In Memory of Liz Morton.

/ Comments (28)

It seems so incomplete to simply say that EVB's receptionist, Liz Morton, died last Friday morning from complications related to treating pancreatic cancer, an illness that she did not even realize that she had before Thanksgiving.

That is merely a sentence that describes what happened to her, not who she was, how she lived or all the thousands of lives she touched in 28 years of working at 55 Union Street. And those are the important things that we want to remember now.

To say Liz was one-of-a-kind does not nearly do her justice. To say she was a badass and a sweetheart at the same time was only part of her charm. To try and explain the incredible, wonderful, exquisite soul that was Elizabeth Morton, we'll let those who knew her best tell their stories.

These are just a few of the thousands of Liz stories out there. Please feel free to add yours in the comments below.

Rest in motherfucking peace, Liz. You will be missed more than you could possibly imagine.

Aimee Lehto
I will always remember
• Liz's plumquats, whatever the hell those were.
• The spandex gold glittery tiger stripe dress worn on any given weekday.
• Liz answering calls at the front desk in a very professional manner, and then hissing "Stupid Ass Motherfucker" after hanging up.
• That even Augusten Burroughs remembers her (she was mentioned-anonymously-in one of his essays about his ad days in SF) (maybe in Magical Thinking? Ask Mike Moore.)
• And most importantly, Liz didn't take any shit, she was 100% herself, and she was 100% happy with herself. That was the Liz formula, and it was contagious. You couldn't help but respect and love her, and hope some of that strength and fabulousness rubbed off on you

Jaime Robinson
Anyone who knew Liz was the recipient of her kindness. Unless you were one of those motherfucking squirrels climbing all over the motherfucking fig tree in her backyard, eating HER motherfucking figs. Then, you were the recipient of an ass full of BBs from Liz's BB gun. Liz always defended her figs with a vengeance, because they were meant to be enjoyed by the people she loved. The people she took care of every day. Her friends.

Man, they were delicious figs. We'll miss you, Liz.

Pele Cortizo-Burgess
I will never forget witnessing her spray a bike messenger with lysol because, in her words, "Motherfucker didn't smell right 'paylay', he didn't smell right".

Outstanding. And that's not even how you pronounce my name!

Joe Calabrese
Liz was a radiant person and such a pleasure to be around. She brightened up everyone's day at 55 Union. We couldn't have been met with a friendlier smile every morning. We adored her and will miss her dearly.

Jennifer Golub
The skillets were spread out on the hungry man trail, a distressed plywood countertop worn from constant use. The fragrance of sausages, bacon, eggs & her special mushroom caps filled the air while Liz was busily scurrying about, her towering form in black spandex and apron preparing her monthly breakfast for all 50 of us.

In the advertising industry that is fraught with change, where people, accounts come and go, Liz was the one constant at 55 Union. As tall and strong as the raw wood beams she was the continuum. More a wise den mother than a receptionist, she witnessed it all. From Ketchum to Chiat/Day, a morph into Cutwater, and then EVB, her tenure was close to 30 years.

With a deft renovation by L.A. based architects Marmol Radziner, the building was brought back to its natural honest beauty exposing its brick and trusses with some graceful curves giving it just a bit of swagger. A fitting stage where upon entry,Liz was proudly poised at the helm. Her distinct individuality, her sweetness, generosity, creativity and candor spoke volumes about the community we aspired to be.

Always perfectly put together she was our elegant protector as well as our warmth. Every Christmas she transformed the lobby into a craft bazaar, her entrepreneurial venture with opulent synthetic fur blankets and an abundance of tapestry pillows. Her monthly breakfasts were greasy reassuring feasts; she could be counted on for peanut brittle or other Trader Joe snacks among her private stash, along with treats for the many dogs who roamed about. She harvested special roses from her garden and made me discreet bouquets. She could be counted on for a pin for a hem and a quick game of pool. She loved who she loved and made no bones about who she didn’t. She was one wise gal.

With her parting, we are all left in shock. This 6’4” lady brought such grace into our lives and none of us were prepared to say goodbye. Since we have all scattered throughout the country if not the world striving to fulfill the capacity of our ambitions, we have suddenly reconnected to share our grief in effort to fill the void. She would love to know how much we loved her, how much we loved each other and our time together.

