“Smiley McSmilerson” was my oh-so apropos nickname for my friend Jeremy Spotts. His dazzling smile was his calling card and it was permanently attached to his face. Farrah Fawcett would have been jealous of this kid’s teeth.

I found out yesterday that Jeremy was killed in a tragic motorcycle accident in NY a couple months ago. To say I’m devastated would be an understatement.

From the first day I bumped in to him, he had a life force that was stronger than anyone I’d ever met. He was perpetually happy-go-lucky, with a goofy laugh and chatty demeanor. He was also, without a doubt, the single most handsome guy I ever laid eyes on. His devastating good looks totaled one percent of all the other things he had to offer the world. Too bad people often took him at face value (uh, figuratively and literally).

I put Jeremy in a few commercials here and there to get his feet wet and see if he liked being in front of the camera. He did. (Duh.) Next step, find the kid an agent. After that it was a big blur. Jeremy ended up modeling in NY—no small feat for a boy from Smalltown, Missouri. When he passed away, he was a wildly sought after personal trainer.

His shooting star was thisclose to going Supernova.

Whenever I’d visit Jeremy in the Big Apple, it was always an adventure. Like any fledgling newbie, he had his share of struggles. I took him to go see “Xanadu” on Broadway once. He laughed when warranted, tapped his foot to the music and then admitted, “I had no idea what the hell was going on, but thanks for taking me.”

When I invited him to go “leaf-peeping” in Connecticut one fall, he jumped at the opportunity. That trip really reminded me why I like the kid so much—he was wide-eyed with wonder the entire weekend.  That and he ate everything in sight.  It was impressive how much Italian food the kid could put away—and by impressive, I mean, appalling.

The only thing bigger than Jeremy’s burgeoning appetite was his heart.

My favorite Jeremy story is a doozy. I got invited to the 50^th BDay party of the owner of my ad agency. It was a weekend extravaganza in NYC. Shopping, kibitzing and food. The coup de grace was an elegant dinner at one of NYC’s most renowned Italian restaurants. Knowing the BDay girl, she would spare no expense. One problem: she didn’t inform me I needed to bring a +1. “Michael, I have to have an even number of people,” she admonished me. “Find someone!” So, I called up Jeremy and begged him to join me. The kid rearranged his schedule with zero notice and showed up dressed to kill. As always, he was his unassuming, affable self. Everyone was immediately smitten, and, once again, Jeremy saved the day.

I’m gonna miss this kid. He was only 27 years old when he died. But the last four years of his life were lived to the absolute fullest. One of his friends put it best when he said, “You just wanted to be around him 24/7—he had that much good energy.” And that is what I cherished the most.

Miss you, Smiley McSmilerson. You touched a lot of lives.