He was one of those friends with whom you passed ungainly (and often unseemly) formative years. He's heard all of your hare-brained schemes and you, his. He's seen you at your best and your worst. He's seen you full-of-yourself and he's seen you utterly depleted. He's seen you in love and lovesick. You shared long hours at crappy, part-time jobs with him and brilliant days at favorite fishing spots. Your senses of humor and taste in most things melded--especially beer and music. Eventually, your lives gained enough traction to move you in different directions.

You didn't stay in touch, yet you still know him to his core. His strengths. His weaknesses. Everything that's beautiful about him. Everything that's maddening about him. The thought of him makes you smile and you know that, 20 years from now, it still will.

His creativity seemed effortless. Playing with a camera, or paint or a piece of wood he could suddenly produce something that had simple genius in it. "Cool, huh?" he'd say. The discovery was all he seemed to need. There was no urge to turn it into something epic or even saleable. He found joy simply and easily.

You shared a love of nature, but while you needed to know it, he needed only to be in it. As the two of you entered your 20s, these differences began to feed a vaguely hostile competition. It made it easier for us to leave one another behind.

On a day when your life is crowded with drama--at work and at home--you get the news that he is dying. It is like an unexpected thunderclap that stiffens your back and leaves you unable to think beyond the moment.

You want to get to him to share your memories... Working together... Fishing together... Summer days in Brigantine... Racing the MGB... His thrifty dad's wildly indignant horror at finding us drinking "Dollar a bottle beer!"

But it's too late. He's too sick and begs the visit off.

Just a few weeks later you learn he's gone. As you reflect on losing one of your oldest friends, you hope that he knew how much you admired his artistic spirit, his deep sense of fairness, his honesty and his intolerance of pretentiousness. And you realize how rare such a friend is, and how big a part they play in who you are.

The only thing harder than developing a strong brand is managing one.

I was reminded of this while watching The Masters golf tournament this spring. Although The Masters brand is not one of my favorites, I adore the event for hundreds of reasons, not the least of which is its incredible ability to limit commercial interruptions of the tournament telecasts.

The tournament is a glittering example of the power of brand development and management. From its very beginning in 1934, it has commanded respect and admiration. This was due to the clarity of vision and promotional genius of founders Bobby Jones and Cliff Roberts.

Jones and Roberts are gone now, but their mark on The Masters seems likely to last for a long time. I say this after watching a press conference with William Porter Payne, Augusta National's new chairman. Having distinguished himself in business and civic involvement, you would expect he would command some deference. And he did. Afterall, this was the guy who achieved the impossible. He organized the effort to bring the 2000 Olympics to Atlanta.

In the interview, Payne was asked what mark he hoped to leave on the Augusta National club and the tournament. Without pause, he replied that only two people will ever have left their marks on Augusta National--Bobby Jones and Cliff Roberts.

All the rest of us will just come and go, Payne said. That was not modesty talking. That reflected a profound understanding of what is required to build a brand and what is required to uphold a brand.

One requires clear vision. The other requires clear dedication to that vision.

Explaining a joke, E.B. White once said, is like dissecting a frog (you can do it, but the frog tends to die in the process). Nonetheless, I'm providing this explanation of the name Naked Fracas to make sure no one gets the idea it's anything creepy, and for my daughter, who upon first visiting the site immediately said: 'What's a frack ass?'

Naked Fracas was the name I always imagined my rock band would be called. As it now appears there is a marginal chance that I will never be the leader of a rock band, I'm using the name here.

Its genesis was a comment I once read or overheard. Someone said that if they had a rock band, they would call it Free Beer, so that the clubs they played would have to put up a sign "Free Beer tonight." Recalling a newspaper story I had read about a wild bar fight (something like 'Ten Hurt in Naked Fracas') I decided 'Naked Fracas tonight' would be an even better draw.