Thank you dear Liz. May you rest in peace.

Joe Kayser
I came in early one morning and found Liz pacing back and forth in front of the reception desk.

"Liz, are you okay?"

"I'm just so mad."


"Well some asshole tried to carjack me this morning."

What you need to know is that Liz lived in the East Bay and drove in every morning across the Bay Bridge. Just before the bridge she would swing into a Rideshare lot and pick up any commuters that needed a lift into the city. This allowed her to use the carpool lane and avoid paying the toll.

"You got carjacked? What??"

"So I stopped like I do every morning to pick up some riders. And this asshole gets in my car and pulls a gun on me. On me! He got me so mad. I said "Oh no you don't! Um um um, motherfucker you just picked the wrong lady to mess with."

"What did you do?"

She's laughing a little now as she continues to tell me the story.

"Well what do you think? I reached over and opened my glove compartment and pulled out my gun. You should have seen the look on his face. Boy did he run fast."

"That's crazy Liz. What did you do after he got out of your car?"

She looks at me like it's a silly question.

"Well honey, I just waited a few minutes until a nice couple asked me if I was heading into the city. I just dropped them off over on Broadway."

"You have a gun Liz?"

"Sweetie I live in Oakland!"

Miriam Lee
I assume that you are aware of Liz's incredible life journey. The thing is she never really spoke about where she "came" from, only where she was going. Towards the end of Cutwater 1.0, she really started to open up to me about her life before San Francisco. I felt honored and special. I guess I had proved myself to her. She also proved herself to me, she was as loyal as they come. Once you were in. You were in. That was it, she loved you. And it felt good.

She lived close by and we would occasionally run into each other at Lake Chabot, doing our Sunday jogs. Or she would pop by to give me some plants from her garden.

I will really miss her. And I will always love her.

Bill Spangler
I've known Liz for many years and most of the stories I have from her are not fit to print. I got to know all about her years in LA and Hawaii and in San Francisco. Let me tell you.. she lived a life.

She use to tell me about how she knew the late disco superstar Sylvester. She was scared to death of him because his gang 'would always start fighting.' I lived for these stories.

One story that I can tell is about how she was constantly fixing her house. Everyday she would have photos, plans and diagrams of what she was currently doing. You could sometimes hear her on the phone YELLING at her contractors who inevitably would fuck something up. I kept telling her she needed to stop adding on the damn place but she wouldn't listen to me, telling me I was crazy.

I'll miss you Liz!

Casey Mooney
I think if you talk to anyone about Liz, they will probably tell you how she mothered us with a very salty edge. She didn’t suffer fools, but she had amazing self-control. She’d be accommodating on the phone or in the lobby, but as soon as the call was over or the door was closed, she’d light up the room with expletives, humorously revealing how she truly felt about whatever had just transpired.

She was glorious and mischievous.

She was also incredibly thoughtful and kind. She listened to everything you said, even the little things, and then did what she could to make your life better.

For example, in early October 2006, my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer. With the blessing and support of my family at Chiat, I spent most of the next few months on the east coast caring for her. I was able to return to the west coast twice before the end of that year to get my own life in order so I could better care for my mother. When I returned on one of those trips in early December, Liz greeted me with a hug and a compassionate ear. I told her everything that was going on. I mentioned that mom was having trouble eating since one of the side-effects of her chemotherapy was burns in her mouth. When I came in the next day, Liz handed me four pages of recipes for soft, mild foods...that she had typed up and put in page I could make some good food for my mom and get her eating again.

My mother died twelve weeks after her diagnosis. I returned to work almost immediately after her funeral since I had missed so much work while I was caring for her. Liz asked me about the funeral and I mentioned that my only regret was not being able to line up a Gospel choir. My mother loved Gospel music. When I came into work the next day, my voicemail light was on. I sat down and listened to the sound of a beautiful Gospel song. Liz had gone home and played it on a turntable and held the phone up to the speaker the night before. It was the song that she had played at her own mother’s funeral. I remember walking around to the lobby with tears running down my cheeks and seeing her standing there with outstretched arms.

