We Can Be Heroes

Because I'm a human person, the past couple of days have had a strange effect on me.  Sunday night, I performed at Chicago's Sketchfest.  Third time in three years.  I had a fantastic support group watching me from the audience as well as a fantastic support group playing with me on stage (and off).  I was doing what I loved.

I went out after with some friends.  Coming off my post show high; I laughed, smiled, and had an all around lovely (and boozy) evening.

During our last stop, I started talking about David Bowie.  How his counter-culture weirdness meant so much to me.  And about 15 minutes later as we were ushered out of the 2:00 a.m. bar at 2:05 a.m., a woman passed by us lamenting, "I'm going home to cry.  David Bowie just died."

It felt like a gut punch.  My brain kicked immediately into the first phase of mourning: denial.  "Shut up.  No.  You're kidding.  Stop.  I can't believe this.  How?  When?  Why?"  No matter what, I couldn't wrap my head around it.

I don't believe discussing him moments earlier - free of the sanctuary of ignorance - was a coincidence.  Because the thing about David Bowie was; he was always there.

Not physically of course.  I always believed I would see him in concert one day and now have to admit that will never be the case.  But his influence is so reaching.  So real.  And so visceral that he was always part of the conversation.  Even if you weren't talking about him.  He was there.  And that's why we mourn.

I won't pretend that I'm the die hard fan that many people are.  I was never alive during his Golden Years (song or cliched phrase).  So I never felt his transformations in real time.  I own only a handful of his vast canon.  And I most likely could recite a mere portion of his catalog.  But it doesn't matter if you knew every song verbatim.  Every moment.  Every choice.  Because the reaching power of his artistry meant that even if you only knew that The Wallflowers had a song in Godzilla called "Heroes", and you really liked it, you were still a David Bowie fan.  Somehow.

Since I was about 18, I claimed that "Heroes" (no, not the aforementioned version) would be my wedding song.  If I ever choose for that day to come, I want to dance with my love under the stars to the wailing sounds of Bowie saying, "I will be king, and you will be queen.  Though nothing will drive them away, we can be heroes.  Just for one day.  We can be us.  Just for one day."  I have no idea who that man will be dancing with me.  But I know what voice will be there to usher in our new life.  And I've known that - unwaveringly so - for many years.

Last year, I was lucky enough to experience "David Bowie Is..." at Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art.  Now, when I go to museums, I usually pace around and enjoy the visuals.  Sometimes I'll read the plaques.  But mostly I wander.  At this particular exhibit, I read (and reread) plaques, took notes, and allowed every visual to wash over me.  I took my time as I let my eyes wander over every stitch of every costume.  It was as close as anyone born in 1987 could feel to watching a genius unfold in real time.

One of my favorite elements was reading original sheets of lyrics.  I loved reading these words that poured out of him.  But mostly, I loved seeing what he crossed out.  The subtle changes he made in his head.  I saw someone whom I admired so fully go through the same motions of the creative process that I did myself.  A man who created Ziggy Stardust.  A man who took us to the moon and back.  A man who sold the world.  Some element of him was just like me.  It was the most connected I've felt ever to someone so far away.  But like I said, he truly was always there.

I'm privileged to have not seen or read a single negative reaction to his death.  And I would love to keep it that way.  Because what's bad to say about a man who lived his life the way we all should.  With abandon.  With humility.  With grace.  With power.  With vision.  We all mourn because David Bowie Is... Us.  If only we could all be David Bowie.

Should Auld Acquaintance Be Forgot?

The New Year is a time for many things: resolutions, the end of the holidays, the first grand day of a long journey into Seasonal Affective Disorder.  But since I've become quite a Christmas Grinch as an adult.  And I only make resolutions I know I can keep (this year, my resolution is to not smoke crack.  That's right, folks.  Not a single crack rock in 2016.)  And I spend all of January celebrating the beginning of SAD.  There is only one thing January 1st means to me: Reflection Time, ya'll.

And no year warrants that more than 2015*.

Before last night, I looked back on 2015 as the year I took an amazing trip, decided what career I wanted to pursue ("entertainment" doesn't have the same driving focus as "a television comedy writer who moonlights as a lounge singing hologram, simultaneously being teleported into airport hotels and hipster dives across the globe**".), and put all of my energy into making that dream possible (i.e. moving to LA).

Before last night, I thought this was the year of romantic entanglements that I grabbed by the balls and made my sweaty, gimpy bitch.  I told someone that I loved him even if I knew he wouldn't say it back.  I broke up with a great guy because I couldn't say it back.  And I found out my first love got married and rejoiced in lieu of falling to pieces.  This was the year I could make Beyonce proud.

Before last night, this is how I was to wrap up my thoughts on 2015.

But last night, I got stuck at work and ran my ass around a restaurant packed with bodies in adorable dresses and penguin suits.***  I watched people celebrate with friends, family, and lovers.  Sharing smiles, sharing bites, sharing jokes.

Sharing.

I'm not easily able to check my phone at work.  But in my lonely, vulnerable state, I felt like a kid on Christmas morning as I rushed to check and see what texts I had received after the countdown had come and gone.

About 10 minutes past midnight (and an hour and 10 minutes past Eastern Standard Time), I had nothing.

People are celebrating in the moment.  Good for them!  I reassured myself.

I went back a little later and had received one text from a dear friend of mine.  It felt nice.

But as the moments chipped away, as did my hope.  Here I was, a year where I felt like I had hundreds of friends from various jobs, travel, and the like.  And one person reached out.

I awoke this morning as my phone vibrated.  A text!  I hopped out of bed like a kid on birthday morning**** to see who remembered me.

It was Lucky, my maintenance guy who routinely leaves me five minute voicemails to say five words about fixing the roof hole because he's sucking on Smarties in lieu of talking... or thinking.

This put my life into rather harsh perspective.  This year, I met so many people.  I carved out so many friendships.  I feel surrounded by people I care about, but every single one of them feels just out of reach.  Like the final, essential quarter that rolls under your bed on laundry day.  Or a kid who hops out of bed on Easter morning... but her parents' door is still locked from a night of passionate love-making due to Dad's chocolate bunny fetishization.

And I thought about my amazing trip to the West Coast this year.  All the beauty I absorbed - natural and man made.  The delicious food and brews I wrapped my lips around.  And how all I wanted in this world was to be able to share it with someone.

Perhaps after all these years, I've mistaken total independence for complete happiness.  If I can be happy alone, I can be happy all the time.

The problem with this sentiment is that it is preposterous to be happy all the time.  And even further so, it's missing an important element.  One that we were taught at the youngest of ages.  After we learned to walk and talk and poop outside of our pants, the next thing we learned was to share.

Being independent is a wonderful thing.  If I wasn't independent, I could have never taken that trip.  But to mistake independence for solitude means there is a lonely road ahead devoid of sharing.  One where you will see a humpback whale breach in the Pacific Ocean, turn to the stranger next to you to point and gasp, and realize they have already done the same with their partner.  One where you go to Portland breweries and only get to try the beer you ordered.  One where you will sit on a park bench staring out at the Cascades, start leaning over, and fall when you realize there's no shoulder to curl into.

One where your maintenance man wishes you a Happy New Year.

So 2015 was not the year of Independent Hannah.  It was the year that Independent Hannah learned to share.



*If this isn't a statement you make every year, you are living your life wrong.

**One of those latter statements may be a pipe dream.  But who's to tell?

***This obviously means tuxedos, but how adorable would it really be if people showed up in this???

****There's really no better simile to express unadulterated joy than a kid expecting presents.