The demons won...
"It was always going to end like this; on his terms, and in his own way. He would have hated to die in his sleep, or of old age, or slowly from cancer. Chez was a rock star Goddammit, and he was going to fucking die like one." -- Ben Cohen
Harsh few days.
I’ve been fighting serious depression since the election, had to go back on the meds and add a few new ones. I’m not the only one fighting those demons and that was brought horrifyingly to my attention this week when I heard of the death of someone I have long admired as a political blogger, author, podcaster and provocateur.
Chez Pazienza was found dead in his car a few days ago.
Chez liked to cut through bullshit when he talked politics on the air, or discussed it in his writing. I never met him personally, but I argued with him on twitter a few times. He pissed me off by dismissing me with a ‘whatever’ a time or two. In all honesty, I most likely deserved it - at least once. He didn’t seem to have much respect for those of us who can sometimes be obnoxious SJWs, preferring to make sure we faced our whiny-baby moments full on and with appropriate snark. At least he made me think about my positions, my ideologies, my opinions, rather than just adhering to them blindly. And that is what a journalist/writer/pundit/podcaster should do.
A few weeks ago in his podcast with Bob Cesca, Chez mentioned that he didn’t think he’d be able to survive Trump. It devastated him when that election result came in. Not that he was so much a Clinton supporter, I think, but because he was fully aware of just what a dangerous and volatile tragedy would come of having an insanely unprepared and uncaring hand at the helm of our ship of state. “We are so fucked,” he said time and again. “We are so fucked.”
In some of his writing for the Daily Banter and other outlets, Chez got real about his own demons - the ones that so many fight - depression, drugs, alcohol… He didn’t sugarcoat and I heard my own depressive demons whispering in recognition of a kindred spirit through his words. But while mine were whispering, his apparently were waging an all-out assault on his psyche. I won’t pretend to know the emotion behind a successful, talented man, with children and a loving fiancé waiting for him, once again succumbing to the lure of drugs in the seat of a car in a parking lot in California, but I’ve heard similar devils prompting me from time to time. There but for the grace of…well… you know.
I’m crushed. I’ve cried rivers today for a man I never met, but who touched me and made me think and rage and laugh and yell “FUCK THE MACHINE!” so damned many times over the last several months. My heart is broken again every time I try to listen to his on-air partner, Bob, talking about him. I just can’t do it yet. I can’t hear it yet.
I never met you, Chez, but you were an important part of my week and we shared a fucking birthday! I’ll miss you and your snark and your talent and your brilliant, pushy mind. If there’s any justice in the universe at all, I know you’re gonna be haunting that stupid clown in the WH every single minute until he’s gone.
Rock out.