I will leave you with my favorite Liz-ism. (It is something I still repeat to my friends.) When some of the other single women in the office and I would lament to Liz about how difficult it was to meet men in San Francisco, she would always say this: “Girrrrrl! are sitting on a gold mine!” Liz, more than anyone, really understood the power of having a vagina.

Elizabeth Morton was a bright, tenacious, loving person and I feel much richer for having had her in my life.

John Patroulis
During my time at Chiat in San Francisco, my office was right next to Liz, which allowed us to become friends over the years. Once, when I asked if she would mind covering herself in fake blood and pretending to be murdered for a video we were making, she said: “Ooooooooh, you sick little mother fucker. You want to kill me!”

I told her that couldn’t be further from the truth, that she was too great of a person, and that I knew the world would be a much less fun and interesting place without her in it.

She looked back at me, considered the compliment, then said “Well, you’re still a sick little mother fucker. But you can cover me with blood as long as it doesn’t get all over this blouse.”

She was one of a kind. And I was right - the world is a much less fun and interesting place without her in it.

Chris Mead
My grandmother passed away the day after Christmas this year. Our family is small but tight-knit, and being together around the holidays helped us come to grips with her absence in our own quiet, private way.

There’s something so cathartic and reassuring about being able to mourn together, to share in the memory of someone who was such a dear part of our lives.

Liz Morton’s family was anything but small. She was a people magnet, drawing friends and admirers in from across cities, decades and walks of life. To know Liz was to be adopted by her, and to be a stronger more caring person for it.

When Liz died just a few days later, the public outpouring of love, sorrow, and fond memories was nothing short of incredible. The messages came from co-workers past and present, former building residents, frequent visitors, and delivery guys. EVB started an email thread of our favorite Liz quotes that crushed our email server and fried its profanity filter. After a single post by our CEO about her passing, 45 people chimed in to share their sympathies, stories, and tributes.

She brought us all together from across those decades. This time it wasn’t for a birthday party she organized or a meal she spent all weekend making, but to take part in celebrating that ageless, irresistible spirit that was so uniquely hers. To say goodbye to the woman who had done four decades worth of watching over her family from her post at the front desk. At 55 Union, the building modeled after a ship, she was the anchor.

Liz, you are truly missed.

Michael Brady

That's the word that reminds me most of our dear Liz.

She owned that word. More than any other, except maybe, asshole. She liked that one too.



Thank you, SF Egotist, for this lovely tribute to our beautiful Liz.
Brady, your post made me cry.
We were a great family, weren't we? xo

Years ago, I came into (at the time, Chiat/Day) to interview to be Chuck McBride's assistant. It was my first job interview after what's been my most rotten year to date-a difficult pregnancy with baby I gave up for adoption, a serious illness, a shitty breakup, and an eviction. I showed up in clothes I had to buy for the interview with the tags tucked in because I'd have to return them after -- I had no worky looking clothes and couldn't afford anything (I bought this shit at Target, this wasn't Neiman Marcus. This is how broke I was).

I promptly dumped coffee on my (again, still tagged just tucked) jacket. I was sitting there quietly freaking out, when Liz took me aside, spot-cleaned the hell out of my, and told me not to let Chuck fuck with me.

I didn't get the job, but I managed to return the jacket. And I've always remembered Liz's incredible kindness-even though I was trying my damnest to be cool, she could tell that I was struggling and needed an attagirl. I'm shattered to hear that she's no longer with us.

I use to go to the bay club on tuesday and thursday mornings. I would get into the office waaayyy earlier than usual.. Like 8:30am, which Liz never liked as she was still getting the coffee ready for Chuck's arrival.
Anyhow, here is how the conversation went:

Liz: Girl, what are you doing here so motherfucking early?

Me: Liz you know I go to the gym on Tuesday and Thursdays.

Liz: Bitch, I don't know why you are wasting time in that gym, You know you were built for comfort not for speed! bahahhahahah

Me: and you're fucking old!

