Somewhere in 1986, there’s a younger version of me. A version of me with skinny legs, knobby knees and no realistic sense of the future or adulthood. That version of me sits in her room, reading books and staring at the posters on the walls, of which there are many, daydreaming and imagining the future she wants. Like a lot 13 year-olds, she has mad crushes on golden movie star faces.
River Phoenix was my dream guy. I watched Stand By Me and fell in love. I got older. He got older. I kept watching. When I saw him as a young Indiana Jones in The Last Crusade, I got so geeked out and giddy, I thought I might swallow my fucking tongue.
Somewhere in 1993, there’s a 20 year-old version of me sitting in a sparsely furnished apartment. The couch stinks and is covered in stains. The bathroom ceiling is black with rot and mold; pieces of it fall into the bathtub. It’s cold outside. I don’t have a job. My body is being kept alive with ramen, the Wendy’s dollar menu, nicotine, hops and bong resin. A couple of my friends stop by with some hops and bong resin.
Through a cloud of smoke, one of them says, “Hey, did you hear that River Phoenix died?”
My heart sank. For a moment, it was as though I was hearing news about an actual friend of mine, even though I’d never met this person. So what. Whether I knew him or not didn’t matter. What did matter was how I felt. I was in the midst of one of those dark, unhappy points that we all occasionally visit in life. I had lost a friend of mine a few months before to a horrible and sudden death. And now, an adolescent fantasy was shattered on the pavement in front of a Hollywood night club.
It hurt because it was tragic, but also because I brought my emotional shit into it when my brain processed the news of his death. I felt sadness because we were roughly the same age. In a sense, I felt as though we had sort of grown up together.
I’m thankful there was no internet then. No trolls or jerks who, when I said, “Man… this is so fucking sad. I loved him,” would be right there to respond with some nonsense about how I shouldn’t mourn a dead celebrity, or how I shouldn’t give a shit about a stranger’s death unless they’re in the armed forces.
I don’t know how a person is able to compare one life with another, or how they’ve come to the conclusion that career choice determines the value of a human being. I don’t want to know. I’m just grateful that on that day, in that rotten apartment, I didn’t have to listen to that negative shit.
Now, I don’t get all worked up over every single celebrity death that occurs. But, there have been a few that really bummed me out. Sam Kinison. Michael Hutchence. Kurt Vonnegut. Ray Manzarek. Hunter S. Thompson. I miss Bill Hicks and George Carlin all the time. Do not even get me started on Freddie Mercury. I’m still not over that one.
About a year ago, Olivier and I were trying to decide what movie we wanted to watch.
“You know, we still have that movie Takers to watch.”
He squinted at me, scrunched up his face, looking disinterested. “Takers? What is that? Who’s in it?”
“Aw, you know… Matt Dillon. Annakin Skywalker. Stringer Bell and Paul Walker.”
Olivier perked up, his eyes opened wide and he sat up straight. “PAUL WALKER? Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I, uh… well, I had no idea you were such a fan.”
This was so unexpected and hilarious, we must have laughed for ten full minutes. It became a recurring source of humor between us. Whenever we came across one of his movies, or caught a glimpse of him while channel surfing, my husband would do his most hilarious imitation of smitten and we’d have a laugh.
And then… well, you know what happened next.
Aside from the Fast and Furious franchise, I wasn’t a huge fan. I don’t know that I was even a fan, but when I learned Paul Walker died — how he died — it bummed me right the fuck out. Because again, I brought my own shit into it. This was a guy only 3 weeks younger than myself. And from what I’ve read, a hell of a lot nicer.
I thought it was sad as hell because I brought my own sense of mortality into it. Because I thought, “Damn, you can do everything right — give to charity, stay healthy, make an honest living, love the people around you and maybe even anonymously help a soldier buy his love lady an engagement ring — and still suffer a horrifying death when you’re at the top of your game.”
I had similar thoughts and feelings when I learned that Andy Whitfield lost his fight with non-hodgkins lymphoma. Because when you’re body’s strong and fit enough to be goddamn Spartacus, how in the hell could that body get sick and kill you?
Does that mean I never feel those things when I read about the same things happening to people who aren’t famous? Of course not. However, it would be ridiculous to compare one life to another, famous or not. It would be absurd to make an attempt to place value on a life based on how many people know or don’t know them.
If someone famous dies, it’s okay to get a little bummed. It’s okay to lament the fact that they will make no more music, write no more books, and will not make any more movies. It’s human to miss their talent and to bring your own emotional shit into it. It’s not a bad thing to be reminded of your own mortality, to be reminded that at any moment, your bad ass pecs could get cancer, or that you could go up in flames in the middle of the street.
It really is okay.
What isn’t okay is to dwell on it for too long. If you do that, you definitely need help with some other deeper issues.
What isn’t okay is to tell people who they should mourn, what they should feel and who they should feel it for. Let people feel what they need to without being a fuck face about it. You probably have no idea what’s behind their feelings. If you don’t give a shit about that dead actor, then just ignore the whole scene and get on with your life. The sound of giving no shits is silence, so just keep silent and go about your business. The mourning noise will die down. The lame RIP posts on Facebook and Twitter will fade away soon enough. Until the next celebrity dies.
Then we’ll do it all over again. And that’s okay.
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I know how you feel. When the news of MCA’sdeath, the invaluable gruff 3rd voice of the Beastie Boys, circulated in my feed, I was devastated. I cried. I posted mourning status updates, and printed off pictures of him to decorate a mini-shrine on my cubicle walls. People would reply, “it’s not like you knew him.” Yeah, jerkoff, I didn’t… but, in a way, I did. He was there during those confusing teenage years, reminding me it was okay to be rebellious and enjoy the finer things in life (girls, party, girls, repeat). He continued to evolve, as did I, throughout my twenties, and into my thirties, constantly revising himself to eventually become a well-respected man; giving, charming, and a vocal advocate for peace (okay, perhaps he’s not like me at all).
Kurt Cobain, Michael Jackson, James Gandolfini, now Phillip Seymour Hoffman, and even Chris fucking Kelly.
Bah!