By Greg Zeman

Some of the highest praise you could get from Alfonso was “you don’t f**k around, man.” He honored me with those words when we worked together, so I’m going to honor his memory by not f**king around in my remembrance of him.

Alfonso thought obituaries were “bullsh*t,” he didn’t go in for the whole “don’t speak ill of the dead” thing. He would say, “I mean, hey man, what if the guy who died was a real asshole?” Then his body would convulse with that inimitable, explosive laughter — the joyous, raspy cackling of a rusty machine-gun on full auto; I miss it.

By the time our paths crossed, Alfonso considered himself an “ex-revolutionary.” He and I used to talk about politics for hours, and at some point in our conversation he would invariably say “revolution is for chumps, man.” But he lived the life of a revolutionary, the kind most of us only read about.

His worldview could be cynical at times — borderline nihilistic by his own admission — but he didn’t f**k around when it came to what he cared about. From campus riots in Puerto Rico to street battles with police in Manhattan to late nights in the Tecolote newsroom, he fought for what he believed in, and Alfonso believed in people.

He believed in El Tecolote and all the people who make it. It showed in his tireless dedication to the calendario, or the way he’d tell a new writer they’d written a “dynamite article” during an editorial meeting. Alfonso loved the Mission, he believed the paper made it a better place, and again, he didn’t f**k around when it came to what he believed in.

He had laid down the weapons of revolutionary combat years before I met him, but Alfonso never stopped fighting for his community. One of the great honors of my life was having the opportunity to fight alongside him and break bread at a 24-hour diner when the battle was through.

Like all men, Alfonso was many things: a revolutionary poet, an iconoclast, a keeper of memory, a sacred clown. To me he was the Fonz: a friend, a teacher and the only man I’ve ever met who wore a hat better and organized a desk worse than I do. I miss the hell out of him.

Alfonso used to do this thing where he’d jokingly raise one finger in the air and wave it like Mussolini, especially when he’d tell me (as he often did) “when the revolution comes, I’ll put in a good word for you!”

Well, here you go, Fonz. I put in all the good words I could think of, and a few bad ones ‘cause I knew you’d like that. If I keep writing I’ll get all sentimental, and that sh*t is for chumps.

Alfonso Texidor, Presente!