We both laughed very hard. And I can honestly say, Liz Morton is the only person, that has ever lived, that could get away with saying that shit to me!

And that is the MOTHER FUCKING truth!

We had these crappy desk phones that were over 105 years old. Every so often, you'd see your message light turn on early in the morning. On the right days, it was a message from Liz.

The message could mean only one of three things:

1. You had a package at the front desk.
2. A basket of fruit for the agency had arrived and was ready for the picking.
3. The chicken tamale lady was here.

If it was fruit, you heard: "Calling all Fruit Bats...Calling all Fruit Bats...There's fresh fruit in the lobby for you to enjoy. Mkayyyyyyyy."

If it was tamales, you got to hear Liz personify a chicken: "Bock, bock, bock, bock, bock. Chicken tamales."

Nothing made me smile more than listening to those messages. I only wish I'd been smart enough to save them. Every time I have Chicken tamales, I think of Liz.

Homemade lemonade with Meyer lemons from her tree and Splenda to make sure we didn't get diabetes.

Granola bars arranged in geometric patterns on every table surface in the office, like 55 Union was a game of PacMan.

Surveillance cameras all around her home to make sure people weren't climbing the fence and breaking in.

Scores of 8x10 photos of her house, in her desk, which she would lay out for us to peruse during our work day.

Incredible flower arrangements, all from her garden.

In a building full of people trying to be more creative, more original, more unique than anyone else, Liz set the bar.

In a building full of people vying to have the most interesting life story, Liz had us all beat.

In 28 years of advertisers walking past her desk, I'm guessing not a single one could hold a glock as convincingly as a belly dancing pose. Liz could.

I once walked into the kitchen as she was cussing out the dishwasher. Viciously. As she heard me, she turned gracefully and intimated that she cussed because she didn't want to hold any of that negative energy inside. Well, fuck that motherfucking cancer. I don't need it taking away my friend.

I miss you Liz. Thank you for everything.

I'd like to add a bit to this. For all the special mother-fucking relationships she had with:

Car Jackers
Stupid people on the phone
Tenants* (not mentioned, but she was a landlord too)
Certain dog that ate a certain article of clothing (that's as much as I can say)

Liz also had a very very special relationship with the fax machine. It too was a motherfuckin' mother fucker and often a piece of shit too. Not only was it constantly berated, but it felt a fair share of swift blows from Liz's palm.

Minutes later, she would be back at her desk with the sweetest voice answering "TBWA\Chiat Day how can I help you".

Liz is and always will an amazing woman and an inspiration to anyone as to how not to let anything that comes your way get you down. I'll miss her smile in the morning. And the waves I got the few times I popped my head in just to say hello to her years after I left 55 Union. I'll miss her, but will never forget how she touched my life and hundreds, if not thousands of others.

Thanks for this egotist!

*most politically correct way I reference what she called her actual "tenants"

I would like to sincerely thank all of you who took the time to write about Liz. She was unique and brave and just fucking rad. We were all so lucky to get a glimpse of the world through her eyes.

Joe's carjacking story is pretty priceless.

Wow, I've never even had the pleasure of knowing or meeting Liz, but by just reading these stories, I feel like I've known her forever! Seems like such a great life cut way too short. :( May you rest in peace, Elizabeth Morton.

I got the chance to get to know Liz the last few months of 2012. Even though I had only met her a handful of times, she was kind enough to offer her place to stay as I became adjusted to SF.

She had a great energy about her. She will be remembered as a unique and wonderful person who cursed like a sailor and laughed like an angel.


I, too, only knew Liz for a few months, but she made a huge impression on me. The first day I walked in to EVB, she said, "Are you going to be working here? Nobody fuckin' tells me anything..." Not many days later, I heard a commotion down at the reception desk and when I went to investigate, I found the Creative Manager holding down the fort. Apparently Liz had seen one of the infamous surveillance cameras trained on her house go black, and she had to go investigate immediately. Upon her return from Oakland, the explanation was only, "Do you know it was a MUTHAFUCKIN' FLY?" Apparently, a fly had died blocking the lens. Crisis averted.

