Fuck
Yesterday, I heard that Kobe Bryant died in a helicopter accident. I knew that he was a basketball player, and that is all. I didn't know what team he played for or that he was retired. This morning, I called up his Wikipedia entry and looked at his picture. Not even a glimmer of recognition. He was nobody to me.
Yesterday, when I heard (or read) the news, I knew that millions of Americans (and probably as many Chinese basketball fans) would be emotionally devastated by it, and I resolved to post nothing about it. I understood that adopting the "I don't care about sports" pose in public at such a moment would be in poor taste.
As for the dangers of riding in helicopters, "Rich people problems," I thought. Again, best not to push that particular line at a time when people are mourning the death of a beloved rich dude.
I remember being in pain over the death of Prince and mentioning it to a young cashier at my local grocery store. I don't think he actually rolled his eyes, but his expression and body language were clear. "Old people problems." That made the hurt worse.
A handful of hours, at most, after learning of Bryant's death, I got a private message on Twitter informing me that a Scottish man named John had died. I'd never met John in person, but he was dear to me. John was one of my earliest podcasting peers. Under the sobriquet Queer Ninja, he was the creator of a podcast called The Sounds of World Wide Weed. It was a music podcast, and while Queer Ninja had excellent taste in music, it was his gentle personality that really made listening to his show such an enjoyable and uplifting experience.
"Easy, man," was his signature intro, and he often couldn't complete a sentence because his infectious, good-natured, stoned laughter got the better of him. For a time, I used a recording of his laughter as my cell phone ring tone.
While I've had a Twitter account for many years, I never really got into Twitter until just recently. I got kicked off of Facebook a year and a half ago, and no social media platform has risen to take it's place, which is probably for the best.
Only recently have I discovered Twitter's value as a procrastination prop. I made several posts yesterday that all seem trivial, snarky and unworthy to me now.
I didn't even know that Queer Ninja was on Twitter, though in hindsight, it's obvious that he would be. I didn't follow him, and he didn't follow me. I follow him now, though he'll never post again, nor will he ever know how his final Tweet affected me when I read it.
I didn't know that Queer Ninja struggled with addiction until I received word of his death. The person who contacted me told me that he died in his sleep and that he had been clean from heroin for 50 days.
When I looked at his Twitter feed, I saw a pinned Tweet dated 10 Dec, 2019:
That was 48 days ago.
When I learned that he was gone, I went to my Gmail inbox and searched for his email address. The last message I received from him was dated Wed, Jan 28, 2009, 9:41 AM. Eleven years ago tomorrow. I had no idea it had been that long.
In his final Tweet he gushed with enthusiasm about the premier of Star Trek: Picard. I so wish that I could talk with him about the show, or about anything at all.
In recent years, I have let my reclusive tendencies get the better of me. If I'm on a recorded call with someone, I can put on my KMO podcast personality and have an engaged, animated discussion on a variety of topics, but personal phone calls are awkward and uncomfortable for me. There are friends that I haven't spoken to in years, but actually calling them is a psychological hurdle I haven't managed to clear. Talking to my kids by phone is similarly beyond the threshold of my good intentions (though recently we have connected by Zoom while playing together in a shared Minecraft Realm). My mom calls often. My brother calls once in a blue moon. I'm friends with a client of mine, and sometimes work calls detour into extended, non-work-related tangents, but the only people I ever talk to by phone are people who call me. And few do. (This is not a plea for people to call me. I don't answer calls from unknown callers.)
Queer Ninja wasn't a celebrity, though he did touch the lives of many people he didn't know. I did know him, but not as well I wish I had. Had I known him better, today would be even more painful for me than it is. I wish those who knew and loved him as much emotional comfort as the day will allow. I'll say no more for now.