RIP, dude.

Here at Meta-Mirror, Inc. we do not usually concern ourselves with celebrity news, at least not publicly. I mean, sure, if Lefty and I bump into one another at the watercooler we might chat about Amy Winehouse’s latest hijinx–we’re only human!–but we are always sure to punctuate those convos with something like:

-Who IS Amy Winehouse, anyway?
-I don’t know!
-Whatevs.
-Yeah.

What I’m saying is, we’re highbrow. That’s why we have a tag called “popular culture.” It’s ironic. Get it?

Sigh. I apologize for all this throat-clearing. I’m a little nervous, because I’m about to go all LiveJournal on your asses and tell you that I find myself oddly shaken by Heath Ledger’s death, and I need to talk it out, y’all.

Okay, first of all, naked and surrounded by pills is disturbingly relateable for me. Also, just after I heard the news I put my headphones on and the first song my device picked was “Dead” by the Pixies. Spooky. I skipped it. Next song? “I’m a Ghost” by Love as Laughter. Gah. And it turns out I was born exactly a year before him. And that back in the day I lived two blocks from the big house in Boerum Hill that would eventually be his.

But I have never seen a single one of his movies. I kept up–passively, but surely–with the news of him and his girlfriend and their baby on Gawker and Page Six, but for a long time could not conjure his face unless there was a picture.

For me, what it takes to really grasp the realness of another person is a certain quality of eye contact. I don’t mean to say that unless I make eye contact with a person, I go around like a psychopath denying everybody’s humanity. Well, maybe a little. Anyway, it’s like this: say there’s an old man in the library with shaky hands, and he’s incessantly crinkling the copy of the New Yorker that he’s reading. Well, I hate that man. Sure, I know he can’t help it, but Jesus! I’m trying to work! But then he looks up, and our eyes meet for a second, and he’s got this pale, watery gaze, and instantly I am so sorry for having such mean thoughts. Dude is clearly just trying to live.

So once a little over a year ago when I was getting tattooed, Heath Ledger came in, and people got very excited, because that’s what people do. I was already excited, physiologically I mean, because it was a big tattoo that I was getting, and in a tender spot: adrenaline city! My hands were clammy and everything in the room was sharp-edged and a little shimmery. And the presence of a movie star made things even more exciting, even though I didn’t totally know who he was. My tattooer excused himself to the other side of the room to find out what Heath Ledger wanted, and while he was over there, Lefty and I took stock. It went something like this:

-Wow, he’s short.
-Is he a hippie? Because what is up with that hat?
-Are they always short? They are, aren’t they.
-Is he even cute?
-Cuteish?
-Meh.
-Maybe he’s supposed to be a regular guy.
-Right.

We are mean. It’s what we do.

My tattooer returned to finish me up. He was going to squeeze Heath Ledger in, because he just wanted something small, and because he was Heath Ledger. When I want something small, I still have to wait a month. But such is way of the world.

Then it was done, and Heath Ledger came over to see. He stood inspecting it for what felt like a long time, although it was probably not that long; but the thing was swollen and oozing and my shirt was half off, so I was self-conscious. Then he met my eyes. A tiny ripple: hey, this person is really real!

“It’s beautiful,” he said.

That felt nice. Afterwards when someone complimented that tattoo I would sometimes think, Heath Ledger likes it too! And then I would be embarrassed for myself.

Anyway. God. It’s so sad.

by Pistol Whip | 23 January 2008 | in earnest, popular culture | Comments