Following a break-up, I tried my to convince my ex to drop off what remained of my things at reception, knowing that Liz would give him extra guff, my co-conspirator in shenanigans even though I'd just started. It didn't work, but I like to think about how that would have gone down and how many pointed questions, asshole, and muthafuckas might have been dropped.

Several people have mentioned the Hungry Man Trail, but an important part of afternoons at 55 Union was the ritualistic ringing of Liz's personal cow bell to let everyone know it was either time to come get some hummus, chips and salsa, guacamole, or peppermint bark, depending on the day of the week. Liz also did NOT like it if you ate only the chips and not her hand made dip, a mistake that was rarely made twice. She also guarded the White Cheddar Cheez Its like gold, her own special currency, to be doled out only by her.

I knew I'd made it in to Liz's circle of trust when she complimented my "hot pants" and offered me a pair of her sparkly hoop earrings. That is, if she decided not to keep them herself. I never got those earrings, so I'm guessing she took 'em with her to that big front desk in the sky.

I freelanced at cutwater for like 2 months back in 2010, so my experience with Liz was pretty short. But she was always so sweet to me. I'll never forget that big pretty smile of hers. One cool lady. Wish we had more like her in this world. RIP Liz

Liz was a superstar angel in a world we can only imagine. Knowing Liz changed you, she was a power that entertained you, unless you were a motherfucker...then you were only that. It was a privilege to have known Liz and a sad relief that she left us so fast. I still have her pillows, best I've ever owned.

One on my most vivid Liz memories took place while Jaime and I were working at 55 Union one weekend before the holidays. We were in there alone when we heard the loud clanging of the gate and went out to see who was joining us. We were surprised to see it was Liz, but not as surprised as she was to see us. Apparently she wasn't expecting anyone to be there so she showed up without her makeup, wig or jewelry and was wearing sweats as she was there to make sure her holiday pillow and blanket bazaar were all set up before we all came in Monday. I'll never forget the look of horror that crossed her face when she saw us, but she was quickly over it and went about her business of dolling up the lobby with her creations.

I'm really not sure why she was surprised to find people working over the weekend at Chiat SF, but I remember feeling very privileged to have seen Liz unadorned that day. I'll never forget looking in those eyes without their extra long lashes. What a beautiful soul.

I only worked with her a handful of times. In the EVB days, the twilight of her badassery.

The more I learned, the greater her legend grew.

Because that's what she was--a true legend. Just looking at the list of people here who knew her. She touched them all deeply. Every mark made, an indelible one.

Rest in peace, Liz. Wherever you are, I'm sure its a place filled with love. And glitter. And the word "motherfucker." It sounds great. Hopefully we will all see you there, someday.

I'm pouring peanut M&M's and Goldfish out on the curb tonight in honor of this wonderful soul.


Everytime we came to visit, she would always have a peanut butter biscuit for Wicket.

I worked at 55 Union Street for nine years. I was the office manager for the company that took up the building's top two floors.

I didn't speak to Liz much at first, as I can be quiet around people I don't know very well. I'll often just nod instead of saying hi. Eventually, our managing partner, who knew Liz from his time at Ketchum, told me that she thought I didn't like her. The next time I went downstairs I said, "Hi, Liz!" And thus we were friends.

I wish I had stories like some of you. I missed her belly-dancing years. I heard her tales of difficult tenants and the feral cats who would muck up her yard. I was there for her pillows, and proudly own a few. She handed me may large bowls of fruit from her fruit tree, to be shared with our office. I watched many dogs sprint to her side as they entered the lobby -- dogs knew she had treats in her desk, and would apparently tell other dogs. I didn't witness the incident when she walked out of the lobby bathroom to see a ungentlemanly fellow walking out the door with her purse. Suffice it to say, he didn't get very far, and the purse never left the building. I was there for the party celebrating her 24th year at the building. I bought her a tiara, for lack of a better gift. She once told me about the repugnant manager who told her, bluntly, that she was going to be fired and replaced with a younger receptionist. Liz lawyered up, and it was never mentioned again.

One day I came downstairs to get the mail and found her lying in a pool of blood. Naturally, I asked her the world's stupidest question: "Liz, are you okay?"

