the worst days of my life.

Let´s go counter-clockwise, to 1984. I arrived to Las Vegas in an old Chrysler, confused and worried, assigned to produce a bunch of magazine stories on everything from custom bikes to brothels in the desert.

I didn´t know shit. So, in desperation I knocked on the door to a Harley Davidson-store, and guess who was there, as a customer.

Jeffrey Lane, better known as Chewie.

Our meeting in that store became the beginning of the most unique friendship in my life, a friendship that – despite the physical distance – grew closer and closer for almost three decades.

Jeff was, as all his friends know, a remarkable person. In fact, one of the most loving and generous human beings I have met in my entire life. Back then, in 1984, Jeff was a biker, a car lover, a business man. He had the power to open doors for me all across Nevada. I got my pictures of the hottest custom cars and bikes, all of a sudden I was allowed to shoot pictures in strip clubs and brothels where cameras otherwise where banned.

This was way before cell phones and the Internet so sometimes litterally a year or two could pass without any contact between Jeff and me. But the unique love and friendship was always there.

We shared some strange moments. Jeff, a true Republican, had helped the US government to perform a maybe not so politically correct operation. When the cops in Las Vegas found grenade launchers and stashes of cash in his garage, he was arrested. For a few hours only, though, till orders came from Washington D.C for his immediate release. After that, the FBI showed a huge interest for Jeff for a while and one day, travelling through the Nevada desert in his pick up-truck, we discovered that we where being followed by a brown, four door sedan with two men in black suits – as captured from a bad movie – in the front seat.

It was kinda ridiculous. So Jeff slammed the brakes in the middle of the desert, we went both back to that sedan and told the guys in the front – they tried to look innocent staring out in the desert – that we where going to a swingers club for research and would return to Jeffs home after that. When returning to the truck, we laughed our asses off and the poor FBI-agents had to wait in the hot sun for hours while we had fun at the club.

I could go on for hours, telling you stories. About our common plans for starting a worldwide, exclusive magazine based in Las Vegas. About our novel project. About Jeff asking me to buy a plane for him in Sweden. About the time when this huge man took me under one arm and my mother under the other and lifted us up in the air. When he played with my little daughters in the hot tub behind his house. When he ran out of gas and limping, with a cane struggled on his feet through Las Vegas to a friends house because he was worried for him.

But I won´t. The latest beautiful memory is from sitting in his garage close to the desert, drinking endless cups of hot morning coffee, smoking endless cigarettes, discussing everything from the weather to American politics.

And then – his sudden and so tragic death.

I will never forget the wonderful Celebration of Life in which we did just that, at the house of Tom Villardi. That morning, I was standing outside our hotel, looking at the runway at McCarran Airport. Suddenly, a shining, silver colored plane with the name Spirit on the side, taxed out for take off. And I am almost certain that I could see Captain Jeffrey Lane in the cocpit.

Spirit. Jeff was spirit.

The Celebration of Life was the most warm and beautiful ceremony I have ever attended. Among all the speeches to Jeffs honor, somebody said the words that concludes everything:

”Jeff had to be as big as he was, in order for his heart to fit in.”

I am forever grateful that I had the honor to enter the small plane, fly out over the Pacific Ocean and spread Jeffs ashes, as per his wishes, Part of the ashes are safely guarded in a wonderful little box at my desk. Thanks.

And now – Paul Morrison. Unfair, to say the least.

A few years ago, confused I knocked on the door to Nautilus Photography in Ft. Myers, Florida, asking if they knew where I could buy cameras. That was the instant beginning of a very unique friendship for which I will be grateful for the rest of my life.

Life is strange. Sometime you meet new people that just passes by. Once in a million, you meet people and make true friends at the first moment. This was such a unique occasion. Paul and his beloved wife Hazel became close, important and beloved friends instantly, and one of the reasons was of course that none of us were Americans. Paul and Hazel originated from Belfast, Ireland, and we from Sweden.

Through the past years we have had so many days, afternoons, evening and nights together in Florida. Working and relaxing, eating, drinking and – laughing!

Paul is (right now I refuse to say ”was”) an excellent photographer. He shot our wedding and family portraits several times in a human, warm, friendly and very unique way – and always with Hazel as a true companion at his side.

Not only did Paul – a former restaurant owner/operator – have a unique eye for a good shot, he was also one of the finest human beings I´ve met in my entire life (so is his wife Hazel that I hope will be our dear friend for many years to come yet). And – I´ve met a few along my journey. As Jeff, Paul was a tall man, and I am sure the reason was the same – it takes a great body to give room for a huge, warm heart.

We discussed doing a road trip. During his years after moving from Ireland to Florida, Paul had explored some paths where Rednecks and other interesting people could be found. We talked about it and planned a common trip for a few days, but Paul hesitated a bit. He had learned that I could be a bit too eager when it came to photography, and that I had been arrested by the police in Sweden. We joked about that and Paul assured me that he could live without spending time in an American prison due to my fault.

Maybe well thought, my friend. :o)

Now, that common road trip will not be performed the way we planned. It would be way to depressing for me to do it without Paul. It was our thing.

Dear Jeff, you went fast and with no justice. Dear Paul, you went fast and with no justice. The only thing that makes me happy is that none of you had to suffer, die in pain and with deep anxiety.

The Big C didn´t take Paul only. The Big C took my father when he was 56. He was in great pain and anxiety. It took my boss Björn when he was 33. It took my dear friend Con, the photographer, at 40. It took Roland, another great friend and photographer, at 62. They all suffered badly before they died.

The Big C hit another three friends recently. One had to remove his penis in emergency surgery yesterday, another had a tumor in her brain removed two days ago, a third had her breast removed recently. We keep our fingers crossed for all of you..

So again – fuck you, Big C! If you where human, we wouldn´t hesitate a second to get guns and come after you.

To Jeff and Paul: I know that you´re there, somewehere. We´ll meet again. A million thanks for what you did for me here. Save a chair for me there, somewhere, and I hope that I can do the same for you.

Love, guys. For real.