“Not only do I not know what’s going on, but I wouldn’t know what to do about it if I did.”

I can only recall having a deep, emotional reaction to two celebrities’ deaths in my life. The first was George Carlin.

I grew up listening to Carlin’s comedy albums on the floor of the tiny bedroom I shared with my little brother before he got home from school, and watching his groundbreaking HBO specials quietly in the living room after my parents went to sleep. 

More than any other comedian he had a way with words that bordered on philosophy. He used language in a way I’d never heard before. He played with it. He was gut-splitting hilarious one second, childishly goofy the next, and deeply profound just a moment later. I was captivated. 

“Don’t just teach your children to read. Teach them to question what they read.”

As I progressed through my teenage years and began developing my art as a comedy magician, he was my hero, my north star, my idol. Even my extended family knew how much I loved him. I received no less than four copies of his book Brain Droppings as gifts one year.

It’s Bad for Ya

In 2006 my mom surprised me for my 18th birthday with tickets to see him live at a casino an hour away. This was a big deal. Growing up we weren’t poor by any stretch, but we weren’t well-off either. Tickets to see a superstar and an out-of-town day trip was a big deal. 

I remember bubbling with excitement sitting in the theater, barely able to contain myself. The lights went down, the spotlight turned on, and he emerged. The crowd went bananas. He may as well have been the Pope (although he may have taken offense at that analogy).

“I have as much authority as the pope. I just don’t have as many people who believe it.”

The first five minutes of his set were masterful, a tour de force that transcended categorization. It wasn’t merely stand-up comedy. It wasn’t merely poetry. It wasn’t merely social philosophy. It was something only George Carlin could or would ever do.

Our theater gave him a standing ovation after the opening piece. Then he settled into the meat of the act, and something changed. It wasn’t funny anymore. It felt angry, bitter, and resentful. The laughs stopped, and we all noticed, in our own time, that he seemed unwell. He looked smaller, thinner, and stiffer than we remembered him.

After the show we were mostly quiet on the drive home. It wasn’t a great show, and we both knew it. My mom was trying not to say anything for fear of acknowledging this once-in-a-lifetime gift hadn’t quite lived up to its promise.

I broke the silence.

“That opening bit was amazing, wasn’t it?”

“Yes!” she exclaimed.

And then we reminisced on all the great things Carlin had accomplished in his career, and reveled in the immeasurable joy he’d brought to both of our lives.

Two years later on June 22, 2008 the news broke: George Carlin had died. It was just four months after his final HBO special, It’s Bad for Ya, aired, in which he looked much healthier, vibrant, and upbeat .I was sitting alone in my dorm room on my laptop when I read the news, and I instantly started crying, weeping really. I didn’t even understand the reaction I was having: I didn’t cry at sad movies or emotional music. 

Why did this stranger’s death, a man I’d never met, a simple entertainer, have such a profound impact on me?

Bow Down to the King

During that same period, ages 13-21 or so, I was living an alternate life. In one life I was an aspiring comedian and magician, launching my business at 16-years-old and starting to work in restaurants and private events. In the other life, I was an aspiring rock star. To be specific, a guitarist.

I’ve written plenty on this blog about my history with music and guitar in particular, so I’ll spare you the details.

My biggest influence, hero, and idol as a guitarist was Eddie Van Halen (I really grew up in the wrong era, if you haven’t noticed). Eddie revolutionized the guitar. He didn’t just play better than anyone had before. He reimagined what it could sound like, what it could be used for, and how it could be manipulated. There is no more copied guitarist in the history of the instrument than Eddie. 

I didn’t just emulate (okay, copy) his playing style and technique. I had my artistic buddy spray paint the Van Halen logo on the back of my fake leather jacket. I asked my dad to buy me a pair of plain white shoes so I could paint the iconic red, white, and black stripes on them. I made my friends listen to the Van Halen catalog on repeat and wore out my VHS tape of Live Without a Net, their first in-concert video. 

In 2004 the impossible happened: Van Halen reunited with their second singer, Sammy Hagar, for a reunion tour. That tour went down in flames, but before it imploded, my father took me to not one but TWO concerts on the tour, in Buffalo first and then Cleveland two weeks later. 

Eddie was having major drug and alcohol problems on the tour. His playing was erratic and unpredictable. In Buffalo, my first time seeing him live, he sucked. I mean, there’s no other way to put it. Thankfully in Cleveland two weeks later, he was playing like the god he was. It was a miracle to behold.

Can’t Stop Loving You

“An unparalleled titan in the annals of rock n roll. One of the greatest musicians in the history of mankind. Rest In Peace, King Edward.”

-Tom Morello

Eddie Van Halen died on October 6, 2020, just a few weeks ago as I write this. 

The news came as a shock. Sure, he’d been sick with throat cancer for a decade or longer, but when someone lives with a disease for that long, you just assume they’re going to keep beating the odds. In that time he’s released a new album, toured the world, and made plenty of media appearances looking healthy, sober, and amazing. He was only 65. 

I’ve cried multiple times since his death. Van Halen records have been making regular rotation on my turntable ever since (at a reasonable volume to accommodate my 1-month old, of course). I’ve been revisiting his greatest live moments and interviews via the time machine known as YouTube on a daily basis, choking up every time.

The music industry’s outpouring of love has been extraordinary. Everyone from Pete Townshend to Ozzy Osbourne, Tom Morello to John Mayer, Tony Iommi to Cat Stevens have openly grieved his passing. 

“It’s completely tragic that we have lost him. He was not just an innovative and stylish player with great taste, he was also a laidback virtuoso showman who just blew us all away every time. Every shredder today has lost their Master Teacher and Guide.”

-Pete Townshend

I’m crying again writing this. But why? I didn’t know the guy. He wasn’t family or a friend. I never even met him in passing. He was just a great guitar player whose music I enjoyed. 

What gives?

Connection from Afar

This year I lost my aunt, my grandmother, a kind magician who taught me when I was a teenager, and Eddie Van Halen. They are not equal, of course. I grieved each of their deaths differently, but grieved them all.It’s easy to think deep human connection is only something that can be achieved in-person, face-to-face, and over a long period of time. In Three New People I defined human connection as the mutually beneficial exchange of emotional data.

Clearly this is true of my grandmother, with whom I shared a 32-year deep, mutually beneficial, emotional relationship. 

It’s true of the kind magician who, although I only knew him for a brief period of time, exchanged with me his knowledge of magic for the joy of teaching and mentoring an aspiring artist. 

And it’s also true of Eddie Van Halen. He shared with me his beautiful music, the soundtrack of my most formative years, and transferred to me a profound love for the guitar which has and will carry the rest of my days. In return he received the love and adoration from a global fanbase, me included, who listened, lived, and shared his music. There’s no greater gift for an artist than to see their art making people happy, and Eddie’s music did just that.

It would be a mistake to believe we can’t connect meaningfully with someone even if we’ve never met them. I’ve never met many of you, and yet you continue to read this blog week after week. To some degree, we’ve made a connection. It may not be as profound as the relationships I described here, but it’s a connection nonetheless.

So go, make your art. Do your work. Make an impact. Share your ideas. Put kindness and generosity into the world and, even if no one ever writes back, recognize that you’re still making a connection. Not with everyone, but with someone. You may never meet them. They may never write to you and tell you how important your work or words are to them. You may never know.

But they need you. And you need them.

Who is someone you’ve never met but you feel a deep connection with? Comment below!