Instead of reassuring me, she gasped, "Call the police, call the police." I then saw another body in another pool of blood. This fellow was smiling. Then the guys with the video camera came in the front door, saw me in the middle of it all, and stopped. I had ruined their take. And Liz let me think she had been murdered. Good times.

Two months ago I got a job right across the street from the old building. On my first lunch break, I stopped by to say hi to Liz. She was thinner, seemed a bit tired, but still going about business as usual. She told me she had been diagnosed with diabetes, speaking of it more as an aggravation than a concern. Sadly, it turned out it wasn't diabetes at all. The "ad ghetto" at Union and Battery is still there, but she is gone. That may be the greatest motherfucker of them all.

In honor and memory of Liz, EVB will be hosting "A Celebration of Liz Morton" next Friday, January 18th at 5:00pm. It is an open event. All who knew her and loved her are welcome to attend.

A Celebration of Liz Morton
Friday- January 18, 2013
55 Union Street
San Francisco, CA 94111

Said to hear Liz passed. I don't have such fantastic stories as some of those shared above but wanted to post my sympathies anyway. I only worked with her for a few months but clearly (and quickly) saw how much life and personality she brought to the office. She shot a mean pool game and bested me over several rounds at the ad block party last year. We traded stories of living in Oakland, sympathized over her not being able to drink due her recent diagnosis and she shared with me what it was like to work at the same place for 28 years. Words that definitely left an impression. Rest in peace Liz.

After just reconnecting with Liz the day of her first chemo in
December, we both realized we had a photo of each other all these years, (about 15) since I came in to Ketchum with my massage chair. She hated the dust bunnies collecting in her place so agreed I would pay for a cleaner when she found someone she trusted in her home. Her photo was of me sitting on the floor watching her at the Marakesch belly dancing. Mine is of her in her costume. What a gorgeous hunk she was. And we both laughed about dancing together at the Ketchum parties with lack of male partners. Go girl. You are so loved and remembered.

I worked at 55 Union Street for 8 years ('00-'08) as an employee of Zimmerman Advertising (sister agency to Chiat/Day). For about a year or so, I occupied the office right in front her desk. She was the BEST receptionist anyone could ask for. She would walk right into my office and hand delivered packages, messages, anything but coffee. When a rep or client was in to see me, she would pop her head in with a silent heads up. Didn't call me once during that time! Every single time I walked in the office and she was at her desk (or not), she would say hello or at least wave.

I have some cool motherfucking Liz stories from over the years, One that really sticks out is when she wanted to sell her pillows and throws on ebay and asked me for help, after 6 months in that office. She said, "no motherfuckers want to help me," so I helped her in an effort to not be one of those motherfuckers and because she was so fucking rad...drew me right in. So, one day at Liz's place in East Oakland, I'm helping her kick start her online business. Btw- She had a HUGE room dedicated to just pillows and throws. We're on the computer in the living room and we're listing shit, all of a sudden, a loud bang goes off, in the middle of the afternoon. "Motherfucking BITCH, better NOT be trying to shoot at my ass!" as she runs for her gun...wft? I'm shittin a brick and she goes outside to find them! I thought that was the last day of my life. She came back in and said, "they don't know who they're fucking with." I was shaking and she offers me a joint to try to calm me down. I smoked it and thank God it worked. RIP Liz!

The first time I encountered Liz, she yelled at me: "Excuse me!? What the heck do you think you're doing here?! No one's supposed to be here!" It was the weekend EVB moved to their new offices at 55 Union, and I had stopped by to get my dying laptop looked at by our old tech staff. I thought to myself "Excuse me? Excuse you! Who the hell does this glamazon think SHE is being here among all these muscled movers and tech team??" I was actually shakin' in my shoes, to say the least. This woman was fierce, fiery... fantastic! One can sense her strength of character and security of self the second one meets her. I did anyway.

After that initial meeting, Liz quickly became a special and dear role model to me, perhaps my closest friend in the office- which is saying a lot. “Good morning Miss Raquel!” I would hear everyday. Liz glowed from her throne behind the reception desk, and she made my heart glow with her warmth, her cheerfulness, and especially her sass. Let’s talk about that sass for a minute…. Now I don’t know about you, but I’ve never met anyone (let alone a woman in her 70s) as spunky and up-front as Liz. Whether it was ranting about all the bad motherfuckin idiot drivers in commuter traffic, those damn stupid squirrels she had to poison so they’d leave her garden alone, or the frickin’ feast of candy stashed around the office that gave her junk in the trunk, Liz would sprinkle any subject with a fresh mouthful of delightfully honest attitude. Excuse me, Miss Liz, “junk in your trunk”? I think we have all seen the body on this woman – in her tight black leggings and bust boosting tops – and who can argue that there ‘aint no junk, it’s only fitness in that trunk. No surprise she looked like a goddess– she went on her 5 mile run a few times a month, was insistent on keeping far away from radioactive microwaves, and would never ever touch aluminum foil. Secret is out ladies! Sorry Liz, but we all deserve a shot at being as beautiful as you were ☺

Whether she was bringing me figs fresh from her garden because she knew how much I love them, or giving the gossip magazines to other girls in the office because she knew how much I hate them, Liz never ceased to make me feel loved. There are only three women in the world that I count as women I aspire to be like. Before meeting Liz there were only two.

If I have half the energy, beauty, and boldness in my life that Liz had, I will consider myself a fabulous, badass woman. She unintentionally taught me so many life lessons, and gave me a confidence and joy that I fear she never knew about, though I did my best to let her know in my own special ways. We’ve lost a legend, a remarkable character, a wonder woman.

Rest peacefully Liz. I love you and miss you.

I'm still shocked at this news. It's hard to believe Liz is gone. Her wit and sarcasm will be so dearly missed. She certainly loved the EVB crew. They were her kids. Thank goodness through association, we became adopted by Liz too. The things I will cherish and remember most:
- the black stretchy pants
- 3pm clank, clank of the Cow Bell
- locking up her chair every night so that the "damn" guards don't sit in her chair and "stink it up"
- banging of the dishes in the kitchen because people don't put their "shit" in the dishwasher
- her feelings for that "damn dog" (Hudson) who annoyed her so much that under all the complaining you would catch her giggling and feeding him cookies and food off her plate at her desk

There will most definitely never be another Liz. May she be in peace breathing in the views of her beautiful flowers and trees that surrounded her every day. RIP Liz. We'll miss you.

It is a unique person with whom you can spend 5 minutes and somehow, they stay with you for the rest of your days. Liz was such a person for me and countless others.

One thing is certain, LIZ IS loving all this LOVE & ATTENTION... our community was just a little more "sparkly" with her around! Absolutely no one else could ever quite fill her shoes! Love you Liz!

Wow! I am just hearing about this. I guess better late than never. Liz was one of the most interesting people I have ever met to say the least. I have so many stories. From running into her in the hallway and having her cast her giant shadow over me or hearing her curse someone out on the phone after her sweet answering voice, she was one of a kind. Liz, you will be missed.

What a wonderful tribute. This is the Egotist Network at its finest.

Thanks Liz, you have written a couple of brilliant books, which i have read from first to last word. My best regards to you!

I did not learn of her death until just recently. We stayed in touch, I had just spoken with her a few weeks prior to her death. I find it still very hard to believe. It seem like just yesterday we were all doing our thing in Los Angeles. Liz I will never forget the many pageants we were in. I can still see very clearly you being brought in during one of your Arabian pagents by four of LA's finest, handsome hunks. Of course we knew who would win at the end. I remember the incredible garments you created, thank you, I acquired it also as a hobby. Liz, we went through a lot, everything we went through was definitely a learning experience. Lastly, thank you, you gave me my name, this alone will cause me to never forget you. Liz I think of you every day. I Love You!

Post new comment

The content of this field is kept private and will not be shown publicly.
  • Web page addresses and e-mail addresses turn into links automatically.
  • Link = <a href="">This is your text</a>
  • Image = <img src="http://imageurl.jpg" />
  • Bold = <strong>Your Text</strong>
  • Italic = <em>Your Text</em>
Rocket Fuel